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short, greasy haired man with a little mustache handed me a bag of warm, peanuts. Their smell curled on streams of steam into my nostrils and set my salivary glands on overdrive. I felt my stomach contract mightily and let out an over empty rumble. All the while my stare was locked on the dead brown eyes glaring out above the little square mustache. Very deliberately I set the bag of warm, nutty goodness down and nudged it away. I just couldn’t justify taking food from Hitler. He shrugged and wandered off into the crowd.

“What’s Hitler doing on the Gambling level?” I asked whichever member of our party was sitting next to me.

“He bet his life that he could kill all of his enemies and rule the world,” a familiar voice answered. I shivered. It was Frank. “If tha...

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