Chapter 15 – Six-year-olds Cannot Drop F-bombs

The space satellite Fred called a left hand lingered on my face for what seemed like five hundred and thirty-two days as my still developing brain tried to process what had just happened. I could still imagine the site of Queen Briana squirting at me and I was pretty sure King George was all over my face. Panic reigned supreme as the Danish crowd screamed in shock and horror. If you’ve never heard a bunch of Danish people freaking out, imagine the sound produced by a Chinese guy playing the accordion.

 It was horrible.

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