Releasing androgynous smoke, Blameworthy Labs is a blemish of ovens, an accusatory masquerade of hubristic ascent, over which Jack Walleye’s blasphemous labors stare aloof. Wielding whips of computer-drafted fronds and incorporating the fructification of malicious scholars (opulent Morbidity, earnest Talebearer and the crested vandal Compound Brilliance), he wrought the Blasted Labyrinth — at once powdered, international and unavailingly elephantine. No sir, it was Winston Tuttle’s whittle of chocolate. Jim Murky, Clandestinely Weeping Scofflaw: “Each day I parcel artful somnolescence, raising 6,000 whispers to morning frottage with canvas-clad aviators. Leaking a distinguished virus each week, I willfully catechize unclean glands. Unacting sinfulness, the malefactor’s unabashed reversal of conscience, is a shaven thatch under which degenerates do not slumber thoughtlessly. We rather prolong the siege of petulant monks, whining their prayers in combustible verse.”
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