conversations.from: human
conversations.value: a description for a book titled Snow White and the Seven Samurai about Thursday, Mirrors, Fairytales with the genre: Science Fiction & Fantasy, Fantasy
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Once upon a time (or last Thursday, as it's sometimes known) the wicked queen had a fully functioning, if antiquated, Mirrors system and all was well in the kingdom. Then the humans hacked in and the system failed. Fairytales may never be the same again.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the first five paragraphs for this book
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Snow White and the Seven Samurai
  Sis opened her eyes and quickly turned away. She'd been down in the tunnel for so long that the light scalded them, and besides, they had clearly developed some sort of abstruse technical fault, because as soon as she'd opened them she'd imagined seeing what looked like a scene from an old horror movies, with Boris Karloff and - who was the other one? Bela Lugosi? Something like that. Anyway, her eyes were clearly on the blink. She rested them for a moment -
  But Sis wasn't moving. Instead she was staring at someone; not the Baron, in spite of his colourful language and impressive range of angry gestures; not at Igor, although he was hurrying towards her with a big hammer gripped in both hands. She looked straight past them, or through them, at the figure sitting up on the table.
  A lifetime devoted to the study of the art of inter-sibling bickering had given Sis instincts that could override even the most severe shock, so she got her reply in first. 'Looking for you, moron,' she said angrily. 'I could've got killed, chasing round among all these loonies. Of all the thoughtless—'
  Sis nodded. 'I know,' she said. 'People often don't believe we're related. I can understand that,' she added, 'because he's got a face like a prune. Who did you say you were?'
  Carl stuck his tongue out, revealing the neat row of stitching that held it in place, and for the first time Sis realised that Carl didn't look in the least like Carl; he looked, in fact, just like Boris Karloff. More so, in fact, than Mr Karloff himself ever did. But it was definitely Carl, no question. Whee-plink went the falling penny, and she realised.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: five more paragraphs
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Dumpy, who'd pitched up against the doorframe and rolled back on to his feet, punched the air with his fist. 'Yeehah!' he shrieked. 'We done it! We done nailed that old big bad wolf!'
  Snow White and the wicked queen, who'd been having a little private wrestling-match to decide who was to have Mr Miroku's sword, both looked round simultaneously. Then they looked at each other.
  Snow White growled like an angry dog, let go of the sword and belted her with a cut-glass fruit bowl, causing her to lose interest; then she picked up the sword and advanced along the top of the table towards Mr Dawes, who did a fine impression of a crab in reverse gear backing round a tight corner.
  She swung again; but this time the blade bit an inch and a half deep into the oak of the table-top, and while she was struggling to twist it free, Mr Dawes ducked under her arms and made a Warp Two dodder for it. He got up quite a respectable turn of speed, but it didn't get him very far, because Grimm #2 reached out from under the table and tripped him up. 'Get him,' he yelled to his brother; and to be fair, Grimm #1 wasn't far behind; the only reason he didn't get there earlier was because he'd stopped to pull a bell-rope clear from the wall. He pounced on Mr Dawes and started tying him up.
  Grimm #1 swivelled round, his hands tight on the rope. 'I can't do that,' he shouted back. 'That'd be murder.'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the last five paragraphs
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: No roses round this door. No white picket fence, no neatly trimmed flowerbeds, no cheerful chintzes at the windows. This place is a pigsty.
  Which is as it should be, because three little pigs live here. As far as they're concerned, it's just the way they like it, even if it can be a bit of a nuisance crunching your way across a carpet of empty styrofoam pizza boxes every time you go for a pee.
  It's solidly built, of thatch, timber and brick; but there are no more wolves to huff and puff in the forest now, so it's largely academic.
  No more Snow White, no more wolves; you'd be forgiven for thinking this might constitute a happy ending. That would be premature, of course; it's never the happy ending until the master of ceremonies calls out 'Let's hear it for the fat lady' and they start bringing on the bouquets. There'll be other pests, be sure about that: road-widening schemes, local byelaws about keeping livestock in residential areas, RSPCA inspectors, weekenders from the city who move in and start complaining about the noise or the smell. But this is Make-believe Land, where the wicked queen can be relied on to come and chase the nuisances away.
  It'd be nice to be able to say that everyone gets to live happily ever after, here in Mr Dawes's rose-tinted Gulag; but that would be taking fantasy a bit too far. The happiest the ending is likely to get is probably the small diner that Tom Thumb and the elf are running these days, out by the Hundred Acre Wood by-pass; or the noisy, dirty engineering works where the dwarves go during the day, endlessly churning out precision-machined grommets and drinking tea out of cups that never seem to get washed up. It may even be somewhere in the Akira Integrated Circuits business park, where Mr Akira (president and managing director), who gives a fair day's pay for a fair day's work and tries not to screw too many people while he's about it, applies to the production of high-quality electronic components absolutely none of the principles he learnt back in the days when he was an earnest young student of the True Path of Enlightenment.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Swap the first and the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: It may even be somewhere in the Akira Integrated Circuits business park, where Mr Akira (president and managing director), who gives a fair day's pay for a fair day's work and tries not to screw too many people while he's about it, applies to the production of high-quality electronic components absolutely none of the principles he learnt back in the days when he was an earnest young student of the True Path of Enlightenment. No white picket fence, no neatly trimmed flowerbeds, no cheerful chintzes at the windows. This place is a pigsty.
  Which is as it should be, because three little pigs live here. As far as they're concerned, it's just the way they like it, even if it can be a bit of a nuisance crunching your way across a carpet of empty styrofoam pizza boxes every time you go for a pee.
  It's solidly built, of thatch, timber and brick; but there are no more wolves to huff and puff in the forest now, so it's largely academic.
  No more Snow White, no more wolves; you'd be forgiven for thinking this might constitute a happy ending. That would be premature, of course; it's never the happy ending until the master of ceremonies calls out 'Let's hear it for the fat lady' and they start bringing on the bouquets. There'll be other pests, be sure about that: road-widening schemes, local byelaws about keeping livestock in residential areas, RSPCA inspectors, weekenders from the city who move in and start complaining about the noise or the smell. But this is Make-believe Land, where the wicked queen can be relied on to come and chase the nuisances away.
  It'd be nice to be able to say that everyone gets to live happily ever after, here in Mr Dawes's rose-tinted Gulag; but that would be taking fantasy a bit too far. The happiest the ending is likely to get is probably the small diner that Tom Thumb and the elf are running these days, out by the Hundred Acre Wood by-pass; or the noisy, dirty engineering works where the dwarves go during the day, endlessly churning out precision-machined grommets and drinking tea out of cups that never seem to get washed up.No roses round this door.