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Raumon

Pannzer belches up a load of mousse de foie gras and it falls heavily into Raumon’s body cavity, teasing him with its rich texture, its warmth, its scent–oh, that he had been denied nostrils in the transformation! Raumon spins out from the kitchen in an agony of frustrated hunger. Why couldn’t he at least have been house staff, and be off cavorting with the feather dusters instead?

“Try the grey stuff, it’s delicious!” yelps the deranged pyro maitre’d. “Don’t believe me? Ask the dishes!”

Oh, for a tongue to taste with, thinks Raumon despairingly. Oh, for a mouth to scream.

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