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\" This master file produces text suitable for a 6"x9" paperback. .ds CH \" turn off page numbering (top) .B .nr HM 1i \" header margin .nr FM 1i \" footer margin .nr LL 4.25i \" line length .pl 9i \" page length .po .87i \" page offset (from left) .nr PS 8 \" font point size \" .kern \" pairwise kerning (groff only) .hy 14 \" automatic hyphenation \" .nr VS 24 \" double space .fp 1 R GA \" URW Garamond .fp 2 I GI .fp 3 B GM .fp 4 BI GMI .fp 5 CW H \" Helvetica .LP \& .nr % 143 \ " start with this page number .ds CF [%] \" first numbered page (bottom) .ps 10 .SH IT'S YOUR FAULT THEY'RE DEAD .R .PP .ps 10 Present day. Present time. .PP .ps 10 Maude's death at the hands of Piro had been another distraction in a long line of setbacks preventing her from achieving enlightenment. She realized her attachment to her son, such as it was, had resulted in her getting shot. But it was puzzling. TAB3 had still been taken away from her, and she'd still been shot. The transaction seemed lopsided, invalid by Milton Friedman's standards. .PP .ps 10 Maude wasn't sure where she was. They'd taken her out of the shipping container, sure. But what was this? Antiseptic smell. Everything was cold. Airless. She seemed to be still sealed on the card. Mint in package. Was Plinth trying to sell her? .PP .ps 10 The gods were about. Greater Mercury. Fucking Odin. Nobody showing much interest. Frozen inside her plastic bubble there wasn't much she could do about it, either. Did they realize who she was? .PP .ps 10 Some of the other gods were haggling with Plinth, who was seated at his desk, posture neutral, pushing plastic but not overselling it. He seemed perfectly relaxed, ignoring her as he worked. The deal was afoot. .PP .ps 10 Maude surmised that she must be in Plinth's office in the New Chrysler Building. .PP .ps 10 TAB2 was screaming about something, what else was new. Also ignored by the gods, but not letting it deter him from whatever it was he imagined to be his mission. You had to admire his line of bullshit. Whatever else was true about him, he did at least try to make you believe it. Next, Piro strolled in, his black gloves coated with something else black, distinguishable only by the comparative absence of a glossy reflective sheen. Ashen. His face and uniform were likewise painted with the same toxic seeming soot. He was caked. .PP .ps 10 "Black mold," he said, by way of explaining his appearance. .PP .ps 10 "This! Him!" TAB2 shouted, volume increasing in proportion to how much he felt like he was being ignored. It didn't make any difference at all. .PP .ps 10 For some reason, at just that moment, it began pouring down rain in Plinth's office. .ce END MAUDE MOLD