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Fletch the Oven Master

The fluorescent glow of the Pizza Hut kitchen had never been Fletch's preferred lighting. His natural habitat, the realm of the orcs, boasted the harsh, beautiful glare of volcanic ash and the flickering torchlight of cavernous halls. Here, it was the relentless hum of fryers and the clatter of pizza trays. Fletch, an ogre-type monster whose hulking frame barely fit beneath the low-slung ceilings, had endured another shift. The final buzzer for the last delivery order echoed like a distant war drum. Fletch, whose official title was, "Oven Master & Dough Specialist", slammed a fresh Supreme into its thermal bag. "Done", he rumbled, a sound that made the teenage cashier jump. The red Pizza Hut polo, stretched taut across his broad, greenish chest, felt like a straightjacket. The smell of processed cheese and stale bread clung to him like a desperate limpet. He didn't bother with the staff locker room. The polo was ripped off with a single, powerful tug...
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Abra Ham and West Ham

Abra Ham and West Ham stood on opposite ends of the dusty road, their gazes locked in a silent battle. They had been enemies since childhood, when a dispute over a stolen apple led to a fierce fistfight. From that day on, their rivalry had only grown, fueled by pride, envy, and a mutual desire to prove themselves superior.
Abra Ham, with his broad shoulders and fiery red hair, was the pride of his family. He had inherited his father's farm and had proven himself as a skilled farmer and a formidable wrestler. West Ham, on the other hand, was the black sheep of his family. Lean and wiry, with a sharp tongue and a quick temper, he had turned his back on the family business and instead embraced a life of adventure and mischief.





As they stood there, neither man willing to back down, a sudden gust of wind blew through the parched landscape, stirring up dust and debris. Both Abra Ham and West Ham shielded their eyes, but when the dust settled, they found themselves face to face, their noses almost touching.
For a moment, they simply stared at each other, the tension between them crackling like electricity. And then, as if by some unspoken agreement, they burst into laughter. It was a deep, hearty laugh that echoed through the empty streets, erasing years of animosity in an instant.
From that day on, Abra Ham and West Ham were no longer enemies, but rather brothers in arms, united by their shared experiences and the bonds of friendship. And though they still teased and challenged each other, it was now done in good fun, a sign of their enduring acknowledgement of duality.

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