Machete
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Machete, time seemed to stand still... the blade moved with lightning speed, yet agonizingly slowly, catching up to the messenger. Four inches now... three... two... and with a swift swing of the scythe, death deflects your blow, without pausing to raise the scythe for a counterattack...
I dodged the scythe and, using the momentum from the turn, slashed diagonally with my sword...
I've got a hole in my pocket!
© Ринго Старр
© Ринго Старр