Finished Folds (621—640)
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1with the mole that seemed to eclipse her own head would relish the moment the bowels would break, and the stench of one student would begin a cascade into the sick of one after
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1bowlcakes take their place in culinary legend. Once the giants had invaded during their flight from Asgard, their hunger would not be sated by tiny cupcakes. But whole cakes'd
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1the soft reflections of the carnival lights on her moist lips. Or how they danced in her eyes. Her skin took on a glow that seemed the outshine them. My breath was captive to
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5Her tears, when properly harvested and sprinkled upon bits of earth, signaled rain from wherever it came. Sadie's tears were legend. So much so, she was called the Weeping Woman
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2trying to get my creativity on, and only lusty missives from mental midgets -- wait, should that be mental little people? Damn PC conscience pile drives every quip or banter that
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7and reassured myself with the gun hidden in the small of my back. Was he looking for replicants? How could he know? He looked at me with those eyes that were too close together and
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2that such affronts were more than a justification for war. As he reached the end of the hall, the Russian UN delegate hooked the Polish envoy by the throat and reminded him
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2have killed him, so pulling a page out of the Deathly Hallows and beating his roided out magical face as red as his hair was the only way to hide his identity. The only fun way
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1in the mood for love. Something about a man's hairy, smelly coat tails made me swerve in that direction. I didn't know how long I'd be in love, but it would be at least thirteen
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1stick their noses in. Four hours after the drunken orgy had devolved into rolling hills and valleys of flesh, the aardvarks invaded, searching for ants in as many holes as they
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1had no control over what parts of the transplants came from necrotic flesh. When the zompocalypse came, the dead rose, then necrotic flesh, then transplant patients. Their organs
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2driving the damn thing. I guess the new doggie treats for Christmas weren't getting it. A jackal's rage spun through her eyes as rabid foam leaked through her yellowing teeth.
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1goth barristas from the Starbucks night shift trying too hard to maintain their darkness while spooning whip onto a mint mocha half-caff frappuccinos. The Michael Buble didn't help
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2versions of Backstreet Boyz and NSync club mixes. How the aliens learned that jazz flute solos lead to madness wasn't important. They were testing the limits of human sanity and
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4send an elf to repossess toys from last year. Half of them are laying under the bed, so most kids won't even notice. Those that do get deneuralized by defective Men in Black
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2forty-four magnum, three cylinders of silver bullets, a positive attitude and a nuclear detonator (just a small one), I walk the halls of haunted hotels and zombie beset mini-malls
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3waking up with him. He was the impossible to resist douchebag with a golden smile. She was unaware that mutation involved pheromones and "fancy a shag" wasn't the most romantic
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3The theater of lights and vibration that opened in the sky mesmerized everyone. Those inside were drawn out by the low hum that preceded the message. They weren't aliens. They
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4it was no surprise that he was murdered in his sleep. When nobody appeared at his funeral, the pastor would have felt sorry for him if he'd been there himself. The ditch diggers
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3rarely if ever filed his yellowed and gnarly, ridged nails. The redness in his flannel was mostly a scabby layer of dried blood, left over from bum-fighting crack warriors on