well that is that. blood washed from hands, sharks in ocean drawn by blood. managed. not one of the better days to be a coffin maker, folks, let me tell you. measuring your friends for them gets old. but it needed to be done, & i needed to be the trigger man. but it least it isn't dangling over my head any more as a thing i need to do. hold your breath but eventually you pass through the graveyard. until i make the whole world a graveyard. gloom & doom not required; i'm just pitching sandcastles here. talking around the fire. sitting in the beached hull of the battleship. feral tribe down not one member but two. what a mess. at least i remembered to ask the shitty question: can i get your keys? i'm a tough guy now, i guess.