Her final variety of pasta

I searched far and wide for the man who had eaten every pasta shape to exist.

I only found a broken shadow. His rival had travelled the world, creating daring new pasta shapes at hidden black sites, distributing them to diners in secret. By the time he followed rumours to discover the new variety, she would be long gone, an even newer pasta beyond the man’s reach. Full of rage and shame, fatigued, he shrivelled until there was nothing left but a dry husk. Her final variety of pasta.

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