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Amric

Hurricane Sergeant of Arms
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May 4, 2003
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Now if only you would write a REAL story again, MrT....It's been so long....Wolvin Bay I >think< is somewhere near Canda somewhere....At least it sounds reasonable to me....poor bastard never had a chance....Here ya go mate...time to disembark....

"It's white out there."

"Yep."

"It's cold."

"Yep."

"There's nothing to see or do here."

"Yep."

"What do you expect me to do here?"

"Nothing."

"Then why am I here?"

"To die, of course."

"Oh, well couldn't I do that at home in my bed?"

"Certainly not. It wouldn't be entertaining then, would it?"

"No, I suppose it wouldn't."

"Very good, mate. Cheerio."

"Um, before you go...?"

"Yes?"

"I don't suppose you could give me some food?"

"God no, that wouldn't be sporting now would it?"

"Sure it would."

"Afraid not, chap. Good luck. You're going to need it."

"Um, can I ask another question?"

"No."

Leaving the poor sucker in a frozen wasteland.


"Hello? Is anyone there? Hello? I'm scared. I'd shoot my rifle, but I don't know how to reload it. Help! Anyone there?"


Forty days later, the emaciated figure drops from hunger. The snow is soft as he falls to his knees and then onto his face. He smothers to death in the snow mere moments before dying from starvation.