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If I become famous and no one makes a fancam of me to Your Man by Down With Webster, I will have failed
"High five! Up high! Down low, too slow!" He was right, too slow. He might not have known it then and there, but this room was to become our final resting place. I could hear it approaching from down the hall, skittering like a torrent of spiders, come to melt down our insides and turn us into nature's juice box. If there is a god, they abandoned us the moment that thing stepped its appendages upon the ground.