Long paragraph on broken chain.
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As symbol of Gor's imprisonment, he forever wears the broken chains that were forced upon him those many years ago. An elite group of Goran warriors each with right as a high Chosen sits on a squad that bares this name. As a Chosen they have already earned fight, glory, power, and privilege. They have proven themselves the greatest in the nation and truly posses abilities above all others. When a Chosen is given opportunity to join the Broken Chain they are given privilege to be directly under the Fire God. The Broken Chain is given unlimited resources of training and supply the only limit is that only Broken Chain members and Immortals may go on any missions. There is no physical limit to where the Broken Chain may operate nor requirement nor limitations. Gor has given the Broken Chain unlimited means as long as they are actively pursuing the freedom of an Immortal. Therefore, the Broken Chain acts outside all law, nations, organizations, treaties, and pacts. They serve under Gor alone and they are sworn to obey no order to stop them from freeing any Immortal.
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Alfonso sat on the porch trying to push his crooked teeth
to where he thought they belonged. He hated the way he
looked. Last week he did fifty sit-ups a day, thinking that he
would burn those already apparent ripples on his stomach
to even deeper ripples, dark ones, so when he went swimming
at the canal next summer, girls in cut-offs would
notice. And the guys would think he was tough, someone
who could take a punch and give it back. He wanted “cuts”
like those he had seen on a calendar of an Aztec1 warrior
standing on a pyramid with a woman in his arms. (Even
she had cuts he could see beneath her thin dress.) The calendar
hung above the cash register at La Plaza. Orsua, the
owner, said Alfonso could have the calendar at the end of
the year if the waitress, Yolanda, didn’t take it first.
Alfonso studied the magazine pictures of rock stars for
a hairstyle. He liked the way Prince looked—and the bass
player from Los Lobos. Alfonso thought he would look cool
with his hair razored into a V in the back and streaked purple.
But he knew his mother wouldn’t go for it. And his
father, who was puro Mexicano, would sit in his chair after work, sullen as a toad, and call him “sissy.” Alfonso didn’t dare color his hair. But one day he had had it butched on the top, like in the magazines. His father had come home that evening from a softball game, happy that his team had drilled four homers in a thirteen-to-five bashing of Color Tile. He’d swaggered into the living room but had stopped cold when he saw Alfonso and asked, not joking but with real concern, “Did you hurt your head at school? ¿Qué pasó?”2 Alfonso had pretended not to hear his father and had gone to his room, where he studied his hair from all angles in the mirror. He liked what he saw until he smiled and realized for the first time that his teeth were crooked, like a pile of wrecked cars. He grew depressed and turned away from the mirror. He sat on his bed and leafed through the rock magazine until he came to the rock star with the butched top. His mouth was closed, but Alfonso was sure his teeth weren’t crooked. Alfonso didn’t want to be the handsomest kid at school, but he was determined to be better looking than average. The next day he spent his lawn-mowing money on a new shirt and, with a pocketknife, scooped the moons of dirt from under his fingernails. He spent hours in front of the mirror trying to herd his teeth into place with his thumb. He asked his mother if he could have braces, like Frankie Molina, her godson, but he asked at the wrong time. She was at the kitchen table licking the envelope to the house payment. She glared up at him. “Do you think money grows on trees?”
father, who was puro Mexicano, would sit in his chair after work, sullen as a toad, and call him “sissy.” Alfonso didn’t dare color his hair. But one day he had had it butched on the top, like in the magazines. His father had come home that evening from a softball game, happy that his team had drilled four homers in a thirteen-to-five bashing of Color Tile. He’d swaggered into the living room but had stopped cold when he saw Alfonso and asked, not joking but with real concern, “Did you hurt your head at school? ¿Qué pasó?”2 Alfonso had pretended not to hear his father and had gone to his room, where he studied his hair from all angles in the mirror. He liked what he saw until he smiled and realized for the first time that his teeth were crooked, like a pile of wrecked cars. He grew depressed and turned away from the mirror. He sat on his bed and leafed through the rock magazine until he came to the rock star with the butched top. His mouth was closed, but Alfonso was sure his teeth weren’t crooked. Alfonso didn’t want to be the handsomest kid at school, but he was determined to be better looking than average. The next day he spent his lawn-mowing money on a new shirt and, with a pocketknife, scooped the moons of dirt from under his fingernails. He spent hours in front of the mirror trying to herd his teeth into place with his thumb. He asked his mother if he could have braces, like Frankie Molina, her godson, but he asked at the wrong time. She was at the kitchen table licking the envelope to the house payment. She glared up at him. “Do you think money grows on trees?”
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