es as diligently as the corpse stokers.
The man was flicking matches again. "Youre a fool," he said to Spyder. "A lost puppy. A sparrow with a broken wing, trapped on an ant hill. A little boy whos fallen down a well. Its enough to make a good man cry. "
"Who are you?" asked Spyder.
"The opposite of a good man," said the stranger. Spyder could see him better now. He looked like one of the Black Clerks, but his movements were more fluid than theirs. "We have three brains, you know. A reptile brain wrapped in a mammal brain wrapped in a human brain. Really, were three people. Which would you like to answer your question?"
"Where am I?"
"Over the rainbow. At escape velocity. Under the hill. " The next match struck Spyder in the eye and he flinched. "But its never too late to go back home. "
"I want to. I want to go home. "
"No, you dont," said the man. "You want to play. " He rushed at Spyder, his broken black teeth bared in fury. He was one of the Black Clerks. Or what Spyder would look like if he were a Black Clerk. The mans skin was held loosely in place by hooks, leather straps and brass clasps. He pulled off his face to reveal some pitiful thing beneath, a blackened stick figure that smelled of roses and shit, leaking an oily yellow dew from every orifice.
"Lets see whats under your mask, little boy," said the Black Clerk to Spyder and he dug his spiky, broken nails into Spyders face and began pulling away chunks of flesh. "What are little boys made of? Meat and tears and bones and fear, thats what little boys are made of!"
Spyder awoke with a stifled scream.
Sitting on a small, child-si
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