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Horseflesh Trial

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Myself, being a good judge of horseflesh, kept my part in the Southern Hemisphere's greatest crime of all time hush hush, as I was not handed a punishment by the Eastern Caribbean Supreme Court, though many of my partners in crime did receive one.
I did not know my acquaintances personally, being that we all met through the employment registers at Centerlink. The punishments for my confrères were meticulously, and unnecessarily sinister. One was sentenced to death by mutilation, that being Ruben Monfils, which I didn’t mind as he had a large izzard on his forehead. Two others, the masked banditos, Lawrence and Mr. Découpage, had been given hemlock. The intention of the Grenadian jury was for them to die by the cicutoxin in the plant. They achieved death, but not how the quietus intended: Lawrence contracted an allergic reaction and choked to death, whereas Mr. Découpage refused the drink, and after leaving the courtroom, was hit by a Stout Scarab. Another of the helpless accused, Myron, acquiesced in partaking in the wrongdoing, being
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He was a grotesque, faineant, corpulent, and snide man. This had nothing to do with his punishment as he was placed in the middle of a pogrom against Danish people who threw cinnamon at unmarried singles in their mid-to-late twenties. Alas, Alfred was allergic to cinnamon, inevitably showing the symptoms of dermatitis as well as experiencing, from my recollection, his seventh ever anaphylactic shock . What crime was committed, you ask? To that I say, Mind you own freaking business you old fart. But in truth, we stole a soupçon of the Aurora Borealis after cracking a vigenère cipher. It took us one hundred, fifteen thousand, two hundred minutes to decipher the code (in days, fourscore). Then we each had to all sit on a tiny stool and milk the teat of a carbolic snake. However, it was worth
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