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Avon in a terrible snit

By Willa Shakespeare
Page 1 of 1

"I've run from the Edge of Uranus," he said. "I've lost my sense of direction."

"Yes, well, I can see that, Avon," Blake said, clutching what was left of a set of newly pinked sheets to his groin. "Would you mind putting down the twin-bladed knife with serrated edges, please?"

"I ran to Uranus," he went on. "It's an awful place." He shuddered.

Blake patted Avon warily on the shoulder. "Yes, I'm quite sure it is." Blake poured Avon a large Scotch-on-the-rocks. "Just get that inside you."

Avon refurbished his drink.

"Ah, Avon, do you really think you ought to add nitroglycerin?"

"I like it to have a kick." Avon stared moodily into the bubbling glass, then flung it hissing against the bulkhead. "The point is-there is no point?"

Blake edged back towards the exit. "Yeees... well, I should probably be going."

Avon stared back at him, his dark eyes like pools of regret that held great sadness. His steady, remorseless gaze made Blake feel distinctly uncomfortable.

"Would you mind not doing that, Avon?"

Avon smiled suddenly, "I assure you, my tastes are exotic. The White Cobra will take great pleasure in the black velvet mole."

Blake went pale. "Ah... Avon, we've used up the last of the lube."

Avon approached Blake, pinking shears snipping wildly at the air. "Have you heard about the guerrilla who scared the pants off certain members of the High Council? They've put them back on and they don't want to risk losing them again."

Blake screamed and fled.

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