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    Baltazar made a face as he swallowed the time travel sickness pill. “Could have made them smaller” he grumbled.

    Intu rolled her eyes. “Stop being such a jess and take this” she said, handing him a smoking frothing potion in a tall silver cup. “For the side effects of the Replicator.”

    “I hate this time of year. Trying to be in a hundred places at once, all because of that stupid tradition.”

    “How do you think I feel?” asked Jesus. “At least you don’t have to wear a nappy.”

    “It’s not a nappy, it’s swaddling clothes. Haven’t they finished with all that religion stuff yet?” said Baltazar. “Maybe if we just don’t turn up, it will bring the end forward? Can’t we just stay here in Tartessos? Bugger their parades, I’m not going again.”

    Intu gasped. “Baltazar, you can’t let me down now. This might very well be the last time, if everything goes according to plan. I tell you what, I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll arrange for you to meet the reindeer pee travelling salesman on the way.”


    In reply to: scattered grasps


    “You mean you’ve finished seeing the funny side?” asked Godfrey and Gordon in unison. “NEVER!” replied Ann firmly.


    In reply to: Tales of Tw’Elves


    The Godfrey2012 campaign started when story characters from all over the world got together to tell other story characters about the fate of the ones left on the shelf in unfinished books. Some wanted to pin the blame all on Godfrey, to make it easier to steal all his peanuts, but the story characters weren’t so daft, they knew that everyone is writing their own story, and what was so great about peanuts anyway.


    In reply to: Strings of Nines


    “I’ll catch you up in a minute” said the green fairy, in between mouthfuls of bowler hat. “I’ve nearly finished. Pass me that can of Guinness will you, this hat’s awfully dry.”


    In reply to: Snowflakes of Tens


    Whether or not Arachne was actually better at weaving than Athena is still a mystery, or perhaps it is a moot point and no mystery at all. Weaving is by no means a solitary endeavour, as Blithe found early one summer morning. The river mist was rising and the air itself was dancing in droplets. It was hard to determine if the droplets were falling or rising, or simply milling around on the air currents. Hard green oranges (clearly oranges had been named in winter, or they would likely have been called greens) were festooned with silver threads, linking orange to orange, orange to tree and tree to wire fence, and back again. It was debatable whether or not the individual spiders were aware of the grand overall design of the early morning web links of the orange groves, just as it was equally debatable whether or not the inhabitants of the various Gibber realities were aware of the network of waterpipes that connected the other inhabitants to themselves and each other, and to the other Gibber worlds. Individuals were individuals, whether they be spiders, or Gibblets, and individuals generally speaking were focused on their own part of the tapestry (and often those of their immediate neighbours). Spider 57 on the east fence might be positioned to catch the first rays of sunshine in the mornings, but Spider 486,971 over near the dung heap was in a better position to catch the afternoon flies. And so on, as somebody famous once said.

    As Blithe prowled around the orchard capturing potential clues on her Clumera she inevitably became part of the laybrinthine web of sticky threads herself, as they attached themselves to her hair and clothing. All of the gaps between the solids in the field were joined together with spun filaments, just as the Gibblets were joined together with fun spillaments (although leaking waterpipes were sadly misinterpreted as not-fun all too often, despite that they could be used as an opportunity to view the connections of the Waterpunk more comprehensively.)

    The individual spiders lacy parlours were framed in wire squares, several hundred, if not more, along the perimeter fences. Not every wire fence square was filled; there were many vacant lots between established residences ~ whether by practical design or mere happenstance, Blithe couldn’t say. Many of the individual webs were whole and perfect, like the windows of Lower Gibber whose inhabitants kept their lace curtains clean and neatly hung. Many of the webs on the wire fence were not perfect in the symetrical sense ~ some had gaping holes, and there were those that appeared to be unfinished, despite showing great potential. Others appeared to be abandoned, hanging in shreds, not unlike many of the residences in Upper Gibber.

    The wire framed residences of the field (and likewise the peeling paint framed residences of Upper Gibber) that appeared to be defunct were not quite as they seemed, however. They were simply being viewed from a different timeframe. It was quite possible to view each wire or peeled paint framed en-trance side by side, notwithstanding that they were, so to speak, located in varying timeframes. All that was required was a more flexible viewpoint, and an ability to view more than one timeframe simultaneously. It was all a question of allowing an entrance to en-trance ~ which was, after all, its function.

    {link: misty morning; entrance}


    In reply to: Snowflakes of Tens


    After having had a wheel ride in the garden, Grandpa Wrick came back a little less in-tense.

    “Mmm, I suppose this game isn’t as much fun as I expected. I want to give it another try, adding a little something more.” he said to the kids when their cartoon had finished. India Louise, Cuthbert, and their friends Flynn and of course Lisbelle (who had been quiet in the background, playing with her pet rabbit Ginger) started listening with a mild interest —the whimsical Lord Wrick having proved countless times he had no qualms at making a fool of himself, and thus at entertaining children.

    “What I want to achieve, by playing this game of snowflakes,” he said after a pause “is paying more attention at your stream of consciousness.”

    “You see, I’ve been reading the classical Circle of Eights countless times in my young age, and dear old Yurara didn’t have much interest in creating links between her narratives. This is what I want to do with this game: pay attention to the links.

    In this game of snowflakes, the stories (flakes) matter less than the links you build between them, and thus the pattern that is created.
    We have the choice to continue and detail the previous story, in which case, the link is obvious, or we may want to start another one. But we need to know what, from the previous entry, prompted you to create that special new story you are about to write or tell.

    Just like in a dream, when you explore a scene, some object will jump at your attention, and propel you to another dream story. Just like that, I want to spend more time exploring the transitions between each scenes and story blurbs that we tell. The links don’t necessarily have to be an object, of course not.
    It can be an idea, a theme, a music, virtually anything, provided that it can make some sense as to why it is used as a transition…”

    Seeing the children waiting for more, he pursued: “a good introduction to this game would be for you to try to follow your train of thoughts during the day. Try to do mentally that small exercise before you go to sleep, and remember the transitions of your whole day, and you’ll see how complex it can become, how often you pass and zap from one thing to another.

    Take even one event that lasts a few minutes like eating a honey sandwich at breakfast, can make you think of dozens of things like the texture of the bread, the fields of wheat, or the butter, the glass jar filled with honey and the bees that made it, the swarm of bees can carry you even further into another time, or towards a bear or into a movie maybe.

    I want that you pause to take time to break this down, so that your audience can follow the transition from one story to another, and that it makes perfect sense for them.”


    “Really, Godfrey, do you think it’s wise to let the children play tea parties down there? Every time I take a peek, it looks like they’re making a hell of a mess,” asked Elizabeth with a worried frown. “Just look at the mess they’re making with that cake. I dread to think what will happen when they ice it.”

    “I think part of the problem” Godfrey replied wryly “Is that they iced it before it had finished rising.”


    When Lilac had finished eating, she and Nasty considered the options. The first mission was to get the Peaslanders heads back, with or without Penelope, although it was hoped that Penelope, with her vast knowledge of Blubbit lavacology, would chaperone the heads back to the Peaslanders.

    “The Fly Boat!” exclaimed Naturtium, who had just recieved an urgent transmission from the Daily Quote Dept. “We will initiate a Fly Boat mission.”


    In reply to: Strings of Nines


    As soon as Yoland finished the flounder list, her phone rang. It was her mother, Gretchen, calling from Wales to tell her about the cottage in Dyffryn she was thinking of buying. Yoland googled Dyffryn, and was intrigued to find numerous prehistoric cairns in the vicinity.



    In reply to: Strings of Nines


    “You mean you’ve finished seeing the funny side?” asked Godfrey and Gordon in unison.

    NEVER!” replied Ann firmly.


    In reply to: Strings of Nines


    When she’d finished seeing the funny side she noticed the time was 1:11


    In reply to: Strings of Nines


    “Oh bloody hell Tina, you daft tart” Becky said when she’d finished wiping pistachio green specks of sputum off her cheek. “You’re in the wrong place! Well, never mind, now you’re here, what rhymes with fish? Listen to this so far:

    Sputum & Pistachio, Editors At Large
    Lived on the river in an old blue barge
    One liked rabbits and the other liked fish….”


    In reply to: Strings of Nines


    Arthur Bickerswell-Snodley had been delighted to receive Ann’s invitation to stay with her at Little Big Hopeswell for the May Day weekend. He hadn’t seen Ann for 570 years, although they had remained in contact through the years, at first by old fashioned handwritten letters, and later by email —as well, of course, by telepathic means and out of body rendezvous— but this was to be an actual physical visit.

    Arthur travelled by train to Chipping Else Hampton, where Jibblington, Ann’s chauffeur and general dogsbody, met him in the old jalopy, a rather grand old Silver Ghost Rolls.
    Jibblington, it must be stated, worked part time for Ann, as did the enigmatic cleaning lady, Franlise — both were merely aspects of much larger personalities elsewhere engaged in myriad pursuits. Jibblington was a much of a mystery to Ann as dear Franlise was, not to mention old Godfrey Pig Littleton. Godrey’s flooh, in point of fact, had been the catalyst behind Ann’s invitation to Arthur.

    While Jibblington and Bickerswell-Snodley glided along the country lanes, cushioned and buoyant in the silver car’s plush, if a trifle vulgar, crimson upholstery, Ann tutted in exasperation as Godfrey pestered her to finish her latest entry to the Play.

    “I haven’t finished it yet, Godfrey, sheesh!” she exclaimed. “OK, OK!” Godfrey was rather rudely drumming his fingers on her desk. “Here, you can read what I’ve written so far.”



    “Hey, Asp” Phildendron was still chuckling at her sister Aspidistra’s reaction to the piglet news “Why don’t you make a deal with Lavender, tell her you’ll only accept the piglet if it comes with a years supply of that DMT stuff.”

    “So I can share it will you, Phil?” Asp raised an eyebrow. “I don’t like haggling though, you know what I’m like. Looking a gift horse in the mouth and all that, no accidents and all the rest of it. I mean, I must be creating this piglet gift myself, and acceptance is key, is it not?”

    “Acceptance doesn’t mean literally accepting gifts of piglets, silly!”

    “Well what DOES it mean then?”

    “It means accepting that everything is fine, whatever you choose ~ whether you say yes to the pig, or no to the pig, you’re supposed to accept that it’s the perfect choice.”

    “Well how the devil is a person to know which is the right choice then?”

    “Well that’s just it, it doesn’t matter which choice you make. Not only that, it’s not a case of just one choice, either.”

    “So what you’re trying to tell me, which sounds like absolute nonsense, is that if I choose to accept the pig gift now, I would have to choose tomorrow that I accepted the pig gift today, otherwise I would be choosing…..” Asp’s voice trailed off as she lost her thread.

    “Yes! And not just once tomorrow, but in every moment you would have to choose that you chose the pig gift ~ otherwise you’d be choosing that you didn’t accept the pig ~ and that would be a choice too.”

    “Oh don’t be silly, Phil, with so many choices to make in each moment you wouldn’t ever be finished choosing before it was the next moment, then you’d have to start choosing again ~ You’d never get anything done!”


    Naasir then exhaled slowly, until all in the cave was still.
    The End

    — “What?”
    — “That can’t be true?”

    The twins were outraged. The book couldn’t stop now, there was so much left they wanted to explore. Watermelons, mummies, secret islands… even aliens would be a fate better than a dreaded “END”!

    Lord Wrick smiled at them.
    “Dear ones, you knew all along that there was no third book, and that it would end at some point, didn’t you?”

    A stubborn silence greeted his deep raspy voice.

    He continued unfaltering “Let us see it another way. These stories are like a breath.
    You take breath without thinking of it. It feels good to have the air flow into your lungs and make you feel so full of life.
    But you know without even thinking when it’s time to release. You can try to hold the air indefinitely in your lungs, but soon it’ll become painful. The air is all around you, you can release the tiny fraction you think you hold without a worry. All you will have to do is breathe again.
    These books will change over time, they are not finished. They are only closed. You can open them again anytime, and reinvent them. I trust your imagination on that.”


    “Hey Leo, I had a blinding revelation last night, after Barb left.”

    “Well, do tell, Bea, I’m all ears” said Leonora with an encouraging smile, pouring herself a cup of tea.

    “Well the moment was far clearer than I can explain it but it went something like this” Bea continued. “Bearing in mind that the FOCUS DIRECTS so the question of ‘directing’ essence is another choice of puzzle piece of the individual puzzle game at any moment…”

    “Ye-es” replied Leonora, making an effort to concentrate.

    “To connect to an individual focus is but a baby step towards being able to comprehend the interconnectedness of everything that you create, and that it is all in fact you.” Bea went on, adding “Like a beginner stage as it were, to keep it manageable.”

    “Keeping it manageable sounds like a good idea” interjected Leo, pointedly glancing around at the disorder in the kitchen.

    Unperturbed, Bea continued “You draw to yourself parts or, if you like, focus points or other focuses of All That Is —of the whole that are at that moment useful.”

    “Sounds reasonable, Bea, do continue. Pass the gingerbread men, would you?”

    “All of the characters in the stories I write, for example, are my focuses in a manner of speaking, as are all the characters in anything I bring into my world my focuses if I choose to SEE THEM FOR A MOMENT FROM THEIR FOCUS VIEWPOINT.”

    “Ok, ok, no need to shout!”

    “I’m not shouting, Leo, let me finish and stop interrupting! Adding another focus is an analogy in a way for adding another focus or point of view to mine.
    Dividing the actions of adding focus viewpoints into sections is useful in order to comprehend the scope of possible actions, but only initially, and as more actions are experienced objectively, the sections and labels become limiting and confining.” Bea paused for a sip of coffee and a long draw on her cigarette. “But they do keep it manageable to some degree, it must be said” she added.

    “Yes, keep it manageable, by all means, couldn’t agree more”

    “Everyone’s puzzle game is their own,” Bea was on a roll. “And the same puzzle piece, or other focus in this case, for one, would fit equally well into a completely different puzzle game of someone else’s because all of the surrounding puzzle pieces of each individuals puzzle game are created in each moment and are chosen for their relevance to that moment.”

    “Good point, dear.”

    “Likewise an individuals puzzle game is a new one in each moment and the puzzle pieces are interchangeable within the same puzzle game, depending on their relevance to the moment and the chosen surrounding puzzle pieces.”

    As usual with blazing flashes of illumination, Bea found that they were hard to form into words, and when she did manage to get them into words, they look so screamingly obvious.

    “Does that make sense to you, Leo?” she asked.

    “Er, I think so Bea, I’m getting the gist…”

    Interrupting, Bea continued to describe her revelations to her now glassy eyed friend. “And on the subject of trusting, doubting, confusion and so on”

    “Oh, yes, confusion…”

    “We are here shiftING, not shiftED, this is what we are choosing.
    With the variety of viewpoints we have, the shifted and the unshifted and the semi-shifted, there is always something new to notice from yet another new perspective. Why not get really enthusiastic about the ride itself instead of planning how to float through it with the least fuss ~ it’s more fun on the helter skelter with its many perspectives and view points than on the mill pond for those of us who choose shiftING.”

    “I dunno, Bea, from my perspective floating on a millpond sounds rather pleasant.”

    “Well, at least now we know that what we don’t know is there to know.”

    “Yes, there’s no doubt about that!” relied Leonora, “Have you finished? That was all very interesting but don’t forget we invited everyone over for the Yule Boulder Moving party. We should get a move on with the preparations you know”



    Finally, sailing on the Orgasmic Sea had not been as difficult as Akita would have thought .

    Occasionally, while they were sleeping on the deck under the starry sky, he could hear a few “Ahs” and “Ohs” (something even some “Oooh” as far as he recalled) coming from the three ladies, but perhaps that was only the effects of their feeling again their skin against the sheets, since all their hair had almost now gone.

    He was wondering if that was a special disposition of the Brits and people coming from the cold areas, that kind of bestial growing of hair, and shedding in spring… Could well be, as his Asian ancestors never had been accustomed to growing much hair themselves, he couldn’t tell for sure.

    Perhaps they were dreaming too… As soon as they had found out about this strange piece of tile, their imagination seemed to have taken to new heights. They were speaking of Spreal, an ancient civilization buried for 570,000 years under the ices, near the Onyx river and had almost manifested the strong desire to come back to investigate.

    Hopefully Kay had given him the perfect excuse to not comply with the sometimes erratic demands of the three Graces: the iceberg was slowly melting in the giant structure of plastic containing the freshwater from the berg, and the heat exchange was also giving the propellant for the trip. They probably wouldn’t be able to get away so easily if they backed-off now.
    Hopefully their shedding had finished to convince them. Any vague desire left to go to the frozen place was long gone with the comfortable hairy insulation.

    Akita had thought for a moment of going back to his homeland, in Arkansas. But now that probably most of his family was dead, or thinking him dead, there wouldn’t be much point in doing that. Instead, he’d decided to trust living in the present. Not worrying about that elusive past from another life, and only focus on what route was open to him now.
    Sharon, Gloria and Mavis were apparently not in a hurry to come back home either, and now that Kay was more and more easily accessible for him, he didn’t feel alone at all. So all was well.


    “This is a long process, Godfrey , a very long process” Elizabeth said with a wry chuckle. She had left her characters to their own devices for so long she didn’t know where to jump in again with her directing.

    “The process is the point, dear” Pig Littleton replied dryly. “Pass the peanuts, would you?”

    “There are hundreds of probable possibilities, in fact there are so many of them that I hardly seem able to find a place to start.”

    “Start anywhere Liz, and then stop when you’re finished.” Godfrey said with his mouth full of peanuts. “Ideas are like peanuts, you can savour them one at a time…”

    “Or shove a whole handful in your mouth at once, eh Piggy” retorted Elizabeth, frowning as Godfrey tried to munch, swallow and speak all at the same time. “If I shove too many in my mouth at once, I can’t remember each individual peanut, it all becomes a glob of sticky….”

    “Peanut butter spread? And what’s wrong with that?” Pig Littleton smiled.

    “Well for one thing Godfrey, all those bits of peanuts stuck in your teeth is rather off putting you know.”

    “Why?” asked Godfrey.

    “Why?” Elizabeth repeated, perplexed.

    “Yes, why? Why do you perceive the physical evidence of my enjoyment of peanuts captured for a moment between my teeth as off putting?”

    “When you put it like that, dear Piggy, I confess I don’t have an answer” Elizabeth replied with a snort. “As a matter of fact, I have no idea where this conversation is leading at all!”

    “Aha, and there you have it!”

    “Have what, Godfrey? What on earth do you mean?”

    “Well, why should it be leading anywhere in particular? The process is the point, Liz, not the destination!”

    “Hang on a minute, are you trying to tell me that this conversation about peanuts is a meaningful process with a point?”

    Godfrey Pig Litteton laughed, spraying bits of peanut everywhere and nearly choking. “Who said anything about meaningful?”

    “Well what’s the point of it if it isn’t meaningful?”

    “If it’s meaning you want, you can read all sorts of things into it. On the other hand, if it’s fun you want, why worry about meaning?”

    Elizabeth shook her head, perplexed. “Is it fun that I want?”

    “Don’t you know?!” asked Godfrey, in mock surprise.

    “Well of course I want fun! Everyone does, surely!”

    “Then why” Godfrey said with exaggerated patience “worry about meaning?”

    “I’m not worried about meaning, Piggy, you’re twisting my words, you tricky rascal!”

    “My dear Elizabeth, I quote you: ‘What’s the point of it if it isn’t meaningful’”

    “Pfft” she replied. “I might delete that comment. Trouble is, if I do, the rest of it won’t make sense.”

    “Worried about making sense now, are we, dear?” said Godfrey with a sly grin.

    Godfrey, you’re making me sound so old fashioned, worrying about sense and meaning! Pass the peanuts.”


    Arona was fretting.

    “Now, what is this all about? Can someone explain me? The purple sand is pretty, the green sky too, however it looks just like an insane dream from a deranged mind having abused smoke of robjane leaves.”

    Framing Irtak —who was having a funny pout on his face— the dragons Heckle and Jeckle were too busy considering with an amused attention the new form and energy field that their progenitor had taken.

    No words were spoken to answer Arona’s plea for answers, but answers were starting to come to them in the form of a bundle of energy which would be difficult to translate in a linear manner.

    They started to understand a few things. That for one, N’meôrl the Nirgual was not here by chance, at this place and time. Again, they had travelled far in the past of the history of their dimension, and events of great importance were in motion, that they were given to witness.

    At first, the flow of information they were having was like a stream they thought they had no control of, but as questions were forming they noticed that it was altering the flow which was then encompassing the answers to those questions.

    Like when Jeckle wondered if he and his twin had big birdies counterparts like this one to merge with, and got the following answer “No. For you are quite new essences fragments, and thus do not yet hold focuses in similar extent to your progenitor.”

    Arona was quite pleased by this new mode of getting answers, especially as she could visibly get the answers she was genuinely looking for, not those coming from questions she was only remotely interested in.

    N’meôrl was showing them also, that unlike him, they were not quite physically focused into that environment, and were not noticed by the small surrounding creatures like the little red scrabs crawling in the sand. They were mainly there to observe and draw their own conclusions, as soon some events would occur.

    As they’d finished absorbing the information, they started to notice a feeling of expectation in the air. N’meôrl conveyed to them that they would have to stay quiet in his peripheral awareness for “they” were coming, and he was on a delicate mission.


    Footsteps on the beach.
    A man approaching. He looks like Irtak and Arona, as if he had just come into this alien world from the same door they had taken. But he fails to notice them.

    He stays, facing the deep green waters of the ocean brushing the shore, as if expecting someone.

    A strange buzz starts to fill the space. A point of focused light the size of a pinhole appears in front of him, expands quickly with an elastic quality, and pops with a soft sound, revealing an improbably tall figure under a cloak.

    The man greets the new-comer with deference
    “Master Sinadron
    Jarvis, my good friend.”

    They start to walk on the beach at the unspoken invitation of the one with the smooth voice named Sinadron.

    “So, I’ve been told our little matter is going very well.”
    “Yes, very well, Master; I am deeply grateful for your intervention; without your help I’ve been told, my dear would not have been allowed to…”
    “Let’s not talk of such things any longer; it was such a delight to help two sweet young souls so deeply in love”

    Somehow, despite the words of kindness which are slithering with ease, the invisible witness got the uncanny feeling that they are but a deceptive fragment of the truth.

    “Now. Tell me”, the one named Sinadron continues in a mellifluous voice “Why have you called me for?”
    “The settlement you have suggested us to start on this land…”
    “Yes, I am aware, please go to the point instead of labouring things I am well aware of.” The voice had sharpened a bit.
    “I am sorry Master.”
    “There is a growing dissent that…”
    “And from who that shall come?”
    “Err… I hear Pelorus has spoken to the Zentauras…”
    “Pelorus is but a nuisance.” The voice wasn’t asking for contradiction, though an imperceptible grin was floating on the half-hidden face.
    He continued “But I shall help you, once again
    “Master, you are too generous…”
    “Let me finish. I will provide you with more men and women, willing to start a new life under your command, to help you grow your settlement. There are a few slaves on the Duane, that place from where you come who will do great.”
    “They will be there in an hexade. Make sure you stand your ground until then, even if that means confronting those nasty Zentauras.”

    And without waiting for the confused thanks, he disappeared, grinning widely.


    Dory finished the puzzle, yawned and glanced at her watch. There was no sign of the flight to Long Pong leaving any time soon, so she made her flightbag into a pillow and settled herself along the plastic seating for a nap.

    She dreamed first of her grandparents in their old house in Slurbridge. The house was the same, but her grandparents, Florence and Samuel, were much younger than she had ever known them during her lifetime. They were preparing for guests, and Florence was rearranging the bedding in the upstairs bedrooms. Apparently one more guest was expected than previously arranged, and she had squeezed in a single camp bed next to a double bed. Dory had an idea the camp bed was for Dan’s niece, Aurelia. Funny that, as Florence and Samuel had never known Aurelia ~ or Dan for that matter.

    The dream landscape changed then to an island. The “Others” were coming and she and her friends had to hide. “Let’s hide in the pyramid” one of them had said, but Dory replied “No, we must hide somewhere less obvious, until we know what the “Others” are like.” They weren’t afraid, but they were taking precautions. Someone had been looking after the dogs and cats, but when Dory went to check on them, they had been ‘kept safe’ in a freezer. As Dory opened the door, a half frozen black cat emerged and ran off. “I reckon she’s better off taking her chances out there than in the freezer!” said Dory. At the bottom of the freezer were some frozen parts of Tom, Captain Bone. There was no sign of the others, but strangely, Dory wasn’t worried.

    Next to the freezer was a cupboard, and Dory grabbed a handful of magnetic fridge letters, thinking that they would come in handy as clues while they were hiding from the “Others”.

    “Yukailli Airlines direct flight leaving for Tikfijikoo Island at Gate 57 and three quarters” the bag lady prodded Dory, amidst a shower of electric blue sparks. “Wake up!”

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