Glen Tenning sat in his hydraglide Thaeroeola operators' chair. He pressed his fingertips together until they formed a tent of his hands. The triangle of the tent framed his nose. His nose was running, slightly. His nostrils and the bountiful forestation therein detected a trickle of mucous. It was too small to wipe but too ...
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"What's this you are writing?" the Great Gaspy snatched the sheaf of paper from my finger with a mighty plowing of festering snot. I plumped in gratification of my own success. For his continued benefit I maintained a tight-lipped, somewhat beaten and guilty look on my wizened visage. Actually my visage was not wizened at ...
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