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The mort wife of Zoltan Abbassid stares at us from the lune , where she is dressed in her best bee-costume, limbs chafed by the joints of the shellac-shelled costume. Beneath her chaussures , she can feel the wood creaking as the masse of the abeille 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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