Lungs, Phiik & Cise Greeny Are Where Are The Bugs

Pigs that came to clear the last apartment needed to bring in reinforcements after the door team fell ill — nausea, itchiness, eventually skin clawing and crawling. The tenants' belongings, their archives they'd called them, reeking with the decadence of generations, were infested with microscopic mold-feeding insects once thought extinct, a pest/ilence that clung to the decades' detritus. It got in the officers' throats, thus the vomiting, and on their clothes, hence the rash. By the time they called in the Health Department, it was too late. Developers had Romania on the horn. Quarantine would satisfy the force majeure clause, the financiers advised. City Hall complied on the condition they'd pick up the PR tab. So it was settled. One of the environmental remediators had a curious streak, though. Always kept a souvenir, in this case a shoebox. Taped voice recordings of the tenants' final days.


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