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He stepped out of the van looking smug. She was not impressed. It had been a very dry spring and the boxes that were filled with DART-driven dreams were hungry to house the DENDROBATIDAE. LICK THE TOAD. The low monotone voice said from behind the black curtain of the cube in the back of the service station next to old Highway 7 that leads out to the dead oil field. The cages in the basement made the entire station smell like a swamp. They had bought the property because they knew about an old aquifer that was not protected and could be tapped easily. This would be very important for breeding and cloning the DART FROGS. Producing METHAMPHETAMINE had been quite lucrative but it was time to diversify into a more organic income stream. One that required less dealings with machine gun wielding cartel hoods than soccer moms who simply couldn’t find a reason not to blow their brains out while awaiting the NAIL SALON tech to dry their GEL NAILS. The gas station also served BOBA and shitty TACORITOS. The girl behind the counter greeted people with profound indifference so as not to leave any impression. This was a skill handed down to the ladies of the plains from GRAMS to TIKES. This quiet and profound facade of majestic confidence and apathy was one of the first things slayed into silence by the men who wielded long steel cannons on thunderous hooves. The gaze that penetrates and deflects the eye of the beholder is older and bolder than the eyes that could ever spy upon them. She would always give change and say thanks like a burden of admission that you took something from her and you would now owe her in perpetuity. As the man descended deep into the double-wide trailer he’d sunk into the ground behind the station, the smell of FROG FECES rumpled the stiltskin hairs on the back of his neck more profoundly with each step. The low groan of the small creatures in the dank expanse of the bunker was stark. The smell would envelope him first before the quiet dampness would hold his feet firmly down. The whole place seemed in order. All the sub-bass systems were in check, keeping the FROGS very happy and stimulated in the manner that would produce the most potent and unctuous DART essence to emit freely. HOWEVER, the secret was to allow the generations of DARTS to stack up and not touch any component of the organic conversation that was instigated within the microcosm of the bunker. He begrudgingly began to select his annual brood of several dozen prime specimens to harbor the bloodline safely. He’d chosen a remote inlet in OAXACA for his breeding facility with natural fortifications to prevent molestation by his sinister rivals. The entire DART movement and revolution had been started by him in a different iteration of his journey prior to the accident that would divert his focus from malice to alchemy and mysticism The sound of several large vehicles all pulling up in a convoy disturbed the incubator of DART magic. It reminded him that his vision would always attract the eyes and hands of greedy lessers who sought to unwind the thread by which he alone hung. It was very simple what would happen next: The girl behind the counter pressed a large red KILL SWITCH button next to the cash register. Massive steel plates dropped over the enclosure of the station. She sighed and grabbed her backpack, vexedly making her way to the broom closet that hid the cellar door to the station’s own self-contained bunker full of cozy accouterments. She chuckled as she closed the submarine style hatch shut and pulled the wooden handle that brought the piss-stained rug over to conceal the entrance. She turned on the closed-circuit display spread and popped open a LACROIX. Four SUVs all faced a completely armored station on a windswept plane just a skip north of the border. The man took his seat at his console and grabbed hold of his trucker mic to welcome his guests. WHO GOES THERE? YOU CAME WITH MANY PEOPLE UNANNOUNCED! I’M CURIOUS HOW I CAN BEST ASSIST YOU? The first three SUVs’ doors popped open and eight men stepped out holding assault rifles and tactical armor. The headlights of the fourth SUV blinked before a honk sounded. The men all broke into a tactical formation moving forward around the back of the station with GUNS pointed to unload as they approached. AH. I SEE THAT YOU COME BEARING GIFTS. The man at the console snickered and pressed a fat yellow button next to his left hand. As the squad stormed around the back of the station in a very tight and contrived formation, a spread of simple lawn sprinkler sockets popped up from the back of the yard. AHOY HOY!!! LET US BEGIN. The man proclaimed quite plainly over the speakers. The little girl rubbed her tiny paws eagerly from her perch below the station. An AIR HORN sounded from a small shed that was roughly 50 yards out on the edge of the MESA. A pounding and growing sound began to emerge from the shed. The men of the squad looked down at the sprinkler heads that were now whizzing away, sounding like a siren scream, as a bright yellow gas rushed out, all but obscuring their line of sight. They began gasping and running like headless chickens to escape the footprint of the CANARY STRAIN ANTHRAX MUSTARD GAS the man had cooked up fresh for them. Five of the squad flopped like a side of beef sliding off a hook into a grinder. They twitched and gasped briefly as the remaining three scampered away desperate for cover. The shed was still chugging away as they caught their breath, awaiting a command from the boss in the last SUV. The man rubbed his eyes and turned to look back at his beloved DARTS. He yawned and thought about having a tea once the mess was cleaned up. He picked up the trucker mic again. HE WHO CONTROLS THE SPICE SHALL CONTROL THE UNIVERSE! He quite simply but firmly proclaimed. The sides of the ominous chugging shed exploded outward at this time exposing a NAVAL grade anti-aircraft cannon that was pointed at the last SUV. The remaining men made a sound that was almost audible prior to the noise of ALL of the SUVs being blown back from the station in a typhoon of metal and fire. The cacophony carried like a phoenix rising from the very sandy earth that lay below. A deep and calm vacuum of space embraced them as the shell collided with the front right axle of an SUV in a delicate and almost liquid-like manner. The sheer weight of the shell, over 100 pounds, was essentially like a small refrigerator colliding with the DENALI SUPREME, brewing up a human meat stew fit for a king. The little one opened up a bag of chips and picked up her trucker mic. HEY! DO YOU GUYS LIKE DOGS!? I LOVE MY DOG, CUJO! GET TO KNOW HIM! With that she made a strange and guttural sound that brought up the 3

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