The Great Void was a void’s void, just

The Great Void was a void’s void, just as Steve McManaman, its lone resident, was a man’s man. The isolation worked wonders for Steve’s

incessant yammering as even man's man Steve McManaman's voice wouldn't carry in the Great Void. Steve worked alone in the GV, pumping iron, chugging beers, charring carcass.

Chomping supplements. Chasing tail. Chest-bouncing Mooses. The Great Void was so impressed with Steve McManaman's manliness that it created a

Don Wand 12-inch jelly Pleasure dong, with Swirl Mushroom Tip Rocket, Blue dildo-shaped galaxy some 200 million light years from Earth. Steven McManaman would live ad infinitum

To visit the Tulip Boutique on Berwyn near Clark Street in Chicago. That shop was still thriving some four years later when an unexpected visitor arrived. It was a peregrine falcon

who worked for the Avian Division of the British Secret Intelligence. He came screeching through the front door of the flower shop and bowled the clerk over the counter. The police

the Kingfisher pigeon walked towards the fish beak in the air. He completely lost his shock and awe presence among the small fry agents. The Kingfisher was traded for a minor

ale, because it was cheap. "Dusty Trail Pale Ale." Saying it made his mouth water. He was parched. He'd been traveling in the desert for several days. He took a long pull

and a tide of cool, refreshing ale washed out the valley. You groan at the bilboardand return your attention to bumper after buyer glinting into infinity. You're thirsty.