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Just then a an unkempt man wearing an overcoat burst through the door.
The overcoat was unbuttoned in front so that his oolong was exposed. And
ooboy was it oolong. In his hands he grasped a shotgun, which he pointed
at the clerk behind the counter. "GIVE ME YER MONEY, ZIT FACE." The helpless acne-challenged chap behind the counter began filling a to-go bag with the firm's revenues. "Would you like fries with that?" he asked honestly. Bethany fanned herself.
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