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Your name is Tripp Roguestar, and today you are probably going to die.
It occurs to you that this isn't the first time you've expressed that particular sentiment. In fact, if you're honest, you kind of feel like you say it a lot.
In your defense, you do have a knack for fucking things right up to lethal levels pretty quick.
Like right now, for example. Running, for your life, from a race of Interstellar Nomads, who
only want you to answer for the crime of deflowering their spiritual leader before she could be married, and ensure
her people's survival for the next thousand years. Now, given the context, you feel that it's not totally
unreasonable to assume that letting them get their hands on you would probably result in a pretty severe case of
laser poisoning, hence the above concern.
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