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Licensed to: Ricky Van Horn
“Just a compacted fat deposit, madam. Nasty one. But she’s flowing free now.”
Then Frank saw the source of the scrape. At the far end of the chamber, a fourth doll was dragging something towards a narrow outlet pipe. It was a bundle of wet wipes and cooking oil, the size of a rolled-up carpet. The doll was building a blockage. Deliberately.
“Mr. Duckworth?” Mrs. Albright called from the stairs. “Is everything all right?”
Frank pulled the trigger.
“Duckworth’s Drains, Frank speaking. If it’s an emergency, I’ll be there. If it’s a hairball, call a barber.”
Frank’s professional outrage flared brighter than his fear. “You little blighters,” he hissed into the shaft. “That’s my livelihood you’re messing with.”