The Dark Elf sat in a clichéd shadowy corner of the room, his face shrouded beneath a stereotypical hood. Before him on a prop trestle table rested a mug of hackneyed stock (which he, as an archetypal elf, of course did not drink). He glanced around with a look of shopworn aggravation and issued a well-worn growl of standard filmic odium:
"Pffft! Bloody tourists."
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And your little sister's immaculate virginity wings away on the bony shoulders of a young horse named George who stole surreptitiously into her geography revision.
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