The MoBRS, squirming on the ground with a fork in his foot, manages to rid himself of the under-pain. Standing triumphantly, having defeated the mightist of table implements, he is most chargrinned to instantly be viciously blown high into the air by a gas so nauseous as to once again tempt him to regurgitate his previous vittles. Fighting the urge within as well as the turgid air without, he catches sight of the spoon, still soaring through the air parallel to his present course. Reaching out, he manages to finger the edge and bring it within his grasp. This is his last hope. Making arcane patters in the air whilst flying through it, he begins the sacred ritual. It is not before long he has begun to shovel the very fabric of reality into his gaping maw with the mystical sphere of metal...the Spoon's true power is revealed...
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No Win No Fee
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