smutmonger

I literally cannot believe I did this, but here, you 19th-century smutmongers, enjoy. 

Disclaimers: I am drunk but I am not Dumas, so expectations should be low. Don’t say I never gave you anything. 


The small ship strained at its anchor like a dog pulls against a rope when a cat stalks by. The hollow smack of the sea against the hull echoed belowdecks—the steady throbbing pulse of the Tyrrhenian Sea. In his cabin, the Count of Monte Cristo sat with his maps spread on the table before him, impatient to leave the island that was his namesake behind.

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