The cold moon sat in a classroom somewhere near Iowa on a warm autumn day, dreaming of fullness and cheese. The speaker, a charismatic man with blooming facial hair, stood before everyone (Pluto, a dust mite, four misplaced driver's ed students, and a hired assassin named Quito) proclaiming cakes made of pans and large volumes of ancient texts. The moon smiled, knowing that one day he would have is revenge.
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