Imagine unlacing a marathoner’s sneakers after forty races, then fermenting the contents in a sealed cheese cave lined with wet copper pennies—add a top-note of cracked-open dinosaur egg and a back-note of molten Brie left sun-baked on a fishing dock. The first breath razors through your sinuses, eyes stream, taste buds seize, and every evolutionary alarm bell for “dangerous decay” goes off at once. Seconds later a thick, sour-sulfur fog seems to coat the tongue; swallowing only redistributes the misery.

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