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Doctor Cam was having a nice normal early morning propping her feet up on a ball-gagged and fully erect Palamedes Sextus, who was acting as a human ottoman for her that day. She wriggled her gray-socked toes on top of his warm bare back and let out a neutral “Ah” of contentment before reaching for her microwaved kombucha (kombucha that has been microwaved) and morning paper (a paper you read in the morning). No horny nurses to disturb her, no bizarro turduckens darkening her door. Just her, her human sex servant, and the day’s copy of the Dominicus Times

Wait. Wait. What was that, on the front page?

Doctor Cam did not startle, did not blench: that was not her way. She merely held out her microwaved kombucha for Palamedes to take, neatly unfolded the paper for further study, and then said, “It appears we are related.”

Palamedes made a noise around the gag that Doctor Cam interpreted as, “Who?” It was early and he had not had any kombucha to perk him up. Not even food. Not even the ball gag, because that was not food. A ball gag being food actually defeats the whole purpose of a ball gag since if you just eat it you are no longer gagged. 

“You and I,” she said, laying the paper on the counter (which had been sanitized, after yesterday’s last pussy inspection had happened on it instead of on the pussy examination table as usual). “Apparently, we are second cousins. This means we share a great-grandparent.”

Palamedes jumped in surprise at this revelation, which meant he spilled half of Doctor Cam’s kombucha on the floor, and then ran around for towels to clean it up. (You never want to leave spilled kombucha to set; it’ll smell terrible.) Feeling slightly sorry for him, Cam removed his ball gag, so he could react properly to this news. They bent together over the newspaper article in question. 


“Well I never,” said Palamedes. “If this was such news, why didn’t anyone know about it beforehand?”

They looked at each other, bemused. 

“Front page news is normally supposed to mean something,” Cam said. “Let’s find out what this means.”

They read the article silently and together, like a pair of people reading the same article in a newspaper.

“Ah, so what this means is that ‘shipping’ between us is not allowed,” Cam murmured, running her finger down the newspaper article, which was very long and filled with dramatic moralizing statements. 

“All right,” Palamedes hem-hawed. “Let me get ahold of CamPal Transports, Ltd. I think we still have a cargo ship headed here from Ida but maybe we can nuke it in space.”

“Yes,” said Doctor Cam, steepling her fingers. “In space, no one will hear them scream.”

“And then I’ll have my people talk to your people and divvy up the shareholdings between us, leaving us with two unconnected, smaller, and possibly debilitatingly unstable business enterprises, so that there cannot be said to be any shipping between us whatsoever.”

“Sounds good,” Cam said, continuing to read the article with her eyes, while her science tongue licked the backs of her teeth for lingering kombucha taste. “God,” she muttered, “the Dominicus Times has really gone downhill lately. How does this pass for journalism, and why are all these people so furious?”

Palamedes was typing businessedly on his phone, which he’d sourced from a waterproof clear thigh holster since he was otherwise just as naked as the day he’d been born as Cam’s second cousin. “The enterprise, apparently sordid, is now sorted.”

“There’s more,” Doctor Cam said neutrally, spinning a Rubik’s cube between her socked toes. “These writers are concerned we may do harm to others, by being distantly related. There is only one solution.”

“What?” Palamedes said.

“We have to block each other and die.”

They stared at each other for a moment. 

Palamedes deflated. “I don’t remember any of my tae kwon do,” he said. “If you tried to hit me you’d just succeed. Can I just block you on Insta instead?”

“Sure. Actually, why don’t we trade phones and search ourselves on every social media site possible.”

They traded phones, searching their own usernames on every single social media site possible.


“Done. Facebook?"

“Done. Insta?”

“Yep. Snapchat?”

“Yep. WhatsApp?”

“Confirming. Discord?”

“Nah, don’t bother, blocking on Discord’s pretty useless.”

“Word. Kik?”

“You got kik?”

“Says the man who still has a Xanga —”


“Respectfully, Warden, what the fuck is Pillowfort—”


“Stop, you’re embarrassing yourself.”

On and on it went. They all had many accounts on many mediums where they were somehow connected; but alas! There was nothing for it. They all had to be blocked, blocked, blocked; as neither of them were free of sin.

When they were done with this, Camilla sourced a pair of gigantic knives from a knife-holder on her back, and said, “Time to die.”

A single tear dripped off the end of Palamedes’ nose. He grasped the knife offered to him and planted a chaste second-cousinly kiss on Cam’s cheek. “Time to die.”

“WAIT!!” boomed a voice. They turned and looked in amazement as Augustine, the Saint of Patience, flew saintily through the window, scattering glass everywhere. 

“Who are you?” both of the Sixth said, never having been acquainted previously with the dude. “Why are you here?”

“I’ve come to help,” Augustine said, which clarified nothing. He then turned around and began pulling something up through the window by a thick black rope, which also clarified nothing. What did eventually clarify things was the gondola car that was hoisted up and smashed through the room as a result of this, though not all the way. “Behold!” Augustine cried. “Your spiritual forebears!”

“Our what?” said Cam. 

“I heard people were being weird about the cousin thing, so I brought you something to cheer you up.”

The door to the gondola car swung open. “First, Fred and George Weasley!”

A sweatered pair of twins popped out, looking very ginger and identical. 

“Next, Jaime and Cersei Lannister!”

Two Westerosi royals tumbled into the room, looking guilty.

“Then, Sam and Dean Winchester!”

Two jeans-wearing guys in their forties who didn’t actually look all that related stepped out of the gondola car.

"Aaaand the grand finale, Luke and Leia!"

Two space people jumped out.

“Now, what does everyone here have in common?” Augustine said.

Palamedes said, “Have...have they all been vehemently cancelled in a public forum, just like we’re going to be?”

“Yes!” Augustine said brightly. “And they’re all still around.”

“We’re a little different, I think,” said the lady Lannister twin. “We’re canon.”

"And we're the worst," said Leia, slinging an arm around Luke's shoulders. "We actually kissed before being retconned into siblings."

“Have faith, my bros,” said one of the jeans guys. “People are always gonna have weird shit to say in newspapers. Fuck ‘em.”

“Yeah,” said the other jeans guy. He pulled out a cooler of cold ones and tossed them around to everyone in the room. They all cracked them open and toasted to not giving a shit. 

“Great,” Palamedes said, as they all finished their cold ones in silence. “Nice to know we don’t really have to die.”

“Yeah, this makes my day a lot better,” Doctor Cam said. “Now get out of my office, all of you. I have a vagina practice to run.” She looked at the lady Lannister twin. “You wanna stay and be my first patient of the day? You look like there’s definitely something wrong with you.”

“Sure,” said the lady Lannister, hopping up on the pussy table as everyone else left. Palamedes began to clean up the wreckage of the gondola, and everything went back to normal.

For now.