I have a story to tell you, though I am dreadfully nervous to even speak of the madness that visited me that lonely December evening. I sat at my desk working on a poem about a particular repetitive raven when I became ravenous for a midnight snack. I got up from my desk and wandered throughout the house, searching for something that could relieve my hunger when I came upon this tart, this sugary cake with pink frosting, sitting upon the counter. Despite the sugary cake’s protests, I quickly devoured it and went back to my desk to finish the poem.
However, I quickly felt a pounding in my stomach. Thinking it was merely indigestion, I ignored the sensation and picked up my quill. Yet as I moved to dip my quill into the ink, I heard a small voice speaking from inside of me.
“I’m going to punch out your lights for that!”
Startled, I dropped my quill and knocked over the ink. It spilled all over my poem, making my words quite indecipherable. Am I mad, I thought? But how acute my senses were – how clearly I could hear the voice inside my stomach, and how calmly I recount the events of that fateful December evening.
I thought that would have been the last I heard of the voice, but as I stood up, shaking, from my desk, I heard it speak to me once more.
“Where are you? I can’t see. I’ll knock the pudding out of ya!”
In horror I recoiled from the desk. I cried out, “who’s there?”
“I’ll sting like a red hot, float like a blow pop!”
In a nervous sweat I fell onto the bed, clutching at my stomach. As I lay there the sound of the sugary cake’s threats increased until it became unbearable. I thought I might tear my hair out, yet there was nothing to be done.
“I’m warning you, I was taught by the legendary Bruce Spree!”
The sugary tart is still there, in my stomach, shouting some inane words such as ‘beating the stuffing out of me’. Let this be a warning to you, a cautionary tale. Never eat a sugary pink cake on a lonely December evening if you wish to get any writing done.
All frontiersman like myself know that a good critter hat is the path to greatness. The most interesting people in history have had critter hats. Ever heard of Lewis and Clark? Genghis Khan? Napoleon? How about Johnny Appleseed? I rest my case. If you want to be one of the greats, just listen to me and in no time you’ll have a fuzzy little bandersnatch of your own.
First: Measure your hat size with your hands. Slowly pull your hands off your head and hold them in place in front of your eyes.
Second: Go trekking into the wild and find a critter that fits the space between your hands. Doesn’t matter what kind: scaly, furry, prickly, or sweaty. Pounce on it and wrassle it into submission. Flipping him over on his back and tickling his belly should do the trick. Badgers are particularly tough, and be sure you don’t get on the wrong side of a skunk. If tickling doesn’t work, try feeding him juju berries – never fails. Once the critter is all nice and docile-like, place it square on the top of your head.
Third: Feed the critter treats frequently, and be sure to take him off your head for outhouse breaks. You don’t want him to get grumpy or have an accident. Not only will your critter hat make you one of the greats, but he’ll be your closest companion. Making a critter hat is a much easier way to make friends than say…having to talk to people.
It’s been quite a long time since I have had the luxury of sitting in my study with nothing to occupy my time. Ever since the Kandy Kingdom declared open war upon the Best Forgotten Island, I have been ceaselessly working to try to once more unite the factions and bring peace to Tin Town.
Yet now that I have a few hours to spare I seem to be quite unable to sleep or do anything productive. I find my attention is drawn to my axes sitting on the desk. They have been my constant companions throughout this war, and even after all these years they still gleam, fierce and sharp as ever.
I think back to when I was a child and my father, Thomas Lincoln, gave me these axes so that I could get to work chopping down the dead tree in the yard. Being an adventurous and rather careless lad, I never did get to chopping down that tree. However, when the family cabin was attacked by roving bands of Bubblegum Bears, my natural affinity for axe combat saved the day. Those axes have been with me ever since, and hardly do they ever leave my side.
Now my thoughts turn to that of my father and mother, living in the log cabin of my youth. They always wanted the best for me, and though they were not wealthy they were hard-working and respected in their community. Every time I hurl one of my trusty axes at a marshmallow bunny’s head, I do so in their memory. God rest their souls.
Hi, I’m Clark Cable. You may remember me from such films as Run Silent, Run in Sleep Mode and the more famous Gone With the Windows. Or maybe not, since that was the future a long time ago and a lot has happened since then, such as yours truly getting super-modified to save the world. Dr. Atomica was insane to just grab the nearest set of robots, retrofit them with weapons and then send them into the past to save the future. I’m an ACTOR BOT for cog’s sake. I was working on the movie BoomKlang with Dispenser Tracy at the time and the worst thing I had to worry about was what industrial strength solvent to use to polish my chromatic smile.
I was never designed for this sort of hero tomfoolery and neither were the rest of the Tomorrow Bots: A paperboy, vending machine, telephone operator and medieval tour guide to name a few! Seriously??? Rescue this, rescue that, fight crime, defeat the Slimeacles*, lock up the bad guys. We have to save the world, only to save it again the next day. It all gets rather dull, and I’d say if it takes this much work to keep the world from being destroyed, then maybe the gosh darn** thing just wasn’t meant to be. This is a part that even the great Clark Cable finds difficult to play.
* Horrible things born from the primordial ooze billions of year ago in Earth’s past. Don’t ask me how they learned time travel!
** My apologies. My curse inhibitor translates ineffectual replacements. The fudging thing practically ruined Gone With The Windows.
Congo Jimmy HATE KANDY!!! He love kandy too. So con-fuz-n. Sweets taste gud. Sweets grump Jimmy, like buncha itch bugs in pants. Why they no stand still to be eated??? Stoopid kandy.
Greetings. It is I, Finneas T. Rex, but I have no doubt you’ve heard of me before. I am a citizen of the Best Forgotten Island, a gentlemen, and a top notch detective. While the other citizens of the island, especially our leader Congo Jimmy, would prefer to spend their time engaging in brutish and backwards violence, I have dedicated my life to serving the greater good. With my sharp eye for details, and my innate and astute abilities of deduction I was a natural candidate for a detective. Why, in my youth, I discovered it was my brother, Alexander, who ran my mother’s bloomers up a flag pole and set me up as the perpetrator. If I had not found his claw marks on my mother’s drawer, then I would surely have been punished for a crime I did not commit. Ever since then, I knew I was destined for great things.
Not just anybody can be a detective. It requires years of study and practice. I, for one, have been taking Dr. Sirrlock’s Four Week Private Detective Online Course. Such a bold endeavor is not for the faint of heart. One must learn all matters of practical detection – such as when to look for a murder suspect’s evil twin, when to realize you have been double crossed by an attractive vixen, and the 680 different types of mud and dirt that may be tracked on a person’s shoes.
If you are ever in need of expert detective assistance, then you will know to call on me.
I am writing to inform you of the reason why I was unable to make it to your crime fighting bacchanalia last week. I heard from a trusted source that it was a smashing success, and that the unveiling of the modified super-vacuum brought excitement to the entire room, so I write this letter with a regretful and heavy heart.
Mary Todd, Poe, Ben Franklin, and myself were waylaid on the road to Tomorrow Land by cupcake brawlers and that rogue villain, Tamale Bandito. It seemed they had been expecting us. Tamale Bandito fired a tamale missile at our carriage and said he would have my stuffing for passing the robot emancipation proclamation. The cupcake brawlers surrounded us and one nearly succeeded in dragging Mary Todd out of the carriage. Thankfully, Ben Franklin had his lightning gun handy and melted the frosting right off of that cupcake brawler’s head. Poe made quick work of the rest of the cupcake brawlers with his signature poe-try slam. He did quite well for a man in his condition; Poe had been rather morose lately because he was kicked off of the Best Forgotten Island after a vigorous and rather irritating reading of his new poem, The Bells. Ben Franklin may enjoy his French women a little too much for my tastes, and Poe his alcohol, but the men are always ready to perform a service for their country.
As for myself, I got out my trusty axes and jumped out of the carriage to confront Tamale Bandito head-on. He stood in front of the carriage with a smirk on his face, firing his missiles straight at me. I dodged the projectiles and threw an axe straight at the bandit’s head, but the devil narrowly escaped to live another day. We had to go back home, what with Mary Todd having a nervous fit after the incident and quite unable to function in good company. Ben Franklin and Poe vowed to capture Tamale Bandito after this brazen display. It’s been made clear the Kandy Kingdom is escalating their tactics out of desperation, and we will soon be forced to attack them head on. We shall discuss more of what needs to be done in next week’s meeting. Rest assured that the Kandy Kingdom’s tyrannical acts of violence will not be tolerated.
Stay in good faith.
Hi! My name is Timmy Cherry Topping and I live in the sweet land of the Kandy Kingdom, where Kandy is Kandy and lizards and apes run scared. I should know, as I have caused a stink’n lizard or two and at least one gosh darn dirty ape to turn tail after I pounded some sense into them. Some say the only reason us cupcakes are the front line of fight’n is because there are so many of us, that we are cheap and tasty. But I say no sir-ee that’s just not right. We cupcakes are scrappers! Why just the other day I knocked the pudding out of Congo Jimmy his self when he dared set foot on our land. There is not-a-thing worse than giant ape feet in your sugar coating! Yeah, some say I simply fell off the cone tower and got frosting in his eye while Z-Nut, the Tamale Bandit and Wax Lips chased him off with hard-candy bullets. Those that say so are two-topping liars! Cross my sprinkles and hope to stale I was the one that gave that big ape pause and if it had not been for my quick thinking we would all just be monkey poop!