And with that, she was gone, leaving a pool of stilt shoes and a half melted Marge Simpson hairdo. I ran out of the kitchen, since the fumes from the soup alone were toxic, let alone what Schwabby could do, I walked back into the classroom. Mr. Ross was jumping up and down in the jar, and flailing his hands. I picked up the jar, and was about to open it when a thought struck me. Mr. Ross, I said.
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