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June 14, 2005

Michele: Regrets, I Have a Few

Huge, hulking men in full gear push him into the chair. They strap him, dose him and kill the lights.

Panic sets in. Breath, breathe damn you. In with the good, out with the bad. He sucks in a breath through his nostrils, heaves it out his mouth as they tape his eyes shut.

He feels the sharp sting of the probe on his temple and his heart begins a hammering, stuttering symphony. Breathe. The backs of his eyelids becomes a makeshift monitor and the slaughter his creation carried out plays upon it.

Technology, he thinks, is a bitch.

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