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“How dare a pigeon try to pass as a ‘dove’? I don’t care about the traditions of the old believers. I want to chart a new course for the colony!” Loran’c’harde exclaimed.
He was a bursting youth, not a day over sixteen, but he had already moved to the tippity top of his core constituency. And the provinces wouldn’t balk, not now that he was betrothed to Q’Ar’Ailarnowsky. So why not seize the moment and fulfill his destiny. What stood in his way but the petty misgivings of the trembling elders?
Only blood, soaked into the pours could cure his acne, feed his power lust. And wouldn’t it be worth it? Like ashes, his enemies would fall to the ground and be tilled into the cursed soil with his mighty and ever-divine ploughshare (penis). He would bathe in gemstones and dedicate ebony and gold encrusted dildos to the demigod Br’owitzkovich, for which he would surely be thanked with perfect teeth.
Date Written: March 30, 2002
Author: Ewan Snow
Average Vote: 4.6667