‘Twas in his drum class that he registered the sour odor of oil.

He sighed. Today o’ all days…

He began banging on his drums as hard as he could—both the fat 1s in front & the thin cymbals to the sides.

Everyone else turned to him for a split second & then stampeded out, their stomps adding to the rhythm o’ his drumming.

He knew he wouldn’t be able to fly out in time, so he decided to finish his last solo.

Plum adjusted his spectacles as he peered closer @ the bird head on the wall.

“¿How did you capture this fine specimen?”

“You wouldn’t believe the tale,” Mustard said as he gripped his belt with his thumbs.

He continued, “1 day I was stalking through the jungle with my husky to play the most dangerous game: Frisbee. As we played, I saw a swallow poke its head out a fern—& then, before I knew it, ¡it zipped toward me & plucked my toe clear off my foot!

“Well, you know I couldn’t stand for this impertinence: so as it flew ‘way, I chucked the Frisbee @ it. Sliced its head cleanly off. Mmm hmm hmm.” Mustard sucked on his pipe.

Turning to Mustard, Plum said, “You’re right: I don’t believe it.”

So Mustard sliced his head off with a pair o’ dice & mounted his head, too.

The kids crowded the entrance, their cheers & poundings gainst the gate like static.

@ the bell toll, the gate finally opened, & the children stormed in. They flung through all o’ the toys: all o’ the baseballs, cashewcrackers, M-16s, & bubble wrap.

But 1 o’ them noticed the toys positioned round them all in a circle & stopped.

The toys were marching toward them.

The kids hammered nails into boards, turned screwdrivers into screws, & poured plastic into molds & set them burning.

All the while they realized that they were only producing shovels that dug them deeper & deeper into slavery.

Ruth’s grandma handed her a clock & said, “Bury this & be good & the RNG will reward us.”

So Ruth buried the clock under the soil, sat, & waited for the sun & rain to come. While she sat she made sure to rub the feet o’ anyone who walked by & didn’t use naughty words like “utilization” or “impacted.”

After 20 days o’ sun & 20 days o’ rain, a tall stalk grew out the ground, holding leaves high with bulbs. These bulbs opened, dropping shrimp o’ various colors.

She rushed in. “¡Grandma! ¡It works! ¡Look! We’ve got shrimp that’s olive, shrimp that’s cobalt, & shrimp that’s burnt sienna.”

Tragically, her grandma was replaced by a filing cabinet with a fez.

Komodo sighed as he watched the 1st snowflake fall outside his window, his heart stinging with heat equal to his steaming mug o’ tea. He shivered in his sweater, his chair squeaking as he leaned back.

What both a beautiful & abominable sight! The crusty orange stone & sands cracked with heat suddenly iced with frosty crystals!

But as wondrous as the winter was, he knew it also meant the death o’ summer & autumn, the loss o’ warm creeks & crisp leaves.

The loss o’ dragons.

Komodo sighed ‘gain. There was nothing he could do but watch & try to enjoy as much as he could.

“¡Hey, bud! ¡Let me outta here!” Jackin shouted as she pounded her wing on the inside o’ her devourer’s shell.

She stepped back half a meter.

“That’s it, pal; you’re gonna get it.”

She rammed into the shell, only to bend her beak gainst the shell’s rocky hardness.

She clutched her beak & muttered.

Then she turned & huffed down the steps to the crustacean’s 2nd stomach.

There by the green saltwater lake stood an ol’ bearded man manning a booth that promises “Sharp Implements – Low $.”

The ol’ man’s eyes shone. “You look like you’re looking for a way to break out, Ms.”

But she’d seen this riddle before.

She knew what the true implement that was sharp.

She grabbed the ol’ man & chucked him down the bottom o’ the Epiglottis that Crayfish Don’t Have.

& Jackin held tightly as the stick ground rumbled.

His competitor gave him a cheek-digging smile as they shook hands.

“Your task, gentlepeople, is to appeal to the governors o’ this nation,” said an invisible announcer.

The curtain rose, revealing a round bench, ‘hind which were 6 shadowy figures.

Sweat slid down Ram’s face.

Like a fan whirring to life, Ram & his competitor sprung, Ram stirring a bowl o’ grape cake mix vigorously & his competitor hunched over a sheet with chin in fist while the other hand scribbled musical notes.

Every so oft, Ram would look up @ the governors for a sign o’ their mood.

But all o’ their expressions were shrouded.

“When I ‘splain it to them, they’ll understand,” said Ram, his hoofs gripping his belt that didn’t exist.

His partner only murmured.

The lawyer paced back & forth before him.

“¿Do you have an idea as to who could’ve sucked up Coach’s toenails?”

Ram surveyed the audience till his eyes locked on his still-scowling partner. Sweat slid down Ram’s face.

“I plead the 5th.”

The audience was full o’ gasps.

Nobody has ever survived the 5th… but they say that if one does, one is automatically forgiven for all crimes.

“¿Are you sure you want to do that?” the judge asked as he pet his scruffy beard.

Ram nodded solemnly.

To be continued…

“¡Brraaaawk! ¡The culinary quality is falling! ¡The culinary quality is falling!”

Fowl fowl: he’ll get me in trouble.

Everything’s always getting me in trouble.

His eyes bounced round the room, only to see the Dictator still standing by the door with that smarmy smile o’ his.

That smile—that was the worst. When one’s so convinced that they’re helping you, how can you fight gainst them.

He looked down @ the tray still on his desk, the carpet-fuzz-filled fork now crawling with maggots & purple li’l roaches unseen before.

He looked up @ the clock, only for it to spin back an hour just after hitting 1, & sighed.