His blood, the Magister's blood, tastes like his home: The beginning, not the end: "Andalusia, the Iberian Peninsula... Later 9th century, no?"
Un chien andalou. Plucker of eyes, piercer of eyes. Debaser. Nothing is beautiful. Everything hurts.
Russell explains lovingly one more time my Magister's irrelevance and that from whence: "It's a long enough time for you to have outgrown your blind allegiance to the Authority and their rule of law. There is only one law: The law of nature, the survival of the fittest. And we need to take this world back from the humans, not placate them with billboards and PR campaigns while they destroy it. That is not Authority! That is abdicating authority!"
Gotta say I agree. Faster than you can say "Buñuel," faster even than just "Black Francis," Papa turns from where he'd almost let my Magister go. And with the silver-tipped tip of his own silver-tipped cane the debaser is debased, and the only thing funnier than his CGI head -- almost as ridiculous as Lorena's once upon -- is the silent o, o, o faces of each of our four wonderful Conspirators: Watching it fly, through the air, before the Magister explodes. And Law is lost, and gone forever.
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