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A · funnel · cake, · an · unfornate · weasel, · and · a · backpack

The story continued.

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Startled, the weasel spun around faster than a merry-go-round on crack. The last time she checked, people didn't continue speaking when they no longer had heads. Or bodies. Something had to be making the noise. But what?

As she searched around for the origin of the voice, she suddenly noticed that something about her backpack was different. Instead of having three little zipper pouches, it now was more like a knapsack. Two snaps held the top shut, and a line of stitching ran close to the bottom of the front side. From her angle, it looked kinda like a face.

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