Not quite endless, but nearly so, they join one another at unexpected angles with doors that lead to nowhere and everywhere.
The siren slips from her rocks and into the dark waters. The quils that decorate her amphibian length begin to vibrate. She plays a perfect simulacra of Bush's "Machinehead" as she begins to feed on the unwary.
P'zone is back, spreading across continents, issuing in endless quantities from valves that cannot be closed. There is not enough dipping sauce to manage the outbreak. Our cities will die beneath the delicious weight.
It is standard procedure for the White House to have a synthetic. But it sometimes malfunctions...
This VR game has become sentient and is killing us one by one. But is it art?
If you think Hitler was good, you've got another thing coming.
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