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Buddling yesterday inside the Bow Street clothing store annex, which last week was methodically stripped of its bird-like gargoyles, sat two lonely figures:
"it's hot in here," complained the Blot in a high plaintive wail.
"It's supposed to be," snarled the Jester. "It's spring, you know."
"Yes," said the Blot, "but..." His eye caught a wisp of smoke curling up around his baggy red and yellow pantaloons. "Zounds!" he squealed. Rising to the occasion, the Jester yawned and preened himself lazily. Then, with a sudden leap, he huried the flaming sofa through the window. As it crashed to the street below, 11 of Cambridge's little red fire wagons arrived. "Obviously a case of grandeur delusions," chorused the fire fighters as they looked away blushing. "They think they're Ibisos!"
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