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Face first on the road in a puddle of death, the harbinger of doom lies dead.

His luck has run out and his days as an omen are over, but they come with a caveat:

Dear feline, can you be resurrected with nine vials of antidote,

Brewed from fresh fish and little girl tears?

Alas, ’tis not to be:

Death has brought down his uncaring scythe,

And your spirit has departed for parts unknown.


Cracked pavement, bright lights, hot rubber,

Another casualty of the city.

I am awoken from my Darwinian dreams with sharp intake of breath,

And, with woe, prepare the first of the funeral rites,

For all shall follow in your wake.