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Bongo

“They’re gone!” comes the cry from the parapet, as rosy Dawn fingers the sky. “They left in the night!”

Priam’s there instantly, frowning at the beach. It’s littered with the scraps and trash of ten years’ encampment, but the army has evaporated.

“What’s that?” he snaps, pointing.

“A tiny vehicle of some sort,” says one of his captains. “Perhaps it’s a peace offering?”

“Open the gates!” thunders Priam. “Its minisculity will please my lady Hecuba.”

In the dark, Bongo grins. He dabs sweat from his greasepaint and loosens his paddle in its scabbard. At last, he thinks, they’re sending us in.

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