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Choose Your Own Drug Fueled Misadventure: F#@% This Cult

Page 5

You rap uncertainly on the door, and the laughter from within snaps off like a switch. The door swings open a crack, and a ravaged face, full of equal parts apprehension and charity, gazes out at you.

"What's up, baby? You want some spotted di-" you start to say, but the words die in your throat.

The old woman hurls the door wide, and you see her for the first time in her entirety. The matronly, loving, kind-of-hot-in-a-settle-for-it-way face is the only thing remotely human about her -- the rest of her body is naught but a swirling, nebulous vortex of shadow. You catch glimpses of beasts in there -- here a claw, here a patch of scales -- but they shift, morph, change and disappear into the shapeless darkness before any can resolve into a whole. She opens her mouth, and emits a guttural screech -- the same impossible gibberish from the men on the boat.


If you dropkick the Old Lady Monster back into whatever hell dimension spawned her, turn to page 6.

If you dropkick the holy shit out of the Old Lady Monster back into whatever hell dimension spawned her, turn to page 6.

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