It is now known the representatives who serve our banner suck the blood in glass cups to achieve supremacy. This stolen wisdom of our enemies tortures the body with livid humps and circular marring, but no injury. In fact: opposite from injury.
We support any technique of victory but the bad one. The cursed potion method of the servants of the Finno-Ugric Oligarchs is worthy only of our disgust. We wag the sport finger at them. We spit upon them for all of time and one thousand years more.
Treasure update. Leveraging bone with muscle, Simone hurtles into the air and lands correctly. What a stirring thing to abandon the ground, if only to never return, but yes, it must come back. And she has won it. The golden prize.
We honor the first prize of the swarthy swimmer of our great banner or any the lesser. She spills her salt from eyes agog as the most splendid colors of our victory descend utmost. Say her name, for it is the other Simone. And lesser cousin shares the stage. We do not curse them in this time of peace, but in the days to come their treasure will be gathered.
For victory, we have expended our reserves of Simones.
Turn now to the Dark Project. Michael's release from his enclosure terrifies the enemies. Their banners droop and the treasure horde is left unguarded. Again he launches through the fluid, clad in bruised raiment of sinuous majesty.
While Michael rages, the desultory men of ball fail us and are cursed to anonymous poverties. The lithe women rise in triumph, once more unbowed by lesser banners, untamed by the whistle of our foes. They are the honored ones, celebrated in poem, their hindquarters once dusted by His Majesty, Supreme President.
The rout of our enemies has only just begun. On boat, on lift, on sword, on equus bold the polka dot flesh carries defeat to all foes. The cups suckle and bruise throughout the night and by next dawn our legion will secure more treasure to please us.
Punish our bodies, they will not break. No foe but time will bend our knees. And all the treasure will belong to us.
The guns are gone. Now what happens to all those paper targets? Don't tell me you forgot about the paper targets. The ones hanging from little clips on fancy clotheslines at shooting ranges. With no guns to destroy these legions of paper bastards, they go unchecked.
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