The fell moons rise, and in their cold glare emerges a parcel from the dirt. Bloat and gangrene, crimped as if by tourniquet. A dark promise wriggles within. Grip the fibrous handles, feel its jagged soul imprint upon your palm. Now pull! Rend the sinew, tear muscle from bone, hatch their fetid gift! The yoke draws near! Take up the slip and read the words upon its face.
Time to enjoy your lovely joke!
Q: Why was the grave robber disappointed when he broke into Ubisoft’s tomb?
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ranzware
Kurt Indovina
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