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                𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐓𝐎𝐖𝐍 𝐃𝐎𝐄𝐒𝐍’𝐓 𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐄 𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐘, 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐘 𝐆𝐀𝐒 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐇 𝐆𝐎𝐓 . Up there, the rats and the mice got class, up there they don’t even got possum, haven’t even heard of ‘em. Up there, possum are half the scary stories of the south. Up there, they haven’t seen half the SHIT Daphne has. 

She twirls a Red Vine between her fingers and tears a piece off with her teeth, a wolf disguised in soft, girly skin. The moon is out and full and haughty as it peers down at the girls, out in the cold, waiting for the gas to fill the mystery machine’s empty insides

Beneath the shear-shorn bangs, she glances at Velma. A surge of fierce adoration dissolves the candy on her tongue. Tastes like PLASTIC. She swallows.  We could stay the night here. Inn’s over there. Or we could keep on driving. What do you think? ❜ 

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