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And Then Things Got Weird….

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Goddesses

The Thriller Driller

ManSurfing

Sylvia Benedict was discovered crying inside of the Sea Lion Beach Geezer World Van by local lifeguard, Brad Stokely, as he was headed home. “I found the woman sitting inside the van, crying over Mr. Noway Sr. The motor was still running. The van’s motor, not the old fart’s. Noway had suffered a heart attack.”

Way.

Sylvia , the spouse of beloved Bolsa Chico Surf Patrol Chief, Bernie Benedict, confessed to the ambulance staff concerning the death of her eighty-eight-year-old lover:

“We’d just had a friendly dinner, celebrating Wayne’s new Thriller Driller Penile Implant. He suggested that we to go out and replace all of the steel fasteners on the Long Beach bridge with his new… Oh, poopsieeeeeeeee!” (Crying.) “Wayne seemed fine! He really did. Then, after his little nap time, he wouldn’t respond.”

“That’s quite enough, Mrs. Benedict,” said the nauseous  ambulance driver.

The truth was el vomitosio. Somehow, the video of her story ended up on the local news.

Wayne Noway III’s (the grandkid) surfer buddies said that the sixteen-year-old surfer had been “blowing major chunkage,” “praying to the porcelain” and “hurling with a mighty chunder” after reading about what his grandpa and his ex-teacher had been doing. Los barfos, mesdames e messieurs.

#

My Sylvia! Bernie thought. And…and Wayne’s grandpa?! Noooooooooo!

He had to get out and get some fresh air, now.

#

After the broadcast, it seemed that the entire town of Bolsa Chico wanted to line the pier and join local hero  Bernie, in his major heave fest. It was if they’d all been hit with the dreaded Nosoi flu.

For days afterward, Bernie felt as though he were wearing a big red ‘D’—for Dumbass — on his forehead. Time had come for him to leave his longtime friends, his beloved job and his hometown of Balsa Chico.

####

Donette’s

Donette’s Cafe, formerly Rosie’s, was built upon the end of the Bolsa Chico Pier, in Orange County, California, in 1956. Recently, it had been purchased by a dark, sultry, dirty-talking  shark goddess, Dauna Robinson, who bought the cafe to promote her native Fijian coffee products: the high-octane Getthefuckouttamyway and Outtamywayasshole coffees, grown on her private  island of Kupaio. Dauna was the one and only waitress at Donette’s.

Bernie rarely drank the coffee, but loved the food. It was the following Sunday, Bernie’s birthday, when he ordered his final breakfast at Donette’s.

The TV was on and…

“Oh, Fuck! No! Not……. on…….. my………goddamned birthday!” Bernie said. The other customers were wondering if the patrolman had caught Tourette’s from Dauna.

Nope. The news was on CNN — and Bernie was pissed. His tragic ‘train wreck’ had gone both bacterial and viral. Millions, perhaps gazillions, were following Bernie’s sad story.

Artemis gets Her Perfect Ass Banished

New Shark Fin Titled

One celestial evening, after 50,300 hits on YouTube the voguish goddess Leto was forced to watch (in shock and horror) a video of her daughter shopping while dressed in a hideous floral nightgown and tennis shoes.

Artemis grabbed the phone. “Daddy?” The voice on the phone was powerful enough for Bernie to hear every word. The voice was angry enough to generate lightning from the earpiece.

“Artie. Dear Artie. Your mom and I decided that you can’t come home until you lose weight and come to your fashion senses,” daddy Zeus had said. “And tell your hobo friend to hijack himself a new suit with real pants if he’s gonna paint the town with my baby. Bernie’s friend Frankie should have already told him that life’s too short to dress like a bum. And what the hell is that thing you’re drivin’?”

“Uh…” Munch, munch, munch. “Bernie’s Chia.”

“Everyone up here thinks that you’ve gotten weak and out of control. We can’t afford to have the other deities think that the Olympians are pushovers.” Zeus shouted into the phone. “For gods and goddesses sakes, Art-Art, you used to knock ’em dead.”

“Art-Art?” Bernie, her human, heard that, and giggled.

The goddess shot lethal optikos (eye) arrows at Bernie. “Shut up, sandal licker! No, not you, daddy. There is going to be an epic battle with MacHeath’s army soon, so I promised to help Bernie and his trollop friend.”

“You mean Miss Soapy Puppies?”

“Yeah, Dauna.”

“Princess,” the voice said. “Don’t come home until you’ve cleaned up your circle of friends.”

Zeus hung up.

“But, daddyyyyyyyy?” The heroic figure wept a flood of tears. A text appeared. Final judgment came to Artemis swiftly in a furious “bolt of rejection.” The bolt was hurled in the form of an angry text, with an angry minotaur emoji attached. Artemis had just been officially banished from her home and family.

“What family, pop?” she texted back. “Do we even have a family name?”

“Good point, pumpkin. Let me ask your mom,” he wrote. Back on Olympus he asked his wife, “Leto, dear? What’s our last name?” He texted Artemis, “You still there? Okay. Your mom says that our last name is ‘On High.’ We don’t need a last name, pumpkin, unlike the Kardashians. We’re bigger than Lady Gaga. We only use first names. Oh, your mom wants to know…what the hell kind of shoes were you wearing on the Walmart show?”

Zeus’ mighty presence was suddenly gone, and Artemis was hurt, and that meant that she needed tacos. Artemis had become “an embarrassment” to the fashion-conscious Olympian gods, who were tolerant to a point, often turning their backs on lesser Olympian crimes, such as torture, mass murder, incest, rape, infanticide and eating one’s own children.

A Midnight Swim in NY’s East River

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Interpol agent Bernie Benedict and the Shark Goddess Dauna pulled into a dirt lot by the river’s edge. The New York skylight twinkled. They stood along the trash strewn bank of the East River.

Dauna took a lighter out of her jeans pocket. “Listen Clam Dip, after our swim, I’m going to take you to a place that’s absolutely to die for.”

“Swim? I thought that we were going to talk over Dim Sum dumplings at Double Chins.”

“Drive over there, next to the outfall. I’ll show you dumplings.”

“You want to swim in the East River? Do you have any idea what’s in that mess?”

“Well, the rainbow plume on the surface suggests kerosene, fuel oil, gasoline, naptha butchering, sewage, and medical waste.” she said while throwing down her jacket.

“I’m not going anywhere near that petri dish.”

Dauna kicked off her shoes. “It’s safe, Hon. The East River is as dead as the River Styx. Most bacteria can’t survive in it. Let’s have a moonlight swim, chew toy. Let’s play.” She threw down the  cigarette. “I’ll protect you.”

“This water will probably dissolve your earrings.”

Shark Fin Soup – Final Chapter: Donette’s Cafe

Final Chapter.

BestCoffeeInTown3

Bernie carefully lay his fork on the table and stared at his plate. From across the table, his friends Jules and Claire were able to share Bernie’s ‘vision,’ which was framed by bacon, rye toast, home fries, a sprig of parsley and an orange slice. A trio of smiling faces, on his three sunny-side up eggs, began singing ‘Happy Birthday’ in ancient Aramaic. For his birthday, now that he had attained full god status, the entire Holy Family had shown up to wish him well. Well, what do you know, thought Bernie, I must be hanging out with the right crowd. “Darling!” He yelled toward the kitchen, “Darling! Look who’s shown up for my Birthday! Hurry, dear!”

“Hold onto your baguette! God f*cking dammit!”  Donette, his goddess spouse, has Tourettes. She can’t control her foul mouth and she carries a doctors note to sonofabitchf*cking prove it!

“F**K!”  said Donette’s diners in perfect harmony, (‘Group Tourette’s’ is a rare phenomenon) …because…

Glass imploded into the dining room.  A crazed woman, dressed in a XXXXL Walmart flower print Muumuu, commandeering a red mobility scooter, crashed through the restaurant window. Her flapping right arm was clenched around the neck of the frightened Viking MacHeath, who was trying to stab her with a jewel encrusted trident harpoon — that he’d lifted from Poseidon. The scooter’s front wheel was stuck on the window sill when the huge woman grabbed the pitchfork and drove it through Edwin MacHeath’s neck as they nearly tumbled onto Donette’s customers. The scooter wheels were followed through the broken glass by a huge white cat, who managed its own bloody swipe at the Viking’s already spurting neck. The Viking’s helmet fell off revealing a two haired combover. The scooter with the trio on board flipped back out of the window and onto the pier outside where the heroic pair continued to tear into the Viking without getting as much as one drop of blood on themselves.

 

 

Moonlight, Artemis and Cheeseburgers

Bernie cracked open an eyelid. The lunar light had filled the room. Light as a feather, the specter of a tall pale woman had settled astride his waist, replacing his cat who now sat at the foot of the bed. A long black braid, full of stardust, tumbled down her bare right shoulder. The light danced across on her long white legs and silk tunic. The folds of her garment fanned out like gardenia petals. With each of her deep breath the white cloth fluttered and teased across Bernie’s chest. She leaned close to see if he was still asleep.

There was no scent of flowers when she exhaled above his  lips. That would have been simple and pleasant. Poor Bernie Benedict never knew what hit him. A goddess! The woman’s lips had been anointed with the divine.

A dazzling blend of home-made chili, tangy American cheese, fruity floral onions, crisp kosher pickles and magnificent beef accords.’ 

MoonGoddess

The Night of the Shining Domes

The Night of the Shining Domes

— is an an excerpt from the short story ‘Rock Invasion’ from the book The Kingdom of the Cats

a sorrento

Where does inspiration come from?

Here, it takes the long route.

Our main character in the story Rock Invasion, is Johnny Passion: A washed-up 1960s pop singer

Second, we have Therpsicore: The newly elected Goddess of modern music and Johnny’s biggest fan. Working on giving him a second chance. We’ll call her Cori, for short.

Then there are The Brills: Cori’s alien song writing partners who inhabit the planet Brill. 


 

It was the biggest, brightest full moon that the Earth had seen in over thirty years. The kind of moon that inspired love songs.

Eight tuxedo-clad ghosts solidified themselves and gathered, at midnight, in the empty baseball field of Dodger Stadium under remarkably clear skies. The Stadium was built in 1962. The Elysian Fields where it stood had been named by the Pantheon of Greek Gods in 5000 B.C. The local LA politicians, who would have named it for one of their rich cronies, had, thank the gods, nothing to do with the naming of the sacred space.

The ghostly group was a collection of the most talented of the deceased, bald show-biz legends. There was Bing Crosby, Fred Astaire, Bobby Darin, Roy Orbison, Hank Williams, Mel Torme, and Al Jolson. They walked the diamond in a slow orbit around their chosen leader, the chairman, the venerated spirit of Francis Albert Sinatra, who stood on the pitcher’s mound holding a ghost cigarette in one hand and his cocktail of choice — four ice cubes, two fingers of Jack Daniels, and a splash of water in the other. Frank was wearing his magic toupee. Other curious follically-challenged spirits began to drift in from the night to witness the rare and momentous occasion. Two dozen, daisy pushing, songwriters, and band leaders joined the festivities, as well as two accursed showbiz agents, from the Earth’s molten core; Max and Lenny Lipschitz — the twin Lex Luthors of Hollywood.

When they had been alive, each of these tuxedoed giants of music had sported one of Cori’s magic toupees. Cori’s charmed hairpieces, were woven from the fur of the her long haired cat, Mr. Snuffles. When they were alive the magic toupees had helped the stars boost their fragile egos so that they would keep performing.

The Domes held their charmed toupees against their chests as they tightened the circle around Frank. The tops of their shiny heads pointed toward the heavens.

The solemn ceremony had begun.

The pale rays of the silent moon multiplied themselves upon the ghost’s polished heads until the moonlight snowballed ten-thousand-fold. A vigorous single beam, more robust than any laser, ricocheted itself back to the dark heavens. The signal was sent.

They set their wigs back upon their heads.

The toupees were lifted and slapped down repeatedly , over and over again, upon the bare heads of ghosts in quick, efficient military precision. The flashing of domes was repeated thirty times. A coded message was being transmitted into the great beyond.

The Chrome Domes had sent their urgent message to star system LSMFT-456. Hundreds of light years away, on the distant planet Brill, the beam entered the studio window of Cori’s two writing partners, Ada and Buddy Brill. The signal from the Chrome Domes was a plea for action, reaching into deep space.

The Chosen One is ready.” The coded message said. “Please ask Cori to weave a special toupee for our new inductee, Johnny Passion.”

Johnny Passion, the washed up pop star, was about to be given a second chance at showbiz, thanks to his number one fan, the goddess Cori.

“Toupee or not toupee!” The ghosts chanted as they dematerialized back into the endless night.

The message from the Chrome Domes had been given top priority by the Brills, Buddy and Ada, who lived and worked on their tiny 24 Karat planet beyond the Milky Way. The Brills picked up their Buck Roger’s Walkie Talkie to relay the exciting message to Cori, who waited for the Chrome Dome’s approval back on Earth. Frank and the boys, giving Johnny the green light, would certainly lift the goddess’ spirits. Johnny Passion was Cori’s last hope for the renaissance of quality music.

Cori’s walkie talkie buzzed again and again, but there was no answer. The Goddess, protected by her gallant feline, Mr. Snuffles, was passed out, drunk, on the floor of her favorite watering hole, the Kailua Palace.

An Interview with Kālī (from Shark Fin Soup)

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It was 6 p.m. The end of Bernie’s first day at the Interpol office in Los Angeles. He was beat. The agent’s job at the agency was based on his ‘talent.’ Bernie had been hired because he was not only able to see, but also communicate with religious apparitions.

Bernie’s first day on the job ended with a short, unscheduled, but action-packed interview in his office with the Hindu goddess  काली (Kali).

A few minutes earlier, Kali, being her usual sweet self, looked down at Bernie through the splinters of his new desk and grinned her blood covered rack of 14K gold teeth.

“I AM THE GREAT KALI!!!!” She circled the desk and castrated its four legs with a swipe of the four Jambiya  घुमावदार चाकू in her four hands, pinning Bernie to the floor in the middle of the rubble.

“Please, stop, काली!” he pleaded.

“Call me DOOOOOOOOOMMMM, Agent Benedict,” the Goddess of Destruction hissed, “AND you will thank me for beating this lesson into your sappy skull. My गुंडापन Thuggee followers, who number in the millions, still send me sweet little boxes containing their progeny’s still-beating hearts on Saint Jack the Ripper’s Day. I just want you to know that what, I, THE GREAT KALI!!!!, am capable of. What I can do to you…is NOTHING…Mwahahahaha…Nothing, compared to what that Brazen HUSSY Dauna Robinson will do to your maracas before you leave the building TONIGHT! … By the way,” Kali said, while grooming her fluttering eye lashes with her flaming jalapeño tongue, “This is hard for me to ask.”

“What? Anything! Anything! Spare me, oh, great Kali! Your wish is my command, oh fearsome goddess!” said the fetal quivering loogie named Bernie.

“Stand up, Agent Benedict. I was only joshin’ with ya,” Kali said, while brushing the wood dust off of her armored golden sari. “Do you think that you can set me up on a date with your friend, Frankie?”

“The Sumatran?”

Kali softened her voice. “I’m asking you as a friend

.…Or else, Worm!”

 

By the Sea (from Shark Fin Soup)

 

The warm morning sun shimmered upon the rippling sea. A nice sized coconut bobbed up and down just past the surging shoreline and a few yards past the black skinned, golden haired, fifteen-year-old Mmbop Handsun, the prince of his own itsy-bitsy teenie-weenie Micronesian kingdom.

It was going to be another hot one, and Mmbop had forgotten his newest pair of certified-previously-owned Ray-Ban sun glasses given to him, in trade, by a rich tourist woman for one of his prized wood carvings — carvings that he ordered, weekly, from what he thought were poor dumb hard-working saps over in Malaysia. He did not realize that the Malaysians had been outsourcing the genuine Fijian carvings to a sweaty warehouse in Alabama, USA, that employed the children of ex auto workers. Mmbop only paid twenty-five cents apiece for the crude art. Yesterday he’d sold ten oversized one-hundred dollar wooden cannibal forks that his father, the Chief, Papaumaumau, had ordered from Taiwan at 50 cents apiece. It had been a good week, now that he’d also helped his parents decimate and sell off most of the island’s remaining palm trees to the Chinese.

As if any drunken tourist would even notice, there was hardly a substantial palm tree left on any of the High Society Islands within three hundred miles. Coconuts were scarce on both Little Hubba, and Big Hubba-Hubba, the two islands comprising the kingdom of Hubba Hubba Hubba.

“Shouldn’t waste perfectly good food!” Mmbop said, as he pushed his thick blonde dreadlocks back. The golden hair and clear blue eyes were a throwback to his Scandinavian sailor ancestors who’d visited, mated and had been munched on, in Micronesia over seven hundred years ago.

Mmbop lifted himself up, stretching his long thin shadow across the beach.

After eating the sweet coconut meat he would clean off the husk and carve a bearded monkey head for the dwindling tourists that have been disappearing along with the trees. Maybe he’d add a human finger bone through the nose.

Tourists always assumed that the “nose-bone” came from a chicken. Chickens were revered as Gods in Hubba-Hubba. They were only used for their eggs, by order of Queen Erica, after the island’s omelet loving priests had convinced her that the chicken fruit were a gift from Lomalagi (Heaven) and that ‘the sacred chickens, DID, in fact, come before the eggs.’

He watched the coconut bobbing in the water. After the carving was finished, he would add some shell teeth and toy glasses.

Tourists love that stuff, Mmbop thought as he bent forward, and tried to grab onto the bobbing nut that persisted on floating away in the slow current and morning glare. He hit at the coconut with a stick and it turned over. It appeared to have already been carved with a funny beard and a big schnozolla with a human bone through it!

It, of course, was a real human head.

Mmbop scooped it out of the surf and carried it to shore.

Granola grinding, hemp wearing, coral hugging tourists don’t want a real human head, he thought. Not even a fresh one like this. Maybe I should toss it back? He shook his head ‘no.’ I shouldn’t waste a perfectly good head. He decided to ‘fix it up’ with a few artful cuts. He reached into the pocket of his Izod swimsuit, which yet another rich tourist had traded him for a necklace of genuine plastic whale teeth, and grabbed his Swiss Army Cannibal Fork, that came complete with a saw blade, a grater, a marital aid, assorted knives, an Egyptian nose hook (for removing brains), a Phillips screwdriver, and a waterproof universal remote.

At home, waiting for him, was his main squeeze, Mmbopalula.

“Maybe I’ll take it to her as a gift.…Besides, nothing turns a woman on like a full head of hair.”

Two Goddesses at a Wedding

Artemis Goes to a Wedding 

(From: Shark Fin Soup by Fred Barnett)

A scene from the arranged marriage of the Shark Goddess Dauna, and her chosen beau, the dim-witted, self-absorbed, pretty-boy Shark Demigod Bunji.

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The Zeus family couldn’t make it to the wedding. Most of the gods on Olympus had been bedridden with the Nosoi Flu, otherwise known as βροντές και κεραυνούς από τον κώλο, or  thunder and lightning released from the γάιδαρος or even more commonly known as sun flares.

Zeus, himself, was too ill to get to the phone, so he asked his wife Leto to call their daughter, Artemis. Artemis the Goddess of the Moon and the Hunt, who  was in Wyoming tracking a family of Yetis. She’d been trying to control the spread of Big Foot’s progeny for years. They were becoming a road hazard. She was trying to issue the elders a warning before the issue of total extinction would be their only other option. Most of the drivers who hit them at high speed had thought that the piles of fur and blood had been bears.

“Could you attend the (cough, cough) wedding of the Fijian Shark Gods Bunji and Dauna as our special envoy – as a special gift (cough) from all of the ailing Greek gods?” Leto asked her daughter, Artemis.

“Sure, Mom. How’s Dad?”

“All he can do is sleep. We both had a terrible night. Your poor brother has been sitting on the golden throne since early this morning.”

“That’s awful.”

Artemis would use all of her expertise in planetary design and cosmology to provide the lighting for the royal function. It would be a strenuous evening that would require that she control the movements of the Earth, moon, and stars, providing a light show lasting over an hour until the young marrieds dashed off toward their fahhhhhbulousssss honeymoon.

Artemis was uncomfortable with the idea of marriage, romance, and especially – fahhhhhhbuloussss honeymoons.

While standing in the long reception line, Artemis thought about the bride and groom, Bunji and Dauna. Six sunny fun-filled days! And five glorious nights! … in beautiful, romantic Hawaii! The A-holes. (She could imagine the two, breeding like filthy damned Yetis in the hotel’s heart-shaped tub.) 

Artemis was not jealous. To her, gods and goddesses should always strive to be above such “base” behaviors. A honeymoon was a primitive rite, common among reeking humanoids, recently emerged from the Tyranno- toilets called swamps.

Sleaze.

Above all things, Artemis was pure. Superior as both a goddess and a  huntress, she manifested dominion over the animals of the Earth and skies. Dignified.

But then, she has these long legs. Hoo hah.

__________________

Cool as the blue moonlight with her long black braid swinging, the majestic Artemis approached the newlyweds, Dauna and Bunji, as they received their guests. She tried her best to bow modestly in her short, off-the-shoulder white tunic. The self-designed garment enabled the Goddess to move quickly when she was in pursuit of fast prey.  To Artemis, the bride, Dauna, didn’t look ‘thrilled’ about the wedding. It had been an arranged marriage to bring peace among the Micronesian worshippers of opposing shark gods.

Dauna eyed her new husband, Bunji, trying to gauge his reaction to the long-limbed beauty approaching them. Dauna, a steaming hot goddess herself, looked up and met Artemis’ thinly veiled breasts at eye level. Uh-oh. I’m fucked. 

The mighty Chief Kivana, whispered into his stepdaughter Dauna’s ear, “The Huntress is an avowed Oh, my! virgin and a Wowser! legendary man-hater.” At first, disarmed by Artemis’ smile and the spark in her eyes, Chief Kivana found himself enraptured by the goddess’s cherry red lips. The Chief looked at his daughter and then back at Artemis. He shook his head: Uh-oh. Dauna’s fucked. 

The young groom Bunji tried to speak next. He eloquently expressed himself: “Hominahominahominahomina.” Then he took a big breath and said, in English, “Miss Huntress. Those, those are some …homina homina …impressive …uh, arrows …in your … thingy. Is…Is that a holster?”

“This thingy is called a quiver, my Lord Bunji. These are my golden hunting arrows. Please, both of you, call me Artemis.”

“Quiver?” (That …uh …sounds hot) the thirty-five-year old Bunji’s fourteen-year-old imagination raced ahead.

“That’s right, Hotshot,” said Dauna to her betrothed. “A soft sheath to keep your shafted projectiles warm.”

It took awhile for Dauna’s comment to register with her new husband. “Oh yeah! Ha! I get it!” Artemis blushed…all over her body.

“Please!” whispered the statuesque Goddess to the couple. “Let’s try to keep this conversation out of the gutter.”

The bride and groom stared at each other in amazement and then back toward Artemis in embarrassment.

“We’re sorry, we were just…” said Dauna.

“I know. Honeymooners. To me, sex is not a laughing matter. I am the virgin Goddess of the Hunt and the Moon. I hunt many types of prey. I also kill to protect the virtue of both myself and the innocent. I hunt nearly anything that moves …except men. They hunt me, then they end up killing themselves as soon as they find out that Artemis, the Goddess, doesn’t need a γαμημένος date! I wouldn’t waste my arrows on such weak and easy targets!”

“Oh, P-leeeeease,” said Dauna, rolling her eyes. ‘Cept that girl is spot on.

Artemis continued on as if nothing had happened. “I must apologize for the absence of the other Olympians tonight, all of whom are suffering from Nosoi.”

“Nosoi Flu?” asked Bunji. “That is nasty.” Mesmerized by the thin material of her tunic, he added, “Goddess! Do you have a card …on you?” He was unable to turn his gaze away from the tall porcelain-skinned wonderland before him. Dauna imagined a target glowing on her husband’s forehead.

“The gods of Olympus have sent me here to help light the heavens and set the mood for your wedding. Let me convey all of our best wishes and Congratulations!”

“I’m, uh, honored to uh meet youuuuuuuuu,” said the groom, who was looking down, maneuvering his shiny black patent leather shoes, so that he could  cop a peek up the Huntress’ short skirt.

“Honored to meet you, Artemis,” said Dauna, giving her new spouse a sharp elbow to the ribs.

“Next in line, please!” said Chief Kivana.

Though the Chief hated to see his stepdaughter marry the half-witted mannequin Bunji, his quick thinking probably saved the young groom from getting a golden shafted projectile through his empty skull.

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