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Richard

“Not that kind of demon,” huffs the Judging Demon.

“What kind, then?” Richard’s thinking, yeah, he could probably take this thing. It doesn’t even have horns.

“A purpose-built slave,” it says acidly. “Maxwell’s, UNIX, what have you. Give me your papers.”

Richard does. “They say I’m a heretic. Dissenter.” He pitches low. “Freedom fighter. Understand?”

It nods, then lifts him up davinciwise and removes his flesh. At one point, Richard screams so hard that he vomits a tiny wooden man.

“There you are,” says the Judging Demon. “Sticking around this time?”

“We all got jobs,” it mutters, wiping away bile.

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