
A face children could fear.
He’s smuggling a stolen child around under that hair. And his name conjures images of a slowly rotting used condom snagged on a tree branch and baking under the hot sun in a wood somewhere.
I'm just like marmite. You either love me, or you hate me, or you don't care about me at all.

A face children could fear.
He’s smuggling a stolen child around under that hair. And his name conjures images of a slowly rotting used condom snagged on a tree branch and baking under the hot sun in a wood somewhere.