Monty and Albert were shaped much like screws. Their internal organs had lost all coherence, and most resembled oatmeal. The chunky parts were probably bones.
In the center of the room was a large ball of scales. Two different patterns were visible, but other than that, it looked like a luggage maker's idea of a medicine ball. Now that they had killed off each other's masters, the battle royale was to begin. Albert's anaconda had just recovered from a nose bleed and was a little weak. Monty's python was getting old and had slipped a disc in the previous brawl.
The anaconda sniffed, getting blood flakes on his opponent. The python hissed in annoyance, and squeezed tighter, then winced. The anaconda grinned, then bit its adversary's tale.
Goldilocks screamed, and Monty's python had to think up another story, as the little girl was swallowed by the anaconda without any porridge. As the anaconda was distracted by his meal, the python weighed him on his calibrated scale. The calibration was off, due to age, but still, the anaconda came in over weight.
"I'll have to disqualify you. You're in a different category."
"So eat something yourself."
"Alright." Monty's python determined that Albert's anaconda was very tasty.
The Dark One read the prophecy over again and again, trying to find a loophole, or a wormhole, or a bullet hole. But there was nothing useful, except the bit of hamburger left on the napkin.
And time did its thing. It went around. And what comes around goes eastbound.
I've got it! You need laughing gas!
The Man who Always Walks North hit a building. Since that always is unbreakable, the building gave way.
Waiter? A tank of Nitrous Oxide for the little boy in blue!
Yah mon. The kiddie must have speed.
This drug culture thingee is everywhere! It has to stop. We must nail it at it's source. That's right! The United Way must be stopped. Those hippie drug lords are ruining our youth by posing as men of the cloth.
There're none so blind as those who will not pee.
Don't ask. Questions are the sign of a sloppy mind.
The Voice wore khakis!
Stop oratory beneviolence. Ban readings of the Scarlet Letter.
And while we're at it, how do we know we can trust you? You've been sitting here, reading the Plot, but no-one's cleared you for it. What are your sympathies, anyway. You're not a red-skinned-red-commie-red-daemon-worshipping drug fiend, are you?
Just checking.
Don't worry. ISO knows where we are, and they're coming with the rocket launchers. Everything's fine.
Don't touch that Dial. Soap is an Aphrodisiac.
