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A Fishy Tale

Level: Chef
Your basket:
Main Ingredients:
boy next door
drug dealer
lamb shoulder

Spice Pack:
1/2 dollop of submission
1/4 teaspoon of aggressiveness

I am a shallot. The lamb shoulder than I am garnishing is trying to get fresh with me, but I am just not into his gamey meat. I am more of a soft-and-tender, mellow-and-meek, smooth-mammoth kinda meat lover. I like white, nameless fish, basically any fish that isn’t tuna or salmon; fish that fall apart with the slightest touch; fish that have layers, just like me. You might call me fishist, and as the committed fishist I am, I am totally into fishy paramours. Take for instance, the cute boy who used to live next door. He was onto something fishy and I knew it all along. I would see him conspiring with his fishy little school friends every night. I would hear them talking about some opportunaty with sour patch kids and gummy bears and weed as if they were in the same meal. I knew something evil was afloat. It sounded like they were planning to scale up a drug operation at their school; selling different weed strains: the a strain, b strain, the classic c-weed strain. They were taking the whole c-weed operation to a whole new scale. Hooking in costumers and reeling them in, not even feeling gillty or ashamed about it. I always knew to stay awhale from them; that they would dophinately get caught someday. Just last week, police offishers came in waves to shut down their little operation. They were all shot on the spot.
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