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Please don't feed PickleMan
Please don't feed PickleMan
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SELECT YOUR DESTINY BOOK 6 - PARADISE NIGHTMARE!


Perhaps the official will be impressed by an equal display of surliness. "The last time a man put his hands on me, I tore them off and fed 'em to his momma," you threaten. You try to follow this up by slapping his hands off your shirt, but your arm muscles are about as toned and thick as flan. Luckily, he didn't see your attempt because he's wearing dark glasses indoors. He does let go of your shirt anyway, so you assume that your remark found its mark. You sit back down and prop your feet up on the table as he begins to pace around the room, glaring at you. Or at least you think he's glaring at you. Those are some dark glasses. You begin to plot your next witty retort as the cigar-smoking official returns to the table. He begins to speak, and you prepare to shut him down with the old gem, "yo mama."

"So," he bellows, "you're the infamous ‘Hand-Feed-Momma Killer?'" All of a sudden, your earlier remark seems somewhat less clever. Perhaps you should cut your losses and go for an insanity plea. You bite onto your shirt sleeve and start shaking your head vigorously. It doesn't have quite the effect that you were hoping for.

"Nice try, HFM Killer, but we're onto your tricks. Tryin' to leave the country, eh? Runnin' off to the relative safety of your home base in…" he consults his dossier, "Paradise Island? Man, what a dive. Anyway, I don't care how bad your taste in safehouses is. You ain't gettin' off on no insanity plea on my watch. No, I got something real special in mind for you." He walks out the door and leaves you with a few minutes alone with which to kick yourself over your poor choice of words.

I've got a whole stack of bad puns for you!

When he returns, he has an angry-looking old woman with him. "You remember victim #14: Martha Vanderstein, right? Of course you do, you sick bastard!" Thank god, this woman will recognize that you aren't the HFM Killer and this whole mess will be cleared up. Unfortunately, it is not to be, as the woman's cataracts are as thick as soup, and she simply assumes that you're the right man. And so, she and the cigar-smoking man administer some poetic justice, cutting off your hands and making you eat them. As luck would have it, that toy ring you got from a box of Crackerjacks was a choking hazard, and so you choke to death on your own barbeque-slathered ring finger.

START OVER, HANDYMAN!!!


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