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Krebs

Krebs skids to a stop in front of the dressing room door as Bridezilla lurches out, arms stiff, wrists limp, her beehive streaked with white. They scramble the other way, but their way is blocked by another monster: desiccated, moaning, wrapped head to toe with belts.

“Yoiks, Scoob!” Krebs whimpers, clutching the Great Dane. The Great Dane pees everywhere.

The closet doors open, and a deathly queen emerges: pale and statuesque, twin stilettos curving wickedly down from her grin. She looks at them as if flaying them in her mind.

“Children of the night,” laughs Blahnikula. “Vhat shoes you will make!”

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