The iron carding combs were heavy, their teeth cold against his spine before the first painful pull. With pulsing splatter like treading through thick mud, the executioner raked the metal downward, peeling away long, tattered ribbons of muscle and flesh. He watched his own body unravel, the white of his ribs and the quivering length of his spine exposed to the biting winter air. Each pass of the comb dug deeper, shredding the red fibers of his being until he was a quaking, skinless ruin. He remained conscious, watching the floor turn into a slick sea of his own fluids.
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