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The Final Confession of Mabel Stark: A Novel [NOOK Book]


In the 1910s and '20s, during the golden age of the big top, Mabel Stark was the superstar of the Ringling Brothers Barnum and Bailey Circus, and one of America's most eccentric celebrities. A tiny, curvaceous Kentucky blonde in a white leather bodysuit, Mabel was brazen, sexually adventurous, and suicidally courageous. The Final Confession of Mabel Stark is Robert Hough's brilliant, highly acclaimed novelization of her fantastic life. It is 1968 ? Mabel is just turning eighty and is about to lose her job at ...
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The Final Confession of Mabel Stark: A Novel

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In the 1910s and '20s, during the golden age of the big top, Mabel Stark was the superstar of the Ringling Brothers Barnum and Bailey Circus, and one of America's most eccentric celebrities. A tiny, curvaceous Kentucky blonde in a white leather bodysuit, Mabel was brazen, sexually adventurous, and suicidally courageous. The Final Confession of Mabel Stark is Robert Hough's brilliant, highly acclaimed novelization of her fantastic life. It is 1968 — Mabel is just turning eighty and is about to lose her job at Jungleland, a Southern California game park. Devastated by the loss of her cats, she looks back on her life and her five husbands: the fifth would one day be tragically mauled by her one true love, her ferocious yet amorous 550-pound Bengal tiger Rajah. Starting with her escape from a mental institution to begin her circus career as a burlesque dancer, Mabel's exquisitely voiced confession is a live wire of dark secrets, broken dreams, and comic escapades. It is a brilliant, exhilarating story of an America before television and movies, when the spectacle of the circus reigned and an unlikely woman captured the public imagination with her singular charm and audacity.
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Editorial Reviews

USA Today
The Final Confession of Mabel Stark is one of the most rollicking, good-time books of the year. — Virginia Holman
The New York Times
The novel's captivating depiction of circus life is matched by Hough's furious plotting -- every few pages bring the hint of a secret, a riled tiger, a handsome stranger, a career twist or the surprise reappearance of a past friend or foe. — Laura Jamison
The Washington Post
It's no surprise that Robert Hough's rollicking debut novel, The Final Confession of Mabel Stark, has already been snapped up by Hollywood. The book, a fictional memoir of the greatest female tiger trainer of all time, is filled to the brim with cinematic moments and larger-than-life characters. Mabel Stark is the largest of them all, a nurse turned stripper turned tiger trainer who performed in a series of death-defying cat acts during her heyday in the 1920s. On stage, Mabel was known for her charm and daring, and her personal life was no less adventurous. She married six times -- once for love, five times for convenience -- but her most enduring affair was with Rajah, the 500-lb. Bengal tiger she raised from birth. — Jenny Offill
The New Yorker
The circus has long been a refuge for society’s misfits; for some, it is the inherent danger of the acts that offers a welcome escape from reality. Faith—the heroine of the first novel by the late Amanda Davis, Wonder When You'll Miss Me—runs away from her high school, her mother, and the police and remakes herself as Annabelle, the elephant-dung mucker for a traveling circus troupe. Psychologically disjointed (she is trailed at all times by her imaginary alter ego), Annabelle seeks solace in acrobatics. “I wanted to tell her about the woman on the trapeze. How I’d held my breath and how my heart had pounded,” Davis writes. “How I’d seen a whole world up there in the air, and the one down here had disappeared.”

Ascension, a novel by Steve Galloway, focuses on the travails of a wire walker named Salvo Ursari. As a child, his parents were killed by Transylvanian villagers; forty-five years later, during the family act on the high wire, his twin daughters plunge to their death. But while Ursari is on the wire, all that matters is the next step. “Immediately everything receded. All his fears, all his memories, all he loved and all he loathed,” Galloway writes.

The eponymous heroine (based on a real-life tiger trainer) of Robert Hough’s The Final Confession of Mabel Stark joins the circus after escaping from a psychiatric ward, where she was committed for refusing to fulfill her wifely duties. For Mabel, life with her big cats reminds her that happiness always has its dark side: “No matter how well things’re going, you always know it’s only a matter of time before a claw catches, or a tooth snags, or a forepaw lashes, and your contentment feels bearable again.” (Andrea Thompson)
Publishers Weekly
This ribald, rough-hewn debut novel by a prize-winning Canadian writer is based on the flamboyant career of Mabel Stark, arguably the greatest (certainly the greatest female) tiger trainer of all time. Recounted as Stark is turning 80 in 1968, the faux memoir follows her path to superstardom through the 1910s and '20s as she learns to tame tigers and men, and finally tours with the famous Ringling Brothers Circus. Stark, born Mary Haynie, is a teenage Louisville, Ky., nurse, when she is committed to a mental hospital after rebelling against her brutish husband's insensitivity. Aided by a smitten psychiatrist, she escapes to Tennessee, where she becomes Little Egypt, a headliner belly dancer with the Great Parker Carnival. Another marriage and another gig as a "cooch dancer" follow, until she is rescued at the age of 23 by Al G. Barnes, a carny pal, lately owner of a small circus. When the show's animal trainer falls for her, he teaches her how to work with tigers and a new career is launched. Famous for the act in which she wrestles Rajah, a 500-pound Bengal tiger she's raised from a cub, she is also known for her brazenness, multiple marriages ("My men. Whew. Had a slew of them") and black leather jumpsuit. Rich in the atmosphere of circus life, this graphic, slangy fictional reminiscence also offers some surprising, deft metafictional touches. Agent, Ron Eckel, Westwood Creative Artists. (Apr.) Forecast: Hough's debut is a natural sell to fans of Carter Beats the Devil and should attract an even wider readership if the film version-set to star Kate Winslet-comes off. Copyright 2003 Cahners Business Information.
Library Journal
Hough's debut novel, winner of Canada's Trillium Book Award, is a fictionalized biography of legendary female tiger trainer Mabel Stark, whose act astounded circus audiences in the Twenties and Thirties. After fleeing a Kentucky mental institution where she had been committed for failure to fulfill her marital obligations, young Mary Aganosticus hid from authorities by joining the circus. There, as Mabel Stark, she discovered a unique affinity with tigers, whom she preferred to three subsequent husbands. The author skillfully cuts between Stark's earlier life in which she triumphed as the star of Ringling Brothers Circus, handling more tigers in a cage than any other trainer in circus history, and her last year when, nearing 80, she lost her job at a wild animal park and was separated from her beloved tigers. This page-turner not only takes readers into the exotic world of the circus in its heyday but also examines the heart and mind of a unique woman who courageously followed her dream when other women stayed home. Recommended for all public libraries. [Previewed in Prepub Alert, LJ 12/02.]-Andrea Kempf, Johnson Cty. Community Coll. Lib., Overland Park, KS Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
A marvelous debut, winner of a Canadian literary prize, about the life and amazing adventures of the greatest female tiger trainer in circus history are narrated with delicious humor and warmth. The story's presented as the somewhat discordant autobiography-in-progress ("there'll be times when I take liberties with this thing called order") of "Mabel Stark." Born Mary Haynie in Kentucky to a family of luckless tobacco farmers, Mabel is orphaned early in life, trained as a nurse, and married young (to a patient who's particularly needy sexually). She recounts the ordeal of the mental hospital that husband Dimitri Aganosticus has her committed to, her escape and experiences (as a "cooch dancer") with a traveling carnival, another failed marriage, and the discovery of her true calling with the Al G. Barnes Wild Animal Circus-where she learns to "work" the big cats, marries lion tamer Louis Roth, and meets the real love of her life: a stunningly beautiful Bengal tiger cub that grows into her 550-pound partner, Rajah, in a world-famous "wrestling act." Tales of success and fame with Ringling Brothers are juxtaposed with grimmer accounts of Mabel's declining years at a moribund animal park ("Jungleland"). All, though, is told in a vivid and cantankerous comic voice (reminiscent of the voice of Jack Crabb in Thomas Berger's Little Big Man) alive with self-deprecating wit and truculent cussedness. The Ringling years are brilliantly detailed, as is the story of Mabel's happy but cruelly brief fifth marriage to part-Indian ex-con "ménage boss" Art Rooney. The descriptions of animals and of in-the-ring routines are equally irresistible. And Rajah is a glorious character: a regal presence, given toadolescent moodiness, with a forceful personality and a very considerable sexual presence. Just about perfect. One of the most entertaining novels in many a year. Film rights to Tailor-Made Films, UK
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780802199218
  • Publisher: Grove/Atlantic, Inc.
  • Publication date: 12/1/2007
  • Sold by: Barnes & Noble
  • Format: eBook
  • Pages: 440
  • Sales rank: 753,861
  • File size: 3 MB

Meet the Author

Robert Hough lives in Toronto and his non-fiction and fiction pieces have appeared in many Canadian journals, including Saturday Night and Canadian Fiction. This is his first book and it has just won the Trillium Award.
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Read an Excerpt



Atlantic Monthly Press

Copyright © 2001 Robert Hough
All right reserved.

ISBN: 0871138700

Chapter One

He is: tall, knobby-kneed, thin as a quarter pole, in his shop on Seventh Street, craned over his tailoring bench, applying white piping to a vest, when the pain in his lower right abdomen becomes a searing white-hot agony. He moans and keels over his work table, clutching at himself. This causes Mr. Billetti, the produce vendor in the market stall next door, to come running. After a moment of panic (arms flapping, hopping on one spot, saying, "Holy-a cow, holy-a moly"), Mr. Billetti throws his groaning friend onto an empty wooden cart, laying him on the flatbed ordinarily reserved for rutabagas and eggplants. He rickshaws Dimitri all the way to St. Mary's, bursts through the doors, and cries "Help! I need a help!" before collapsing at the toes of the Virgin Mary.

Ten minutes later, they scalpaled Dimitri open and removed what was left of his appendix, which by that point wasn't much, a squishy burst purple thing the size of a prune split lengthwise. Then they wheeled him into Ward 4 and parked him halfway down the right aisle, asleep and wearing a white flannel hospital gown. After about a half-hour or so, I wandered over and took my first long gander. He was lean and sharply boned and what the other trainee nurses called handsome, with his fine nose and wavy hair and olive-toned skin. Even unconscious he wore a smirk; later I figured out he wore it so much during the day his face had learned to fall that way natural when he was asleep.

As the poison spread through his body, he plumped up and turned the colour of a carrot. His hands looked like they'd burst if you pricked them. He slept around the clock, the only painkillers in 1907 being the kind that put you out like a light. On day three, I happened to hear two doctors discussing what all that stuff circulating through his body was likely going to do to him. "Either it'll kill him," the older one said, "or it won't. I suppose we'll have to wait around and see."

After three or four days, it became obvious Dimitri was choosing the second option, for his bloating eased, his skin returned to a colour more salad oil than carrot and he didn't look so mortuary-still when asleep. While emptying a chamber pot near his bed one morning, I took a moment to look him over, fascinated by the way his chest hair curled like baby fingers over the collar of his gown. Suddenly he opened his eyes and without bothering to focus said, "What is it your name, beautiful girl?"

Now this had a discombobulating effect on me, for not only was he the first person since my father had died to pay me a compliment, but he'd come out of what was practically a stone-cold coma to do it. I looked at him, perplexed at how he'd managed this, seeing as most people come awake so groggy and confused it takes them an hour to remember which way is up. I finally put it down to instinct, like the way you blink when onion vapour gets in your eye. When I turned and left I could feel his eyes struggling to get a bead on my crinolined backside.

"Maybe next time you stay longer," he croaked, "maybe next time, beautiful girl...."

That afternoon he asked for scissors, a bowl of hot water, a razor, a towel and a mirror, all of which I delivered when I was good and ready. Over the next half-hour he hacked at, and then trimmed, and then razored, the beard he'd grown over the past six days. When he was finished he looked at himself, closely, angling the mirror a hundred different ways so he could examine every nook and cranny, including the one burrowing deep and gopher-hole-like into the middle of his chin. "Aaaaaah," he exclaimed, "now I am feeling like new man!" Only his moustache remained, pencil thin and dark as squid ink.

Soon he was getting up and roaming around and starting conversations with other patients. Didn't matter those on the receiving end were weak and pallid and in no shape at all to hold up their end; Dimitri would sit and share his opinions on his country, or the tailoring business, or the hospital food, all of which he thought could be better. (He was the sort of man who smiled when complaining.) When he wasn't chatting, he was flirting with the nurses, both trainee and regular. Once, I was having a drink at the water fountain near the end of the ward when I felt a hand alight on my right hip and give it a little polish. Course, it was Dimitri. I spun around and slapped him and told him he'd better holster those mitts of his if he wanted to keep them. From then on, every time he passed me he'd look like we shared a secret-a secret he'd let me in on when and if it pleased him.

All this fraternization infuriated our head nurse, the jowly and old-before-her-time Miss Weatherspoon, no doubt because she was the only one he didn't turn beet-red with attention. She'd order him back to bed, only to have him grin, shrug his narrow shoulders and pretend he couldn't speak English. It was a show of insolence that perked my ears, for I'd had my problems right off with Miss Weatherspoon, my not being the world's greatest fan of people in love with their own authority. One day when Dimitri was up and roaming and responding to her bossiness in Greek, she grew flustered and decided to complain to one of the doctors. I happened to be walking by and saw her, salmon coloured, motioning with a crooked finger, face muscles fight as fencing wire. "But you said bedrest only" was the bit I heard. This caused the doctor, an older man named Jeffries, to roll his eyes and say, "Oh, all right, Beatrice, periodic bedrest if it'll make you happy." This put Miss Weatherspoon in an even worse mood than usual, which is saying something.

Suddenly everything needed doing all at once. Worked off our feet, we were. I got sore joints from scrubbing body parts. Two of the other nurses-lucky ones, I mean, with options-up and quit that afternoon. Right near the end of shift, Miss Weatherspoon decided Dimitri needed a sponge bath, so she ordered another trainee nurse named Victoria Richmond to do the job. Now, at that time it was popular for girls from good families to have a stint at nursing too, mostly because it gave them something to do while waiting to bag a husband. Victoria was such a girl: sixteen years old, skin like alabaster, blond ringlets, father a tobacco baron from the right side of Louisville, had a home to go to at night instead of the dorm for live-aways. In other words, she was the kind of girl I had trouble seeing eye to eye with, for every time Miss Weatherspoon told her to do something she'd lower her eyes, curtsey and say, "Of course, ma'am. Right away."

She did so this time as well, after which she turned on her heel, practically a pirouette it was, and went off to fetch a bowl and her favourite pink bathing sponge. When she reached Dimitri's bed she pulled the curtain and stepped inside, at which point I got bored and started doing something else. About a minute went by before me and everyone else on the ward, patient or staff, got interested again. And I mean real interested, for there was a screech, sounded like metal being sawed, and then Miss Richmond sprinted all girly toward the doors, elbows tight against the body, knees pressed together, lower legs wind-milling sideways. Her sponge was still gripped in one hand, and as she ran it left a series of watery drips on the floor. When she was gone it looked like an oversized slug had passed by.

When the commotion was over, Miss Weatherspoon marched to Dimitri's bed and turtled her head through the split in the curtain. We all watched. She extracted herself and stood, her face featureless as a plank. A thought crossed her mind-you could practically see it passing, as her eyes slendered and her features sharpened and the edges of her mouth crept ever so slightly in the direction of the ceiling.

"Miss Haynie!" she bellowed.

I moved fast enough so's not to be insubordinate but definitely not running like Victoria Richmond would have.

"Yes, Miss Weatherspoon?"

"It seems Miss Richmond has had to take her leave. I'd like you to complete the patient's sponge bath."

"Yes, Miss Weatherspoon."

"Oh ... and Mary?" She hesitated, savouring the moment. "If you enjoy your employment here, I suggest you be as thorough as possible. For unless I miss my guess, this patient is not the ... how shall I put this? This patient is not the cleanest of individuals, particulary in regard to his daily ablutions. His private daily ablutions. Do I make myself clear? I'll inspect him when you're finished."

"Yes, Miss Weatherspoon," I said again, this time stressing the part of her name that announced to the world she was unmarried and thick at the ankles and not about to get younger anytime soon. Truth was, I was annoyed and mightily so, for I barely had an inkling of what she was driving at, Miss Weatherspoon being the sort of woman who never said what she meant for fear of breaking some social convention invented so recently she hadn't yet heard about it. Instead, she went at things in circles, erasing her tracks with words that did little more than eat up time. Fortunately, with people like that body language generally makes up for any vaguenesses; the gloating leer plastered across her face informed me this task was lewd and distasteful and intended solely to show who was boss. My only defence was to pretend it didn't faze me in the least, so with as much calm as was musterable I turned and went looking for my sponge.

Upon reaching the patient's bed, I stepped inside the curtain. Victoria's bowl of warm water still sat on the metal bedside table riveted to the wall. Dimitri, meanwhile, looked like a child who'd been caught lying. "I'm sorry," he said, "I could not help ..."

I nodded as though I understood, even though I didn't, the upshot being his apology didn't relax me in the least, if in fact that's what it'd been meant to do. "Good morning, Mr. Aganosticus," I said all professional. Then I pulled back the bedsheet and took my first look at the body of my future first husband. Or at least I would've, had he not been furry from neck to spindly ankles and all points in between. On top of it all floated his crucifix, chain lost in the underbrush. Rooted and awestruck, I marvelled at how the hair swirled over his body, like a curlicued forest, growing lighter in some spots and heavier in others, the centre of the jungle falling in the exact vicinity of his privates. If he had a penis and testicles, they were lost under the jungle canopy, a fact that caused me to breathe a sigh of relief. My plan was: when I got to the critical part of the bath, I'd reach beneath the upper branches, give him a quick once-over and call him abluted.

I started on his neck, where gaminess can occur in the folds of skin. Dimitri closed his eyes. When I wiped his chest he sighed, which I took as a sign of encouragement. I moved my sponge over the area directly below the rib cage, where you can feel breath being drawn. Dimitri sighed again, and I felt encouraged again, and I proceeded to steer my hand a little lower, dampening the area where, on a less furry speciman, the stomach would've ended and the hair would've begun. I heard a gasp. I looked up and saw he had the same sheepish expression he'd been wearing when the sponge bath had begun. A second later, I saw what he had to be sheepish about, for there it was, his manly levitation, slow but unstoppable, rising through the jungle folds, like a totem pole being hefted by natives. I could practically hear the drumming. Though my heart was pounding and my insides felt airy, I couldn't bring myself to look away: long and log-like it was, with a gnarling of grey-green veins that seemed to funnel skyward and provide sustenance to a bulbous, maroon headpiece.

I swallowed hard, and found there was nowhere to look; every time my eyes settled on a spot it happened to be that spot, a phenomenon making it hard to think or get things done. Finally I whispered, "Now you look here, Mr. Aganosticus. My instructions are to give you as good a washing as I'm able, and while I'm not particularly pleased about it I don't have much choice in the matter. At the same time, I'm keen those on the other side of this curtain don't know what's going on in here. So if you make one peep, if you make one unnatural noise, party's over. You understand?"

He nodded, and I proceeded, lathering my hands until they were barely recognizable as hands. Breathe, I told myself, breathe regular, for I was starting to feel a little faint, society having a way of preserving eighteen-year-old girls in a sort of virginal aspic back then. After a bit, I reached out and made contact in the way you make contact when contact's a thing you're not sure you really want. Suppose gingerly's the word. Or tentative. Problem was, I was so young I didn't even know when it comes to certain parts of the body a lightness of touch is the very thing that causes the most sensation. So I went ahead, not enjoying myself exactly but not hating it either: I remember feeling worldly for getting to know the contours involved and that particular way thickness can feel. After a moment, I looked up at Dimitri's face and saw he'd clamped one hand over his mouth and that tears had welled up like jelly in the corners of each eye-trembling he was, and red as a fire engine. His facial contortions so fascinated me, in fact, I neglected to put an end to what I was doing to cause them in the first place, the upshot being that seconds later I discovered what a grown man will do when treated to an excess of soapy rubbing.

I stood there, shocked. I was seriously considering giving the patient a whack across his sheepish-looking face, and surely would've were it not for the fact it was my whacking hand that'd gotten soiled. Then, I heard it. Shoes, comfortable ones, coming to a squeaky stop outside the curtain. I froze, which was a mistake, for the sudden lack of movement tipped her off. She whipped open the curtain and caught me, still as a figurine, right hand held out and messy with seed.

For the longest time she just stood there, not talking, arms folded across her stomach, one hip jutted, smiling like a crocodile.

Home for the next week was the hostel for Christian women on Portland Street. That weekend Dimitri and I married at the Greek Orthodox church on the corner of Seventh and Main, Dimitri insisting we had to, my honour now being his to protect and my being his sweet angel of mercy besides. It was a warm day, flowers blooming, air perfumed with honeysuckle, everything perfect.

After my folks died, I'd spent five years with my aunt in her terrier-filled apartment in downtown Louisville, an experience bad enough I'm in no particular rush to recount it. Still, blood's blood, and she did keep me from starving, so I swallowed my pride and sent her an invitation.


Excerpted from THE FINAL CONFESSION OF MABEL STARK by ROBERT HOUGH Copyright © 2001 by Robert Hough
Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

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Table of Contents

The Barnes Show
The Athenian Tailor 2
The Young Psychiatrist 24
JungleLand 46
The Southern Cotton Mogul 63
The Hungarian Military Officer 95
The Bengal Punk 134
JungleLand 164
The Handsome Bigamist 175
The Ringling Show
The Ringling Accountant 206
The Ex-Polar Bear Man 239
JungleLand 265
The New Menage Boss 298
Art 328
John Robinson / Barnes
Lucky Barnes 394
JungleLand 422
Research Notes 425
Acknowledgements 429
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Customer Reviews

Average Rating 5
( 25 )
Rating Distribution

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See All Sort by: Showing 1 – 20 of 25 Customer Reviews
  • Anonymous

    Posted January 2, 2004

    Amazing novel!!!

    This book, though long, is awesome and never lost my interest! It is the story of the first female tiger trainer and the characters and storytelling will enchant you and hold on till the very end. At some points I laughed, some cried, and sometimes I felt as if I really was there with the great Mabel Stark, as cliqued as that sounds. A great book for anyone who loves historical fiction, animals, the circus, or just a great story!

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted June 9, 2013


    Age:16/ Gender:female/ height:4' 10"/ weight:80 pounds/ appearance: red shoulder length hair, deep seablue eyes a blue tunic, brown pants, brown boots, brown belt and a blue cloak. She has wolf ears on top of her head and a tail through a hole in her pants. She speaks in an english accent./ weapons: a recurve bow with a quiver jammed full of about a hundred arrows, a simple double edged sword and a simple metal kite shaped shield.

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted June 5, 2013

    To aero

    This is a hero rp not a cat clan

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted June 5, 2013

    Aerodynamic's bio

    I'm Aero. My full name is Aerodynamic, but I hate that. I'm a girl. My age is unknown, and I'm a jet black cat-all black, l have the deepest ocean blue eyes, and I always wear a white eyeband. I'm mostly silly, l mess around a lot, but when battles come around, l'm as serious as a heart attack. I'm somewhat clumsy, however l usually make up for it. I try not to talk about my history, because l don't like people prying into my busness. I don't know my family, so don't ask me. I have one weapon, well, it's the main weapon, really. They're called Elemental Claws. The Elements are Fire, lce, Storm, Balance, Life, Myth, Death, and finally, Astral. I am single and l'm not intrested. I really like seafood, though, if l eat too much, l throw up. I really hate guns, because, l just don't like them. That's all about me. Ciao 4 now, Aero

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted May 18, 2013

    Iron Patriot aka Rodey

    Want my bio? Look up Rodey from Iron man on google!!!

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted May 11, 2013


    Want my bio? Google is your best friend

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted May 11, 2013

    Tarantula, Rogue, Wasp, and the Scarlet Witch's bios

    Tarantula and Rogues bios are at faded glory all res)) scarlet's bio.... real name... Wanda Maximoff.. age... 17..... powers. Can mabipulate and explode objects from a distance......appearance.... brown hair and brown eyes. (Outfit you need to look up. Look up Scarlet Witch X-Men). Wasp..... real name.. Janet Van Dyne.... brown hair and eyes....can shrink and fly. Also can fire energy beams from my hands. (Same applys for her outfit.)

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted May 9, 2013

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted May 9, 2013

    S.H.I.E.L.D briefing.

    To: All agents.
    From: [Classified Information]
    As you are most likely aware, the terrorist organization, Advanced Idea Mechanics (AIM), has launched a full scale invasion of the west coast, and is moving slowly eastwards. They appear to be piloting seemingly indistructible variations of The Iron Man technology, although as of now we have no idea what they are made of, or how they obtained the blueprints. An inside agent claims that AIM, under new leadership, is not only attempting to reboot the superweapon known as MODOK, they are developing a new weapon, one that will make them literally unstoppable. The agent can no further advise us as to what this weapon is, as she was pulled out after the Invasion started. Authorization has been given to Anthony Howard Stark to initiate the Code White Protocol, a call to arms for superheroes across America. Once the heroes are assembled, we will begin our counterattack.
    Be prepared.

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted May 8, 2013


    Name$ miranda Nickname$ shadow Apperance$ long brown hair green eyes her right arm is mechanical Suit$ she has a black full body suit with white sleves and leggings. Powers$ she can shapeshift into any animal she has the most power as a wolf History$ she was raised on a different plant were shapeshifting is commen. She will tell you more if she trusts you. Personality$ she is kind a caring Weapons$ when she i in her normal form she carries: a sword, a bow and arrows, daggers, and different kinds of guns. Sig.$ ~Miranda

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 25, 2012


    • I <3 One Direction •

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 19, 2012



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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 22, 2012

    To wats yur name guy

    Im not telling u!!!! Idk u!!!!! Is this zach?

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  • Anonymous

    Posted September 17, 2012


    Awesome. Prim has icy blue eyes and long blond hair that she usually leaves down or in a braid. Shes only 3 inches shorter than me. She likes soccer and basketball and u will never catch her in a skirt. Shes been my friend since she moved in the nieghborhood when we were 4. Shes bold and sweet and funny. She likes most of what i like for example the Lakers. Sam

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  • Anonymous

    Posted August 8, 2012



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  • Anonymous

    Posted August 8, 2012


    Hey im lillac!

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  • Anonymous

    Posted August 8, 2012


    Momo is here

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  • Anonymous

    Posted May 10, 2013

    To Loki

    What? I am Skai Ryan!

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  • Anonymous

    Posted June 2, 2003

    Final Confession of Mabel Stark

    that is going to be extremely popular once people hear about the movie - don't wait that long - it's so well written not only am i writing a review (which i've never done before) but the voice of mabel seems to ring so 'true' that you forget that this work is really a fictionalized account of her life written by some 40 year-old canadian dude - it really is quite entertaining!

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  • Anonymous

    Posted June 10, 2003

    Final Confession of Mabel Stark

    read this book - it's such a wonderfully creative and entertaining story - i got so lost in this novel that i forgot it was a novel - mabel is so believably defined - it is a truly good book

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