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And then Jim joins the fray, long arms a freckled pinwheel, backside a splash of white against the taupe turmoil of the Barenaked Ladies’ annual Ladies Night. Are they fighting? Fucking? Engaging in post-Nitschian performance art?

“All three,” Anne Murray explains to you softly. “Or none. The point is that their actions can’t be so easily categorized, and neither, by extension, can any actions. What I’m about to do to you, for example.”

The Ladies have obtained knives now. Beg her not to do it.

“Sorry, little bird,” she smiles, “time to fly,” and shoves you into the greasy melee.


Nell walks in to see her Mistress without Her face on and barely retains bowel control. Truly, Her visage is terrible to behold!

THOU SHALT KNOCK, says Mistress Anne, and Her voice is the voice of a thousand Hell-bound souls.

“F-forgive me, dread Lady,” begs Nell, shaking with fear at the fires of Her mouth. “Y-your personal assistant merely th-thought to advise the band of Your chosen encore…”

WE SHALT PLAY ‘DANNY’S SONG.’ She turns back to the mirror, stretching the leathery mask with Her flippers.

“Your mercy is great,” Nell gasps, stumbling for the door on legs numb with terror.