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Palom

He never intended to die alone, which is why he’s got his pacemaker. They’re smart, those new pacemakers; some of them know how to dial 911. Palom’s genius coke-addict doctor rigged his to dial the six kilos of plastique around his torso instead.

“So if you shoot me,” he grins, “it’s murder-suicide.”

“A stalemate?” she says.

“Only until my boys get here.” Palom pushes up his sleeve. “In… dammit, watch stopped again. Well, real soon.”

“Are those therapeutic wristbands?” she asks.

“Yeah, neodymium magnets. Improved the hell out of my circulation! Why?”

“No reason,” says They Shall Breathe Ashes.

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