CHAPTER FIFTY FIVE

The moment professor Ericson took a step into the shabby house, a thick stench of poop hit his nostrils but he managed to keep a straight face as he walked on although he was internally disgusted by the lack of good hygiene.

‘If this was where Francis lived’, he thought, ‘then the contest did far worse than mouths could say’.

As he walked through a small passage with walls that had large holes burrowed into them, a few lizards ran into them to hide because they viewed him as a predator and for a second, professor Ericson thought Francis fed on them. He quickly took his mind off it, though, for his mental state and brooded on how Francis was back then in 1989; Long, blonde, curly hair, perfectly neat set of clothes changed everyday—coupled with a blameless hygiene which his snowy teeth were a testimony of, although with a small frame, an intimidating aura that brought the biggest bullies to their knees. Francis had a brigh