In other news I was possessed by a sudden and savage compulsion to design a new EXIT VECTOR cover and it felt good so I just went with it

EXIT VECTOR 5_21_17_Photo by chica fumando

Photo by Chica Fumando

Ω

Light This Candle — EV2.0.1

EVebook_final_small

Exit Vector, a novel by Simon Drax

Completely revised, rewritten, ripped-apart, and re-imagined by Drax

art: “Birch” by Jeffrey  Jones

used by permission of the artist’s family

†  †  †

                  ONE HUNDRED YEARS FROM NOW

                  OCTOBER 2, TUESDAY

                  1

                  Exit zak Vector—zzzatzz—Exit zak Vector—zzzatzz

       The piece-of-shit plasma screen on the opposite wall of the pub flashed the words “Exit”and”Vector” again and again. The device was an antique, hung purposely crooked for effect, a curio from earlier times. Nobody looked at the old screen, nobody cared.

       But far across the pub at her regular seat at the bar, Mori Kim Marr squinted at the little screen and thought she knew exactly what “Exit” and “Vector” meant.

       Her death.

       Her real death, the death that would finally stick, the flight path out of this shitty existence. Exit, Mori thought, Vector. Yeah, the way out. Oh, if only.

       Mori drank.

       It was Tuesday. It was early. Mori was miserable. Mori was at work, chained at the bar. The vodka helped, but not nearly enough. The music thumping from the dark rooms in the back still blasted crap, the newsfeeds behind the bar still whispered the latest bad news from everywhere, and drunk as she was she was still Mori Kim Marr, completely fucked and without a prayer or a paddle or a pot to piss in, Mori Kim Marr, oh yeah, and not nearly drunk enough, oh no. With numb determined fingers Mori brought her drink to her lips and slugged it back again, oh hail Mother Russia—

       Ugh. Who was she kidding? The vodka was shit, disgusting. Mori grimaced as if to puke, but she raised her empty glass above her head and said through her teeth, “Refill, Seat B8!”

       Then—fuck. She kept forgetting. All of the robotic waitstaff in the pub were broken, again. A human would have to serve her, she’d have to wait.

       “Brendan!” Mori called for the woefully distant bartender. “The bitch thirsts!”

       A man sitting on her left watched with mild fascination. “Hey, easy, sweetheart.”

       Mori clunked her empty glass on the faux-wood bar-top. “Take it home and stick it into your wall, man. Every circuit will probably pop a fuse if they don’t get your two inches of pale blue love.”

       The man flinched as if Mori had slapped him. He had recently gotten new hair, new face, new everything, Mori could tell: the pink outline around the corneas and the weird sheen of his complexion were dead giveaways. But beneath his recently grown skin and rich lustrous hair Mori had no doubt the man one seat away was a sap, probably eighty or ninety or one hundred or more, decades old and flush with cash and credit and resources that Mori would never come close to in her brutal and hopeless life. The rain lashed the sole window in the place, made a ghost of the stacked and brooding street beyond. Mori Kim Marr was seventeen years old, and the rich loser beside her thought he was master of the planet. Fuck that signal. She motioned again for the bartender, her jailor, her best friend.

       “Uptight little—” The man shook his head at Mori, looked up as the bartender approached. “These uptight punk street whores!”

       “I’d leave her,” the bartender said. “This particular uptight punk street whore bites.”

       “But she’s wearing the chain!” The man’s face became a mockery of sympathy. “Aren’t you, sweetheart.”

       Mori rolled her eyes to the pub’s cracked ceiling and lifted her left hand, her wrist encased in a seamless black band that was attached to a cable that ran her beneath her seat and plugged into the floor—YES, she was wearing the damn chain, YES she was working—

       “She owes me money,” the bartender said. “And yeah, she’s working. But that doesn’t mean she has to take whatever snake comes slithering.”

       “Oh, well-said, Brendan. And while we’re at it—” Mori lifted her empty glass. “Ding-ding.”

       “Who’s on the leash?” the man asked the air.

       “Woof,” Mori said.

       “Bow-wow,” Brendan the bartender said. He poured Mori another drink. The crap vodka gurgled into her glass. “You’ll have to be nicer to the customers if you ever hope to pay me back,” he said under his breath.

       “Fix your fucking robots, Brendan, or just leave the bottle. Then I’ll be nicer to your scummy clientele.”

                  •

It had rained all day and now it was night, and Mori was still a wreck at the bar.

The door to the pub slashed open, and a cluster of black laughing shadows came sneering into the place, tangle of sharp limbs and sharp hair. Draft of wet air from the traffic-choked street, shove of elbows and arms as newcomers crowded the bar and shouted for drinks. Mori winced, pressed her hand to her brow, bent protectively over her glass of foul vodka. Fucking noise, fucking people.

Even as Brendan fielded orders and served drinks, he leaned close and muttered, “Shift change, Mori. They’re thirsty and horny. Better get to work.”

Mori shut her eyes.. “Yes, yes, yes,” she managed to say. “But you know, Brendan, you can—”

“I’m sitting here,” said the person on Mori’s immediate right, followed by a grunt and the unmistakable grapple of physical violence. Mori dropped her insult for Brendan but didn’t turn to look at the altercation; she just closed her eyes tighter. Same shit every night. Where was her escape path out of here? The man on her right was yanked up and shoved away, and the newcomer sat in the seat he’d won.

“Hi.” Friendly voice, directed at Mori. She looked up.

Young guy, all flash and handsome—grey eyes, rakish hair, cool in a Crüzer coat with a short collar. And he had the burns thing going. The new guy smiled.

Oh, big improvement.

“Hi,” Mori said sitting up.

“I’m Billy.” He extended his hand. “Billy Wolfgang.”

She didn’t take his hand but gave him a smile. “I’m the Bad News Babe.”

“I know! I mean… you sure look like one, ha ha.”

“Ha ha,” Mori said, imagining how she must look: skinny, strung out, neck-length black hair in dire need of a good wash, short black skirt, boots, bomber jacket. If she’d laid on the make-up, she’d have made a passable retro-goth-military chick. As if she were going for irony.

“She’s a drunk,” said the man with the new face sitting on Mori’s left. “And she bites!” Mori absently wondered why he was still hanging around, then forgot him.

“That so?” Billy asked her. “You a drunk? You bite?””

“Absolutely,” Mori said, lifting her drink. “I’m Mori.”

“Pleased to meet,” Billy said. “Bartender! What’s her tab?”

This is too good to be true, Mori thought.

Shuffling drinks, Brendan the bartender wiped his brow and spoke to a console behind the bar. “Marr, Mori K. Display debt.”

The number 40,897.62 blazed above where Mori sat, then faded.

“Holy shit,” handsome Billy said. “That is—I don’t have that much. I have to call a friend. She’ll be here in a minute, she’ll cover the rest. Scan me. I have twenty thousand.” He glanced at Mori. “I want her.”

Had worse customers, Mori thought.

“Jay-sus,” Brendan said, working hard and fast, but he managed to flip up the scanner and zap Billy’s eyes. At once, the bar’s deceptively antiquated cash register banged-out a paper receipt.

“I’ll be damned,” Brendan said. “Twenty thousand!”

“Like I said,” Billy said, dropping a hand on Mori’s bare knee, “I want her.” Mori merely raised an eyebrow.

“Fine and good,” Brendan said, handing Billy the receipt. “But it’s still less than half. You’ll have to pay the rest before she can leave.”

“Calling my friend now,” Billy said, and he ducked his chin into the collar of his coat. “I’ve found her.”

There was an electric squawk followed by a flat distant voice: “No, you haven’t.”

“Yeah, I have—” Billy started, then drew a quick and exasperated breath. He turned to Mori. “I have to take this privately.”

“Take your time, money-buckets. I’ll watch the wicked bad news.”

Mori blinked twice, and the newsfeeds behind the bar switched active and loud in her head, hundreds of possible screens nearly obliterating her field of vision. Mori sighed, Mori drank. Mori scrolled through the wicked bad news.

— FOUR MILLION DEAD AS CANADIAN CIVIL WAR ENTERS SECOND WEEK—

Mori switched.

— SCOTLAND DECLARED COMPLETELY IRRADIATED AND UNINHABIT-ABLE —

Mori switched.

— PRO-ABORTION ACTIVISTS PUBLICLY EXECUTED —

Mori drank, disgusted. She switched, and

— EXIT —

—VECTOR —

burned bright on every screen, red letters on black with an intensity that scalded her eyes, EXIT—VECTOR—EXIT—VECTOR—

“The fuck!” Mori said, blinking off and out of the feeds.

“You okay?” asked her handsome customer, done with his private call.

“Yeah, some—some stupid fuckup in the wiring of this dump. Keeps teasing me with an escape route out of here.”

“Escape.” Billy Wolfgang’s hand fell again on Mori’s bare knee. “Is that what you dream about?”

“All the time.” Mori saw her drink had been magically refilled. She sipped. “Who wouldn’t? Born into slavery, born into debt—who wouldn’t want to get the fuck out of here?” Mori knew she was talking too much but she didn’t care; she had a customer who was easy on the eyes and he had actually paid half her tab, his hand was warm on her knee but did not move or stray; he actually waited for the next words. She shook back her ratty black hair and said,

“Mandatory childbirth for all pregnancies upon pain of prison or death, mandatory debt to be repaid upon birth, immigration to other countries forbidden, oh Google Bless America, we’re all—” Mori drained her drink. “We’re all—“

“Born to die,” Billy said, his grey eyes unblinking.

“Yeah,” Mori said, and realized her head was spinning. He had bought her a glass of the good stuff, not the shit. “Born to die.”

“Careful, Mori.” Brendan the bartender leaned close. “I don’t need the drones in here again to silence your loose lips.”

“Oh get bent, you Irish eunuch,” Mori said.

There was a sharp lull in the level of conversation at the bar.

“Come on!” Mori said to everybody. “We all know about Irish lads and their shortcomings…”

But the abrupt hush that enveloped the bar had nothing to do with Mori’s appraisal of the average Irish male’s endowments. She turned; there was a new arrival in the pub, and the newcomer was made of metal.

Next: The Iron Maiden

†††

Ω

Happy FALL Rewind: “Rod, you holding anyone good, man?” [nsfw, 17+]

“Well, who you looking for, kid?”

“The dream girl. I’m still looking for the right dream girl. From a story. Jesus, I come every Monday.”

“Oh, right, you. Hey! Weird cat trying to groove on the feel-bad babes. That’s a special crowd, boy. What’s the matter, kid? The other stories no good? Those sad tragic dames still don’t do it for ya, huh? Huh? Huh punk?”

“She keeps changing. In my head. I keep looking. It’s strange. So, Admiral! What’s the op? You holding any good merch this week or not?”

“I only move quality. But for you? This week, we’re moving some Drax, Simon Drax of the dooom-punk and the Dormammu. First up, whoa, she’s a pistol! Mori Kim Marr from Exit Vector. She’s a handful, tiger! Happy only when blind stinking drunk with the VODKA. Very bad attitude and real, real easy on the mass-destruction trigger-finger, she destroys Heaven by accident, and that ain’t half. Mori’s a pistol. Good price, too. Mori comes for free. Just like death.”

photo manip W Ryder by The Creep in the AD 

“Not bad, pops. Who else you got?”

“Ooh, we’re going to have to go up several floors for our next tragic dream story lady, you jazzy brat. Our next girl’s very high maintenance. Gloriana Blitz from DOOMTROOPERS has the weight of a broken world on her bare shoulders! Another big drinker. Daughter of a GOD! Leader of the last kids on Earth! My god, when this girl cuts loose, you’re going to need to run, you’re going to need a bomb shelter. On Pluto.”

illustration by Jo Chen

“She seems a little a bright and loud.”

“Well, yes, she’s a cartoon. But a very heartfelt cartoon, friend.”

“Anyone else?”

“The best. A Saint, touched by God and the whole hot sticky Catholic mess. Catherine Marie Merrin from A Very Fast Descent into Hell.

And the crazy beat behind the counter in the shop of bottled dreams continues, “Catherine from Descent is the best heroine and the best dream girl, because clearly, she’s too good to be true. She really is a Saint, and consequently a little daft in the head, but we’ll get to that. Catherine is generous and brave and heroic and clever and cunning and loyal and she has an exceptional high tolerance for pain. She will not eat the last cookie. She will let you control the remote. She will give you more than her share of the blanket. She will be mindful to never hit or hurt the twitchy weak spots in your flimsy male ego. She has consideration for all, even obnoxious, terrible people nobody likes. There is something wrong with Catherine’s brain.”

He taps his head. “Neurologically. Something wrong. Like a psychopath, only reversed. Catherine can’t shut off the empathy. Her sensory input is like the ocean. She had a difficult childhood. She was massacred on the playground. Her mother was afraid. Her father wasn’t there. Everyone thought Catherine had a learning disability. She stayed inside and read a lot of books. She stayed back twice. It did not help. She decided she would become a Nun and give herself to God. But that didn’t work out, because the world went to Hell, fast! And it was literally in that free fall of total societal collapse that poor chemically-impaired Catherine Marie Merrin underwent a seismic and irreversible change: the girl learned the word ‘No.’ And not just a schism of character, an irreversible before-and-after—no, no, not just that, my young friend—she found a mission. Saint Catherine found a mission. Saint Catherine must slay the Hollow Priest. She must overcome everything, even when all are against her, even when she’s tied and burned at the stake on the first page of this bottled bad dream, later beset by a demon, and finally flung on a slow tidal wave of undying flesh—”

“Hey, heavy! Very Dormammu. How much is she?”

2.99 @ amazon. 99 cents at B&N, iTunes, Smashwords! Plus the usual joints. But this one…”

“Relax, old man. Sold.”

Ω

Yes, it’s only a commercial. Apologies to the Shade of Rod Serling.

 

Well, Shee-It

UnderlandSOLD

At last! A reason to talk to my agent!

Our last conversation regarded Ebury Books’ polite “No Thank You” for The Wicker Dalek—nah, that’s not true, I exaggerate. My noble agent also hooked up The Creep in the Art Department with the author of this piece of shit. Which was fun. Until it wasn’t. And exemplified everything that is wrong and foul w/ vanity publishing—of which I am both willing participant and victim.

I still won’t submit shitty work to legit markets, nor self-pub shitty work, no fucking way. Hence my silence. Why publish shit? Lish once told me, “If the work doesn’t advance the literature of the language in which it’s written, it’s not worth publishing.” †

FOR THOSE IN THE PUBLISHING KNOW: Skyhorse’s acquisition of UNDERLAND cannot compare with Skyhorse’s recent inhaling of NIGHT SHADE but make no mistake: my next book will be a new version of Exit Vector. Which will be dedicated to Victoria Blake, btw, dedicated with love and affection and forgiveness. No, really. I have closed the door to the Engine Room of Anger, and I’m looking for the lock.

† paraphrased + reconstructed but accurate

Ω

Jeffrey Catherine Jones, “Birch,” and EXIT VECTOR

Jan 10 is not marked on my calendar. I would have blown past the date, oblivious, had not the filmmaker Maria Carbardo shouted on twitter, HAPPY BIRTHDAY JEFF!

It was the birthday of Jeffrey Catherine Jones, my favorite artist, called by Frazetta “the greatest living painter,” gone nearly two years now. Regular visitors to this site will nod at the frequency of Jones paintings, images, and links I’ve posted in the 4 years (next month) that I’ve been online; Jeffrey’s paintings haunt me. The fragile beauty of his/her brushstrokes ache with a yearning that is never answered, a transformation never attained. And for the past few months I’ve been haunted by one painting in particular, Birch.

Jeffrey C Jones_birch_shadow_edge

We need to rewind a little. It was mid-November 2012, and I could already smell the foul stench of chestnuts roasting on an open hellfire as the hated month of December lumbered toward me slow and unstoppable with its freight of deaths and births and sour aniversaries and fucking Christmas and ho ho ho and oh my Christ, I have never been a fan of December but in recent years a new painful wrinkle had been added to the joyous Deathmonth: the memory and anniversary, the deathtime of a story I had created and cared about, a failure of a tale that was not only told badly but left without a proper ending. Yeah, December, December; every year we remember. And I was sick of remembering this particular shithole of an anniversary. I realized I didn’t want to spend every December of every year for the rest of my life twisting my guts over a botched unfinished mess. This was the December, I decided, that I would give the story not only an ending but its proper due, tell the tale still inside me, a tale I still wanted to tell, this was the year and the December that I would finish fucking Exit Vector.

ev_mss_shot_rev

Telling friends and allies that I intended to return full-bore to Exit Vector for the month of December felt like a mouthful of rocks in my mouth, it was akin to sidling up to them at a party and whispering “Hey buddy I just shit my pants, would you hand me that big roll of paper towels, please…”

It made me feel gross, dumb, stupid, ugly, idiotic, enfeebled but most of all guilty to tell my friends I would finish Exit Vector.

My friends couldn’t have cared less.

“Okay.” They smiled, said, “Whatever, Drax. Do it.” They said this not out of indifference but with the casual unblinking encouragement my friends always offer me, familiar and loving and without judgements, and yet I am always surprised to receive it, surprised and grateful.

(Or maybe my friends have all learned the grievous error of questioning the current draxian master plan—whatever the plan might be for that given month/season/phase of the moon, I don’t know.)

Anyway, confessing to my friends made me feel a little better. Less poppy-pants. Slightly less gross. Now I had one last spell to cast: the cover.

I live with a madmen in the cave of my skull; you know him from these pages as The Creep in the Art Department. The Creep never stopped assembling pictures of sad young women that—for continuously superficial reasons—struck him as “capturing the essential essence” of Mori Kim Marr, EV‘s heroine. Here’re a few of them.

‘Problems in your head’ by Zakhar Krylov

Problems in your head by Zakhar Krylov

ev_untitled_slot-k_flickr
Untitled, by Slot. K on flickr
for EV from Medical_S
Melissa Smith
Yet another anon Tumblr Mori
Unknown, via tumblr
There were a few final cover treatments, too. The Creep made competent use of the transcendent photography of Hiroshi Sugimoto…
Hiroshi Sugimoto_EV_variant_1
But it was Jeffrey Catherine Jones’ Birch that pushed all other graphic evocations aside, finally. The “ache in her shoulders, the sorrow-laden angle of her head, her body half-bare, half-draped in funereal-black that roots her to the floor of the fragile woods, a place between life and death…” Yes, those and other reasons and feelings, dream-echoes. Birch was the picture.
Jeffrey C Jones_birch_shadow_edge
The spell had to be properly started, and every spell in my world starts (sadly, at times) with the cover. Though I told myself that completing a final version of Exit Vector could not possibly be contingent upon using a particular image for the cover design, the superstitious spellcaster in the shadow of my soul and brain gathered his nerve and no small of amount of balls. I wrote to the family of Jeffery Catherine Jones, and I hoped, hoped.
I could offer the estate no real practical compensation. I was practically asking the family to give me the rights to use Birch as the cover for EV. I hoped, yes, but I was fully expecting that I would have to come up with another “spell” for the cover, and quickly, because God I wanted to fix this broken and bloody story once and for all, to get it right, to walk away from it.
On January 7, I received a response from Jeffrey’s daughter, who wrote:
I’m glad my father’s work has meaning to you. That always makes me happy to hear.
I have to admit I haven’t fully read your story, but upon scanning it seems to be a science fiction story. (my father enjoyed thrillers and science fiction stories)
You have my blessing to use “Birch” as your cover.
Good Luck with your book.
I was thrilled, honored, grateful, and I composed my letter of thanks to Jeffrey’s daughter as fast as my fingers could jab the little keys of my mobile device. Yes, I was very happy, relieved that if nothing else, the revamped EV would now be armed with unassailable class and beauty…

SmallEVwShadow

But obviously a beautiful cover may only evoke, tantalize; it is up to the tale itself to deliver the goods, the completion of the spell and the dream. So here I am again, opening the door to a rite of exorcism and release, allowing the very troubled ghost inside me the freedom at last to die, and perhaps to live forever.

I may very well switch off the screens and shut down the site (again) in order to complete this terrible little tale. December’s already a memory, and time has no mercy. We will see.

It was Hell to set down this little post. It will be a worst Hell to finish this tale once and for. But it is a Hell of my making, and for better or for worse, a Hell that I now embrace. So here’s to exorcism, and conclusion.

Or else.

Ω

“Rod, you holding anyone good, man?” [nsfw, 17+]

“Well, who you looking for, kid?”

“The dream girl. I’m still looking for the right dream girl. From a story. Jesus, I come every Monday.”

“Oh, right, you. Hey! Weird cat trying to groove on the feel-bad babes. That’s a special crowd, boy. What’s the matter, kid? The other stories no good? Those sad tragic dames still don’t do it for ya, huh? Huh? Huh punk?”

“She keeps changing. In my head. I keep looking. It’s strange. So, Admiral! What’s the op? You holding any good merch this week or not?”

“I only move quality. But for you? This week, we’re moving some Drax, Simon Drax of the dooom-punk and the Dormammu. First up, whoa, she’s a pistol! Mori Kim Marr from Exit Vector. She’s a handful, tiger! Happy only when blind stinking drunk with the VODKA. Very bad attitude and real, real easy on the mass-destruction trigger-finger, she destroys Heaven by accident, and that ain’t half. Mori’s a pistol. Good price, too. Mori comes for free. Just like death.

photo manip W Ryder by The Creep in the AD 

“Not bad, pops. Who else you got?”

“Ooh, we’re going to have to go up several floors for our next tragic dream story lady, you jazzy brat. Our next girl’s very high maintenance. Gloriana Blitz from DOOMTROOPERS has the weight of a broken world on her bare shoulders! Another big drinker. Daughter of a GOD! Leader of the last kids on Earth! My god, when this girl cuts loose, you’re going to need to run, you’re going to need a bomb shelter. On Pluto.”

illustration by Jo Chen

“She seems a little a bright and loud.”

“Well, yes, she’s a cartoon. But a very heartfelt cartoon, friend.”

“Anyone else?”

“The best. A Saint, touched by God and the whole hot sticky Catholic mess. Catherine Marie Merrin from A Very Fast Descent into Hell.

And the crazy beat behind the counter in the shop of bottled dreams continues, “Catherine from Descent is the best heroine and the best dream girl, because clearly, she’s too good to be true. She really is a Saint, and consequently a little daft in the head, but we’ll get to that. Catherine is generous and brave and heroic and clever and cunning and loyal and she has an exceptional high tolerance for pain. She will not eat the last cookie. She will let you control the remote. She will give you more than her share of the blanket. She will be mindful to never hit or hurt the twitchy weak spots in your flimsy male ego. She has consideration for all, even obnoxious, terrible people nobody likes. There is something wrong with Catherine’s brain.”

He taps his head. “Neurologically. Something wrong. Like a psychopath, only reversed. Catherine can’t shut off the empathy. Her sensory input is like the ocean. She had a difficult childhood. She was massacred on the playground. Her mother was afraid. Her father wasn’t there. Everyone thought Catherine had a learning disability. She stayed inside and read a lot of books. She stayed back twice. It did not help. She decided she would become a Nun and give herself to God. But that didn’t work out, because the world went to Hell, fast! And it was literally in that free fall of total societal collapse that poor chemically-impaired Catherine Marie Merrin underwent a seismic and irreversible change: the girl learned the word ‘No.’ And not just a schism of character, an irreversible before-and-after—no, no, not just that, my young friend—she found a mission. Saint Catherine found a mission. Saint Catherine must slay the Hollow Priest. She must overcome everything, even when all are against her, even when she’s tied and burned at the stake on the first page of this bottled bad dream, later beset by a demon, and finally flung on a slow tidal wave of undying flesh—”

“Hey, heavy! Very Dormammu. How much is she?”

2.99 @ amazon. And the usual joints. But this one…”

“Relax, old man. Sold.”

Ω

Yes, it’s only a commercial. Apologies to the Shade of Rod Serling.

Exit Vector: “Henceforth…”

“…anybody interested in READING EXIT VECTOR ONLINE shall be directed from this site, Ichiban Weapon Ready, to THIS PLACE.”

All for now. More to come. No big deal. Been meaning to do this for a while. Anyway. Kiss your children. See you tomorrow.

Ω

Exit Vector, a Little Gallery from the Current Scrapbook

Danzig, Wotan’s Procession

Frederic Clement, illus. for Cheveche by Odile Cail (cropped, retouched)

Trista and Mori, “The Sacrifice” (photo by Eliot Lee Hazel)

Trista and Mori, “The Sacrifice.” (The Snow Queen by Vania Zouravliov)

Mori, her big moment. (Photos by Sonia Jach)
Max Ernst, La clé des chants, 1934
Quiet, now. Sonia Jach
Ω
Edited. Better.

Apocalypse Delayed

Soon. By The Epiphany, at least. Hey, my kids had a great goddamn Christmas, and for that I am grateful, and I have no guilt. Well, maybe a little. Soon.

Ω

Original image by Saunter

CHRISTMAS

Very afraid.

Ω

Original photo: “Arachne” by PinkShit / Sonia Jach

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