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than  the exclusive product  of the  Great  Darkness or the
            Deadworld. This  effectively  rendered  her  the  offspring  of
            both. Granted, all of us contain shares of death and darkness,
            but with much less impressive potency.
               I  was  sure  of  it—Molly  Patience  was  a  hybrid  of  the
            Great Darkness and the Deadworld. This fact nullified the
            cannibal’s previous contention  that  the  Darkness meant
            nothing to her, thus causing her blindness. Having untied the
            philosophical knots Miss Patience proffered, it was finally
            time for me to kill her.
               The giant cannibal lumbered after me with far less energy
            than she had previously demonstrated. She may have healed
            quickly, but not completely. It wasn’t terribly difficult for me
            to evade her clumsy lunge and leap atop her back. My sisters
            weren’t long at their task of removing her eyes, and it took
            them only a few additional seconds to slide into the bleeding
            pits that remained. However, the size of the monster’s head
            made it difficult for them to complete their job, as her brain
            was tucked away quite deeply within her enormous skull.
            Her awful claws were upon me again, raking across my back
            and shoulders, tearing me from my perch.
               The queen spat the blood pouring down her face as she
            spoke, her voice betraying the pain she suffered. “My eyes
            are baubles, I’m better off without them. I’d rather be rid of
            the foolish things, anyway. They give the wrong impression.
            I can still see you, little killer. Your fires are still burning
            plenty  bright.  If  you’d  do  me  the  enormous  kindness  of
            holding still, I’d like to eat you now. It’s a long climb back
            to the surface, and I’m going to need all the protein I can
            get!”
               The claws of her left hand barely missed my face, instead
            sinking into the boulder beside my head—so much for my
            theory on bones losing fights with stone. She retrieved her
            claws with remarkable ease and wrapped them around my
            neck.  Lifting  me  from  the ground,  she  held  me  at  arm’s
            length, hoping to disembowel me with her other hand. My
            148 | Mark Anzalone
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