Chapter 8 [The Wharf]

The surfaces his fingers deciphered were wet and alien. As he felt along the curious terrain, a few fingers slipped into a strange cavity and hit something warm and squishy. It was his tongue. He withdrew his hand and held it up, and it was painted red and globules of red matter glazed his fingers here and there. The Chihuahua barked and splashed in the pooling blood before bounding up his chest, covering the man in miniature red paw prints. He confusedly reached to brush it away with the gun, still held weakly in his right hand, but it danced playfully and growled and buried its head down into a place to the left of his blurry vision.

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