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In this America, the humanimals gather down to the barbecue parlor and just… set a spell. They catch up on the doings in the capital, puff on the ol' corn cob, pluck a little banjo. These are decent, hard-working folk, much like the people of real-life Wichita.
The difference, the warp that gives this mirror its funhouse horror, is that Cow, Pig, and Chicken have made a haunt of the establishment that will see them into their graves. Or, because graves are too good for the animals we call supper, into the stomachs of their consumers.
Of course, we and our habits, the things whose reflection is cast into this pseudo-Wichita (the Whichita?) of craven animals, are now suspect. Only a corrupt original could have spawned such a corrupt copy.
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