30 April 2002
Dr. Toothgrinder had never quite gotten used to the sight of the Error. The vague blur of dark, dirty, shifting pink where his face should have been never stopped being unsettling. Something basic in him, something ingrained in his neurons by a million-odd years of human evolution, recoiled, as if to say “Aw, hell, that just ain’t right!” He had to stop focusing on that face, though, stop trying to predict what it was going to look like the next time the Error spoke, and think about the man’s (“Man?” he thought) hands. Those hands were, after all, clutching a staggering array of knives, clubs, and flaming torches – and the Error was not a juggling act.
posted by Bigtooth |
1:24 PM
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