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"What'sa idea drivin' yer crew up t' three an' a half er four?" "I was told to keep my crew working, and I've been doing that ... and only that!" Hanlon snapped. "And take your ugly, stinking face away from mine!" The disgust he felt at the brutality of these guards had made him so soul-sick with them he wasn't going to take any guff from one of them.
Atmananda then denounced Sal for rescuing a maiden who had been held against her will in "a large vat of ravioli." "What's wrong with that?" I asked. "Sal, tell the baby what'sa wrong with that." Until now I had enjoyed their antics, but the transition from being the editor-in-chief of my high school paper to "the baby" felt awkward.
One evening at dinner, some time later, Hanlon became aware that the guard, Gorton, was growling at him. He looked up in surprise, and forced himself to pay attention to the big man's words. "I ask ya, whatcha tryin' t' do, punk?" the small pig-eyes glared redly at him, and the voice was harsh and bitter. "Try'n'a show up us other guards? What'sa big idea, gettin' out more ore'n we do?"
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