Here is my story. I was at the Hemophiliac Circus; and, on entering a tent whose sign said “Fortuneteller,” I was greeted by an elderly lady who looked rather witchlike. After instructing me to sit down behind the crystal ball, she glanced at my monkey and cried: “What’s that?”
“Oh, this is Tertz, my personal assistant,” I explained. “He’s a fine lad whom I’ll eventually need for a kidney transplant.”
The woman nodded slowly and then relayed my monkey’s destiny: “The future is dim,” she said.
I stared and asked: “Can you be a little more specific?”
So she said: “Your friend here shall fall victim to a terrible famine. Either that or he shall die from being shot out of some sort of rocket launcher.”
Imagine the fear that I felt upon hearing this. Tertz could tell, by the look on my face, that something was amiss — he said hoo, hoo, hoo.
“Sure, dear Tertz,” I replied, while getting out some parchment; “I’ll use this quill pen to note down your last will and testament.”
Then we left the tent in great sorrow, and the fortuneteller eventually bled to death.
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