THE TESTIMONIAL OF P.T. LYFANTOD — Writing

TWELVE

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A THORNY SITUATION           Lyfantod stepped out into the empty lobby, the bottoms of his boots clicking loudly on the black-and-white checkered tiles.  They had been polished, but not recently.  "Hello?" he called tentatively.  His voice echoed back to him off, the smooth, aging walls.  They were tiled to look like green brick.  No one answered him.  Typical.             "Feels like I've wandered onto the set for the Wizard of Oz," Lyfantod murmured to himself.  "Hail Marcher, the All Powerful."  Indeed, the room did have a certain mood of mysticism about it.  Mysticism wrapped in early...

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ELEVEN

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NO NEWS           The tiny offices of The Oracle lay at the top of an unremarkable six-story, stone-faced building in Tollcross.  It was not quite dinner time when Lyfantod arrived.  The first floor was a kebab shop, owned by a man from the Philippines who apparently still remembered Lyfantod since the last time he’d visited.  Either that, or he recognized someone who was not looking for kebabs.  In either case, he waved from behind the counter with a long, two-pronged meat fork as Lyfantod skirted the customers' tables, heading for the cramped staircase that led up to the...

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