He was walking down a dirt road in the desert.

He was walking down a dirt road in the desert. He didn't want to talk to anyone. He was still wearing his lucky leather jacket, his motorcycle next to him. He was on his own.
The desert stretched out to the horizon. He could see a mirage in the distance. Was it real? Or was there really a mariachi band made up of iguanas in the distance?
Yo my mixtape droopin soon its so fire
Yo my mixtape droopin soon its so fire
I guarantee you my mix tape is much more fire than yours my dear friend
" said the Master-Chef next to me. "Mix tape?!" I asked. "Yes," he replied. "It's a burning device for mixing dry ingredients. So much more convenient than a food processor." I sta
rted say it looked more like a belt sander before the Master-Chef pressed the button. Vegetable slices skipped across the prep surface and flung across the kitchen. "TURN IT OFF!"
screamed a rutabaga, as it felt itself being slowly pulled toward the whirring blades. A passing mouse heard his screams and pulled the plug just in time. The grateful rutabaga
sighed a "thank you" in relief. If only the other vegetables had known what death he escaped they would stop mocking his bruised coloring or toy top shape. Now he only had to get
revenge. He already had a plan to start a veggie craze. No one would pick him at the store because of his off-putting appearance, allowing him to happily retire at the dumpster.

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