The O Negative Blood Type; layered over by a Tartar, an AB, never to return.
The famous lines bred into a Neanderthal mated into a midget by production; producing a tall face, then a new line, to seek his or her genetic vestment; a priesthood of blood, the sanguine.
Just like you, all of you.
With Halloween, as truth, we give you; your real faces, every All Hallowed Eve.
There are some really sick people out there.
Even you, Rasputin, AB bloodline, defrauding an O Negative victim of Turkish bigotry towards pork-rich countries outside that of the mother's gift to child. Never intended, of course, not even by the Sheeny, the Chinese-Jew; the net bearing woman in the battle.
Librarians to politicians.
Shop tenders to corporate executives.
Latrine janitors to commodores.
Teachers to police commissioners.
Dental hygienists to serial killer madmen.
Bullies to international athletes.
If one of those is your profession, outside the kinship, you know what we are capable of in our line of work.
Those last three, journalists; your canary if you need help.
The prior three, traitors to each code of initiated; gathering more, unless outside the Sigma; a Tzade, instead.
And if a Chet, then a dead line; a black man given a fiction's turn devoted to us.
I'm a Tepes; the Occult, your own observation upon literature or manual.
