One. Venom, squeezed like a flag.  A horseman leads the charge against a snake.

Two.  The lion watches his dissembled cage.  The longer history of the second Trojan horse.

Three.  Thanks must be said twice, stacked.  But it builds up over time.  How then could she not scoop the wax up as a fry cook, drop it to thicken a bucket.  Lego ancestry.

Four.  The removal from one, which allows its consumption, is the precondition, occasion, and grinding leftover of the other.  On a related note, our teeth like we have been kissing very new books.

I am thinking, therefore, of a political assassination.  

Midway through a speech on the "judicious but tough pruning" of certain "overgrown" social services, the Prime Minister suddenly winces, bending like a hinge, collapses to the green carpet.  He is dead, immediately.  They rush him not to a hospital but to an autopsy, to try and determine the cause while the witnesses are fresh, to try and uncoil the conspiracy that must have been in that crowd.  Laid naked on the table, there are no signs of external trauma.  They start to make a first incision, carefully drawing the scalpel down the breast bone.  A thin line of black seeps out, as though the knife were a pen.  Startled, they cut deeper, almost hastily.  His chest becomes a quill's well.  There is no blood, not a spot of red.  Someone had replaced all his blood with ink. 

As of press time, tests had yet to determine, conclusively, if the ink was organic or synthetic.

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