Greg wasn't achieving much with the mortar and pestle as he viciously, sickeningly wrenched the green goo from its antithetic hiding place. He continued trying, nonetheless. It wasn't so much the frying as the ketchup that bothered him. His Aunt Theba had said there'd be blue pants like these, though, so he was reasonably well prepared. Except for the lumpy grenade, but that turned out to be porridge, in any case, so won't be mentioned here.
"Augur well!!!" wailed the field of pasties (so it sounded more like "Auuugur weeeeellll !!!", but that was probably obvious, so I'm just irritating you with this exposition. I can stop it if you like... Oh, you would?... Fair enough). Enormous egg-like explosions garnished the pasties with sorghum, as they slowly died, gasping, gasping, recovering a little, wheezing, snorkelling and, finally, breathing their last.
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