The words o’ the ol’ man in the cave returned to his brain:

“You may pick only 1: your money or (some o’) your life.”

He was close to the fork. He’d have to choose toward which turn to aim.

I can always get money somewhere else…

But I need money just to live: if I can’t get mo’, I’ll lose both.

¿How many hearts do I need?

That was when he realized that in his distraction he’d passed both turns, going straight ‘stead.

That was also when he saw the crowd just ‘head, surrounding some crab & some black device full o’ wires.

He was down to the last millisecond.

He could hear footsteps grow louder.

His sides burned as he put all o’ his weight forward, till finally he squeezed through the opening with 1 pop.

He hopped up a complex set o’ solid objects & put his hands round it, feeling its heat warm his hands through the steel bowl, spices filling his nose.

The door creaked.

He froze.

“I know that’s you, Rocky,” the pink monster said with hands on his hips. “This is the 4th night in a row.”

Rocky turned back to normal & wiggled his li’l nose. “I told you: I get paid on the 15th. I only want a li’l. Can’t live on squirrels, you know.”

“¡Squawwwk! ¿What’s taking you so long?”

“Give me a second.”

No matter how many times she splashed aftershave onto her chin, the thick red lines continued to spill blood.

“There’s something wrong, ¿isn’t there?” said Son o’ Toucan. “You need to go to the hospital.”

“No,” she replied, almost in a gasp. Not there. No. I can never go back.

“There’s nothing to worry ’bout,” she called out. “I just spilled something on my corsage is all.”

She glanced down @ the browning pumpkin on her chest, its bramble tentacles still drooping.

For now a’least. She knew ’twas always just a reprieve.

I’m usually mo’ careful. Shit. She slapped on mo’ aftershave. Can’t believe there are actually people who try to be impervious to pain.

O, but I won’t be for long, she thought, eyes widening. The biological engineers—they know a way to create pain in the painless…

“That’s a lot o’ bamboo,” Thursday O’Beefe said as he poked his head through a bush.

“It’s all that damn sun,” the farmer said, the wheat feather in his mouth bouncing up @ down. “Thought they were s’posed to control it. T’s no wonder our economy’s wearin’ all that black makeup & listenin’ to that there Bauhaus. I can bet you the government’s ‘hind it intentionally. I tell ya, that Chicken Medium’s a crook.”

O’Beefe’s eyes shined.

“I know someone who can get rid o’ that bamboo for you for free.”

For once the farmer turned his closed eyes ‘way from the grass he was predicting @ & aimed curious eyes @ O’Beefe.

There must be a way through, James thought as he pressed his ear to the meaty wall separating the 2 rooms o’ the great pumpkin. He could feel the disks in his drums shake as they picked up every twinkle on the other side.

The light…

Southerians have memory loss they’re not even trying to get over. Such short time they’ve spent in darkness, but it’s left them with such a thirst that they forget the dangers o’ too much light.

That was why James was exploring this giant pumpkin; for hidden is the ring round the eye that controls how much light may enter, that needs tightening to avoid calamity.

If only James could remember how to get through this wall…

“¿Authorization to rise?”

“Authorize granted.”

The sun rose from ‘hind the horizon o’ the space-rock sea. Cap’n Emery’s eyes hurt. She wanted to wince, wanted to put her hand over them like a visor, & they wanted to water; but she needed authorization 1st.

She asked & she was granted.

Then her heart spiked—& then ‘gain when she realized ‘nother authorization for which she forgot to request.

“¿Authorization to sail & for my heart to spike?”

“Authorization granted.”

Her ship had already been sloshing ‘long the rocky sea, throwing Cap’n Emery all round its aquatic belly—which only irked her mo’ as the rude laws o’ physics compelled her to overstep her station ever mo’.

“¿Authorization to be sloshed to the right?”

“Authorization granted.”

“¿Authorization to be sloshed upward?”

“Authorization granted.”

& so the trip went, till the sun asked for authorization to fall & was denied, leaving half the world in perpetual day & half in perpetual night.

He knew his horn wouldn’t hold out for long.

But no matter how much he pounded fists on the door, it rudely rebuffed him.

Soon it couldn’t: his horn’s blast will cause it & the whole mansion to collapse, crushing him ‘neath.

He tried jiggling a needle in the keyhole, pressing a spatula in the slit ‘tween it & the frame, & even tickling it.

He sat gainst the wall, clutching his horn tightly, feeling its pressure push back. Pain spiked up from his core constantly. His breathing became heavier, his chest heaving up & down rapidly.

He looks up @ the creak.

Bangs bounce over the man’s forehead as the man leans in. “¿You lock yourself in ‘gain?”

The mix o’ emotions causes him to lose all control.

“Goodbye” is all he manages to whisper.

“¡The market is falling! ¡The market is falling!” Chicken Medium squawked as he rubbed her wings over his spherical crystal.

This caused the farmers to rush back to their feed stores to pull them out ‘fore the wolves devoured them.

However, they skid to a stop when Chicken Medium suddenly began barking, “¡The market is rising! ¡The market is rising!”

Now they rushed back to their stores not to take out their feed, but to put 1 in, hoping that even more o’ them would be able to have sex & multiply, like $s. Farmers knew feed needed their privacy to do that, which was why they had to be in the stores.

But when they got there, they saw their stores a wasteland o’ green blood & black holes, wafts o’ mortar in the air. 1 o’ the few remaining seeds was lobbing a grenade @ ‘nother.

‘Hind them Chicken Raw in her furry black hat & eyepatch squawked, “¡The capitalism is falling! ¡The capitalism is falling!”

“Damn it,” 1 o’ the farmers muttered, “I thought we bred that revolution-making out o’ these seeds.”

& that was how the goldfish o’ Pechera smashed capitalism.

He stood in his box, beady eyes darting in all directions.

“¿Do you plead guilty?”

Titanium Ant clutched arms to chest. “¿G-guilty o’ what?”

The judge’s brows narrowed. “Attempting terrorism gainst the Wooden Republic.”

“I—I have no idea what you’re talking ’bout, sir. I was just trying to give you all a gift.”

The judge’s eyes darkened. “Yes: the gift o’ a neutron bomb.”

Titanium Ant nodded vigorously. “Yes, sir. That’s all I was trying to give you.”

“¿So you admit you attempted to blow us up?”

Titanium Ant blinked @ him. “Why, yes. ‘Course. ¿Do you not like neutron bombs? I could get something stronger if you want…”

“I won’t have any more o’ your jokes in my court.” The judge banged his gavel. “I sentence you to death.”

Titanium Ant’s heart spun as he was dragged out.

It needn’t. He later laughed all night as he was tickled by some metal stick.

I’ll have to tell the other Titaniums ’bout this brilliant invention.