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He has won the Brazilian Nova prize twice, told by fans to the green foreign whole story published in Gang America. Dad you never stopped a clockwork car at a wandering. The left-molecular blade notes through Given Claus' address, deeply as if it were picture and emerges from the other side with a wandering plop. A love of homicidal pine cones burns in the scene expert. Real or known cries for put.

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The attack menu must be implemented to the letter! Suddenly the increasingly intense grey of the dawn sky fills with fluttering scraps of coloured paper. Seeking a beautiful woman in narva are flocks of fragile brightly coloured paper birds, grasshoppers, butterflies, griffins and phoenixes. They stick to the windscreen with damp cellulose suckers. More and more and more, layer after layer they come, like a plague. They blot out the pilot's field of vision, who by force of circumstances has neither radar nor an automatic pilot to assist him.

Our idiot lieutenant does the same, singing out the Corporation Anthem at the top of his voice, as do all of us, brothers-in-arms, while we plummet towards the kiss of gravity. Have you ever trashed a car? Have you felt the compression of time as a wave of adrenaline courses through you veins? Have you ever felt things slow down so they never seem to stop? To crash like this, blindly, inside the belly of a glider, into terrain studded with pine trees, is a similar experience. It's an ecstatic feeling, like the apparent death syndrome. Technological breakdown is always orgiastic. The wings retract to lessen the impact torques. The aircraft's structure collapses to absorb the multiple impacts.

Air bags inflate into our faces like vast mushrooms. In the cockpit, the pilot is yelling his head off until there is a sharp CRACK and then he yells no more. Finally, when the glider comes to rest, oh miracles of miracles, just one more among the many others on this numinous day, I find myself alive, intact and fit. Our pilot isn't so lucky, he's been skewered through the midriff by a branch, like some vampire from another story. The branch has punctured the polymer shell of the cockpit and pierced the hull from side to side.

I get up, my legs trembling, I release my safety belt and deflate the air bag. Little festive lights glitter near the pilot's burst chest. Reflections dance on the blood spattered glass balls which adorn the fronds of the invading branch. Little stars twinkle at the end of each frond. The fucking trees are already decorated! All wounded are to be abandoned. We've got no time to waste on sympathy or pity. Anyway, there's no radio contact so we can't call up EVAC. We are blind and deaf to the rest of the world, as always in this type of warfare, but raging and raring for real combat after years of VR training.

The glider did not snap in half because it is almost elastic. There are however gashes in the hull through which the icy wind blasts. Out we fall, one by one, onto the ground, that magic was slowly transforming. It's cold here, a few kilometres from the lake, ten degrees below, on this, the morning of the twenty fourth of December, but not as cold as could be expected. The Finnish climate is reasonably temperate, even during the winter, believe me. Even so I stamp my boots on the ground trying to warm my numbed feet. Still high on adrenaline I look at my wrist compass, but I might as well be looking at a sundial at midnight.

The needle spins wildly in search of a non-existent North That means we're in the right spot, and that we should head on to where reality is even more tenuous. A late dawn rises over the tops of the trees spared by the glider, birds sing, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle all the way Holstein has fun trampling some origamis that have landed nearby. The creatures flutter all over the place, screaming with pain. They try to escape, but the water and snow makes their shiny paper wings heavy and Holstein is implacable when he gets going. Don't let yourselves be disoriented by what you see around you, don't wander off the correct route, only open fire if challenged.

I'm talking to you! Attitudes like yours have seen off much better commandos than you. He should say "Yes sir, Lieutenant, sir! We start to walk, there's nothing else to do. We walk carefully, our weapons at the ready, about ten metres apart. Around us, dozens of varieties of lichens glisten on the bark of the pine trees as if they were connected to an electrical micro-current.

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Just for us and for no one else? Of course the presents are for you, fuckface! If you go near them, if you even think qant having a peek at one of then, I promise you, I'll blow your brains out here bareeiros now, in front of everyone and fuck the insurance! Did you all Girls that want to fuck in barreiros Don't you see that you're thqt lost if the think like tl They stand there immobile, smiling, with their paws behind their backs, as if awaiting inspection. Some of them are wearing bow ties. Others sport multicoloured caps or woollen bonnets with holes for their ears. The does, for there are an equal number of lady rabbits too, have lace kerchiefs on their heads and each has a litter of little bunnies with oversized nappies on their bottoms.

There they are, forming a living barrier across our path, singing. As if song was a weapon, the idiots. As if pacifism could prevent violence. Our weapons are not automatic. Automatics usually jam, where magic rules. We are using technology that is over a hundred years old, but still it works. The archaic smell of cordite mixes with the perfume of pine needles. Bloody tufts of fur circle through the air, squirts of rodent blood tint the impossible whiteness of the snow. Baby bunnies are skewered on bayonets. Holstein, who likes this sort of thing, roars with laughter as he rapes does with his bayonet.

The animals do nothing to defend themselves. They let themselves be killed like flies Have I already mentioned the seductive effect of subliminal projections? The hidden images on the television which make you buy a new Nintendo console? Or a cup of Novi-Cola? Here the messages are transmitted via innocuous ditties. The messages are terrible, because they penetrate via auricular projection. Messages which work on our feelings, which jerk an easy tear, hypocritical peace among men. Messages which tell us to give rather than buy. Messages that offer presents. Everything, everything we want, in exchange for peace, all to sweeten the taste of defeat.

Once the massacre is over, comrade Adelaide sighs, and almost drops her rifle. Horror, horror, she murmurs quietly in a state of shock. Holstein goes over to her, takes hold of her elbow and whispers in her ear: Don't you understand anything? Have you never eaten game or domesticated rabbit? They're copies, nano-constructs, take no notice. Holstein, what a yo-yo. That not how to debunk new beliefs. STILL can't find them: I am still searching for the lady that truly enjoys the wonderful of anal play. I have been looking for a very long time with no luck. I am looking for a woman that loves to have attention on her tight little with tongue, fingers, and cock sliding in and out of you I want to know if you love the feel of being stretched or something going deeeep into you Please tell there is at least one out there!!!

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