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It was like a death squad letting go an endless fusillade J C rocked and swayed as if struck

Groc’s assistant uide J C ahen—

The thing happened

There was a soft hiss as so coals

We all looked down and then up—

At J C, whose hands were thrust out over the charcoals He was studying his orists with great curiosity

They were bleeding

“Oh!”

“What?” cried Fritz

J C said, calmly, “Shoot the scene”

“No, damnit!” cried Fritz “John

the Baptist, with his head off, looked better than you!”

“Then,” J C nodded across the set to where Stanislau Groc and Doc Phillips stood, as merry Punch and dark Apocalypse, “then,” said J C “let thee me until we’re ready”

“How do you do that?” Constance was staring at his wrists “It comes with the text”

“Go make yourself useful,” J C said to me