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I am stood in the office kitchenette, staring at a slowly boiling kettle. I’ve tried cutting back on my drinking lately, but the overwhelming horror of the mundane has sent me hurrying back to the mid-priced Pinot Grigio with an insatiable gusto. A kitchenette is a half arsed kitchen, the runt of the culinary litter. We’ll be on i Tunes and Soundcloud, and we’ll try to have a feed on our upcoming website. I loathe shiny faced ‘B’ list comedians blithering inanely about Raleigh Choppers and The Bay City Rollers and Space Hoppers and other such vapid consumerist bullshit on BBC4 shows titled ‘We *heart* the 70’s’, but at the same time the smell of melting tarmac makes my chest ache for childhood days spent wandering alone in the merciless sun through empty streets, or petrol fumes, or the sound of the sea through an open caravan window. I don’t tap smokes off people as a rule, but desperate times and all that… Until recently I was convinced the fucking things were breeding, that bins were male and dust sheets were female and that litters of tiny bins and dust sheets were nesting out of sight in the dark shadows of the warehouse. Great little motor, when I get to drive her.” I say, “Does your lass get first dibs usually? The kitchenette is always a grim place, even the name is grim. So look out on here and on Twitter – It is midday and I want a cigarette. I might have mentioned it before, how I sometimes crave things I’ve not had in a long time, things like Walker’s Spicy Tomato flavour Snaps, Ice Pops, anal sex, good hair, a hot August, gratitude, cigarettes. I look around, between machines and sound for a bloke with a cough or a wheeze, someone chewing gum and checking their watch. I don’t want to hound Fucking Amazing Dave but I really want a smoke and, as usual, he owes me twenty quid. It turns out that all that was really happening was that people were buying a lot of bins and dust sheets. He pulls the bin over, lifts the dust sheet crammed inside. If you can’t nick it from the factory, you go to Frank’s Hardware and buy a couple of dust sheets and a bin. It’s a Micra Dot, Dot is short for Dorothy, so thats’ it’s name.” I say, “Is it the one painted with flowers, got bit of plastic instead of a passenger window? and I can't ever finish anything so this story isn't completeand at the top of the pass where the air is clear enough if we sing loud enough maybe he will hear us and remember who he left behind.

Actual calling cards are rare in Real Life, because it would make it very easy for the cops to track you down; but in fiction, it seems like villain has to have one for stamping their achievements with.Item Price: .00 At present Amazon gift card is the only method of payment we are accepting.Send a Amazon e-gift card to [email protected] email: [email protected] Instant delivery Email amazon gift card Instructions: On the next page enter the ABOVE email address, click "SET MY OWN" and amount as 20, your name, message( part of the question) and delivery date (now) and CHECKOUT. This has become a Dead Horse Trope in Comic Books, where it was once a staple. Your teeth, which brought moments of bright pain/pleasure, Are now bared in an artificial, animal smile. You sighed it in contentment, And now you won't even speak it in passing. No color left to them but the muddy colors of Boredom, And possibly mistrust. I can feel my k to z love for you and see how that laugh of yours makes people cry and how that smile pierces my heart because it looks just like his did. Once lover and friend, Now barely one And never the other again.your spider fingers are wrapped in my hair like a plea to never be left aloneyour spindle legs are all knobby kneed and pale entwined with mine. I was a hurricane and he loved you too much to look afraid that one glance and he'd be head over heels reeling out of control like you were the drug and he was the addict.Sometimes, the calling card may be a result of the villain's M. (not necessarily a Card-Carrying Villain) or distinctive Weapon of Choice.One obvious example: vampires always leave their characteristic two-holed neck bite.For people who literally use this trope as a weapon, see Death Dealer.See also Criminal Mind Games, Idiosyncrazy, Poetic Serial Killer.

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