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The storytelling ape, despite being born and raised in Guatemala and possessing perfect eyesight, affected a pair of large horn-rimmed glasses and an upper class London accent.
In his immense paws he held a book; of course he did, he was the storytelling ape, and what sort of storyteller would he be without a book? It was more of a tome, really; in fact, this was typed on the cover in big embossed letters. It said: "The Tome of a Thousand Stories and One
Question."
He read to the children. He read to them the
600th story, about the duck and what he taught the farmer. He read to them the 49th story, about seven princes who had forgotten which of them was supposed to marry the princess, and then he had to explain to them about incest. He read the story of the applejack cider
that exploded in your belly, and the story of the perfect note that migrated from song to song in search of a home.
After each story, the children clamored, shrieked, made a mess, as children are wont to do. They demanded to know what the question was. The storytelling ape smiled a kindly grizzled ape smile, his lips
pursed.
He told them the fifth story and the 700th story. He told them the story of the two fair maids and the pine tree. He told them the story of Bertie, the invisible tango dancer. He was a really good storyteller, which made sense, since he was the storytelling ape.
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