The Batlord picks his bellybutton.
Belly button lint mixed with rancid sweat and skin oils overwhelm his sense of smell and he passes out.
He wakes up in the dark room.
What does he do now?
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Originally Posted by J.R.R. Tolkien
There is only one bright spot and that is the growing habit of disgruntled men of dynamiting factories and power-stations; I hope that, encouraged now as ‘patriotism’, may remain a habit! But it won’t do any good, if it is not universal.
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