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The dead wife of Zoltan Abbassid stares at us from the moon, where she is dressed in her best bee-costume, limbs chafed by the joints of the shellac-shelled costume. Beneath her shoes, she can feel the wood creaking as the mass of the bees funnel out through the small provided slot at the bottom of the skyscraper, ready to fight hard for their boss and bring victory to their hometown. |
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