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Scrawl on the Wall 018
Frozen earth, snow, and somewhere Death lingers smoking a cigarette and loading bullets into his .45 caliber hand gun of divine retribution.
Death is drinking fine Scotch Whiskey as he buys five different high class prostitutes of mixed ethnicities and begins to play poker with a minor demon from the fifth realm of Hell.
Gliding down alleys, he takes the souls, collects them in a tiny shoe box and is laughing.
Death is just his day job, and at night he transforms into a twisted angel with chrome wings and the toxic smile of love.
Holy shit, ain't got time to stop by heaven, need to get in the express taxi cab to Nirvana while smoking copious amounts of dope and listening to an LP vinyl record that has somehow been fitted into the vehicle.
This is retro-punk sunshine, ripping through the vortex of afterlife, and sneering at the colorful psychedelic rainbow.
"Remember me Skippy!" screams Death as he jams his skeleton foot on the brakes and the black taxi comes to a screeching halt, burning the rubber. The unlocked passenger door flings up and shoots you into purgatory.
Neon lemon freak out baby.
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