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Xenophobe


They won’t find me here.

No, not them. They probably won’t even come looking in a place like this. Offend their sensitivities, that’s what it’d do. They’d probably curl up at the wingtips just thinking about it.

Christ, it’s dark. And wet. I’m gonna catch one hell of a cold if I stay here, that’s for sure. These pipes must be leaking. The water’s soaked through my pants already. I can feel it around my knees. It’s probably dirty, too, crawling with scum and everything. Damn them!

But at least they won’t find me.

It might not be so bad if it wasn’t so goddamn dark. I can’t hardly see my hand in front of my face. Can’t even tell what time it is. God, I wish it was morning already. Then maybe I’d be able to leave this miserable hole.

Who’m I kidding? They’ll never let me leave. They’ll start looking as soon as it gets light, on my trail like I was some goddamn kind of animal or something. Me, an animal. At least I’ve got two good arms and stand on two good legs, like a man. I can walk around instead of having to fly on airy-fairy wings, and I can talk with my mouth instead of my mind, like some dumb mute.

Angels” they call them. Hah. What idiot TV commentator named them that, I wonder. God sure as hell wouldn’t let bugs like them into Heaven. Those people who say they’re pretty, they must have rocks in their heads. Ugly leather wings that swish, too big to even get through a normal-sized door. No legs at all, unless you want to call those puny little things hanging down “legs,” but that’s really stretching it. Claws instead of hands….

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