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And Night falls upon the spinnning and rather grubby jewel that is the Space Station Whisky ...
In the morning, as the Captain Priestess is whistling merrily and washing the mysterious stains out of her robes in the sink, a breathless Iszabelle knocks frantically on the door, her wide eyes flashing, her normally pale pink crest an alarmed shade of puce.
"Captain Priestess your Mighty Holy Admirableness," she gasps, "come quick!"
The Captain yawns and snarls at the same time, which is no less terrifying than it is impressive.
"What is it?"
"It's Space Dog Lolita Nationovna" comes the tremulous squeak of T.O.D.D. from outside the door. "She ... she won't wake up."
Standing over Lolita's basket a few minutes later, the Captain Priestess prods the faithful astro-hound a few times, bluffs her way through the Last Rites, then turns around with a sigh.
"I wish we still had the Doctor here to confirm death - but she's not responding to choc drops, so I think it's pretty certain. Lolita will be taking her walkies in heaven from now on."
She picks up a discarded dog-biscuit by Lolita's bowl and sniffs delicately.
"Drano on the Bonio! Is there no low trick to which these fiends will not stoop? And her our sole remaining Mason, as well ..."
So folks, we're down to four: who's gonna be for the lynching tree tonight? |
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