"Breakfast for dinner!?!" She cackled.
An arrow snassed through her gullet.
The cackling stopped but the breakfast was still warm.
"Let us eat, the pageantry of tomorrow is but begun, raise your glasses!"
"NO! The windmills!" General Strocho shouldered.
"Pancakes serve no windmills, swine! Draw your flaps!"
The flaps were drawn.
There was no syrup that night.
You make me feel like I'm reading Chomsky -- "Colorless green ideas sleep furiously."
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