Chapter 10

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'Beer?' says Hannibal, raising an eyebrow.

'Yeah, I don't mind which kind. Just something cold and sudsy will do me. A Coors Lite, maybe?'

You've barely said the word 'Lite' when a butter knife has been embedded in your neck. Your lifeblood spurts from your artery, making artistic spatters on the centrepiece.

THE END...why not try again?

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