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Charisma

“More after I finish my essay,” Charisma promises the adoring crowd, who sigh and aww. She rerobes and pockets the cash before turning to Racell, who’s scribbling in her reporter’s notebook.

“You don’t even dance?” asks Racell. “You just… pose for money?”

“Like a life drawing class,” smiles Charisma as they walk to her dorm. “Sans the middleman.”

Racell nods, fascinated. “And the money’s supported you in earning–what, three PhDs?”

“Maybe four, if I ever get started writing!”

They shake hands; Charisma closes the door, sits, breathes, and opens Word.

This is my esasy! she types. the theses is: HITLERS

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