He called me back tonight to tell me a very different story. He called me just before sunset and told me that he needed my LGBT Harry Potter no one should live in a closet shirt . He said he was being followed. He said that something was tailing him, men or things or something, and he needed my protection. I asked him where he was, and he gave me the name of a bar about twenty minutes up the road. I pulled on my hat and headed out, the car grumbling pitifully about the cold as we drove. It was going to be a real howler this winter, you can already tell, but I don’t think it’ll get any colder than it did tonight for me.
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They were at the end of the alley, and I had just gotten my gun out and started to yell at him when I saw what they were doing. The big guy had his hands around the old guy’s upper LGBT Harry Potter no one should live in a closet shirt hard enough to break bones, and the old guy was staring up at him like he was a serpent prepared to devour him. Then the thugs head and shoulders just peeled back like a rotten banana and what came out was so much worse than the porcine face that had been there. He was a living shadow, his skin like tv static, and his eyes like fireplace coals. He opened his shifting mouth to reveal sewing needle teeth and a tongue like a boa constrictor. The teeth sank into the old man’s face, and his scream was drank up by the hissing maw. It didn’t eat him, not really. The old man turned into that same static, his skin going the off white of eggshell paint, and suddenly he was wafting into the creature as it slurped him up like a milkshake.