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As you wish, of course.” Lucius lowered the volume on an old record player, which spun a warped vinyl disk that wailed unfamiliar music, scratchy and whiny, like cats fighting. Or a coffin with rusty hinges opening and closing over and over again in a deserted mausoleum. “Do you like Croatian folk?” heasked, seeing my interest. “It reminds me of home.””I prefer normal music.””Ah, yes, your MTV with all the bumping and grinding. Like a shot of raging adolescent hormones administered via television. I’m not averse.
