“Ole!” screamed Ralph the enigmatic hedgehog. He wasn’t at all Spanish, but he was of the (mistaken) impression that such outbursts made him seem somewhat exotic.
“Obviously it wasn’t something any of us would have expected, but there you have it.” mused the antiseptic bloodwort, coincidentally named Myrtle, who had mysteriously appeared, as if by magic, from the depths of the magic Magic Man’s magic bag of magic.
“But since we’re all here anyway, perhaps a more appropriate approximation would be to ensure that all the cardboard we are responsible for is suitably polished and parcelled, so as to make delivery more convenient for those lovely little turnips.”
“Whatever you say?” questioned Sontrana querulously in the rather uneasy manner of speaking that we have all become familiar with over the course of the story.
“But, but, but ...” shrilled Farnsworth, the footman, strangulatedly, warning us away from a fate worse than pumpkin sausages, a warning we will not have sufficient time to heed, for this is ...
THE END
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