In the garage beyond time, Bikethulu waits. Dreaming.
The Beast’s slumber shall soon cease, as the toiling of it’s supplicants
bears fruition once again. None shall be spared of its wrath.
As the ceremony progresses, the unclean mechanic endeavors to consecrate the clutch in a wrathful series of nigh-spazmodic gestures. He gazes into the beast and he feels the crushing blackness of its timeless malevolence.
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