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“There,” says Salem, “him. Shut him up.”

Bollweevil frowns. “But he’s not a subscriber–why him, anyway? He annoys you?”

“Government wants to be your Jesus!” shouts the man on the bench. “And if I weren’t the radio, the numbers on the eyes inside your eyes!”

“It’s an incantation around that whole block,” Salem snarls. “And if your business ethics get sticky, need I remind you you’re living on borrowed mind?”

“Fine. Paper, pen, scissors.”

Salem’s pockets produce a penknife, a receipt and a China marker. Bollweevil scribbles, counts and makes one cut. The man on the bench swallows his tongue.