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So Mongo sails away into a secure cache with viral shields up. Bev is stowed securely beside him, and binary fission son, Melvin, is well sedated for the aimless eternal wandering among the stars as a series of ones and zeroes from whence they came.
Author’s Note: Huzzah, Mongo. You had a good run, old son. And in the future, whenever that was, remember not to talk back to your personal deity. Ominos Dominos, and hold the anchovies. This is the End and Only the Beginning. -- Chicago Doors
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