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Morse

DENVER ACADEMY OF is all you can make out now, as the encroaching black something has moved up over the bottom row. Nothing gets rid of it. They soaped, bleached and sandblasted; they trashed the old marker, dug under it, poured ten feet of concrete and put a new one on top. The black stain crept up again.

“Mutant lichen,” says Morse.

“Cheap granite,” mutters Wehner.

“Moon dogs!” insists Havel. “Pale shades, pissing their black spoor on this spot to mark it as their Hell-bound stake!” Havel got a story published once, and he’s not about to let anybody forget it.

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