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The ball blasts a gargantuan hole through a great old oak tree beside
the road...and through a dozen more behind it.
Slowly, the trees fall over. Sara looks at the tennis ball machine in
amazement.
"Awesome!" she exclaims. By Jove, she planned to keep this puppy!
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A cross-country rampage ensues which can only end horribly!
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A cross-country rampage ensues which can only end hilariously!
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Sara rides her tennis ball machine to the nearest city and lays seige to a collection agency.
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Chri--uhh, Jeff Weston--wanders in, says something pithy about the whole situation, and leaves again.
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Sara shoves her head into the barrel.
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Sara declares war against an abstract concept of some sort, and sets out to destroy it with her tennis ball machine.
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