Babar sits brooding on his throne. The crown of Celesteville weighs heavy on his furrowed brow just beneath which smolder eyes of volcanic blue fury. How much longer must he tolerate the yammering of his puny subjects? Coiled muscles tense beneath grey hide. He would not have to abide this ceaseless prattling if he could but just split some skulls and spill those chattering teeth across the floor. Perhaps a picnic with the children would soothe his jangled nerves.
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