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[An Ocelot arrives. He's hard to miss, unlike the snakes, with his long duster and noisy spurs. The old man likes attention. But he is not so interested in his surroundings yet. He's occupied with a strange twitching in his right arm. Groaning with annoyance, he clamps his left hand down on the wrist and holds it tight to his stomach, and pushes the sleeve back so his gloved fingertips scratch against the throbbing veins.]

Damn this arm... he must be nearby...