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The Gala Goes Dark

The lights went out in the large ballroom and a few gasps cried out, grabbing the air and clinging on to people’s skin, erupting goose flesh up and down their arms!

A woman with a large behind (a bedonk-a-donk butt), the ass the size of Cleveland, really, backed into a table as she cried out and knocked over the vintage bottle of Pinot Grigio circa 1958 (a very, very good year). It shattered, cracking against the marble floor, spilling wine across the blind cello player’s instrument. It only hit the bottom of his prized possession, but he heard the droplets of wine cascade across the hollow wood like small fingers rapped against it.

At this moment, the lights flashed back on, electric sconces were re-illuminated and, there, in the middle of the Tudor mansion’s ballroom was Frank, the prized butler, duct-taped to a chair, wearing a pair of 3-D glasses.

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