by Bob Freville
They’re spilling out on to the rickety termite-ridden runway. Woo daddy! We can see them lumbering out now! Oh yes! Those adorable little gals! Our bright shining stars of the tomorrows that may never come!
Yep, ladies and gentlemen! They’re a sight for sore, empty eye sockets fer sure!
Why, if this were the old days, before the blast leveled our entire infrastructure, why, I’d say you could bet yer bottom dollar that one of these girls is gonna be a princess one day!
Yes, you guessed it! It’s the second annual Miss Residuum Post-Apocalyptic Beauty Pageant, my dears!
And you can bet your meat rations that anticipation is high right now as the pageant judges, the Four Freds of the Post-Apocalypse—Rogers, Gwynne, Savage and Durst—clear their phlegmatic throats and slobber all over themselves, awaiting the young ladies.
And here they are, in our dimly-lit barroom, as…
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