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Chapter 5

The Story The Authors

This Was Quite A Shame, Because Those Very Muffins Were The Last Ones Steve Schildeburg Ever Baked. He Had Baked Them With The Same Loving Care He Gave All His Muffins. His Boss Thought His Muffin Related Talents Were At A Waste In His Small Tim Hortons, But He Didn't Want To Lose His Biggest Seller. People Came From Miles Away For Steve's Muffins. Jesse

Steve was a tall man, probably from eating all the muffins he made with his artistic hands of wonder. Yes he was a tall man almost 7 feet high in all, he was allways growing. Every day he'd grow a bit and hed feel rather large a bit like tractor cutting through the harvest during autumn. piggy

Raaaahh!!! Went Steves friend Paul Bigidlesnip thats what i said "RAAAAHHHHH" and went OHHOOOOOHHHHHH!!! so then I went UMMMMMER!!?? and he said "ok ok you win" I thought it was strange but you know how it is. Peter

Paul was plumber he would fix pipes all day long but today was a special day for he was to spend this very day enclosed within a rather large but shabby looking cardboard box. This box was given to him by the one and only "Rupert" he was black as the night it self and was able to get hold of those special things you often need but no one has. Sarah

Tiki didn't know what to make of it all. jermy

All of this kind of stuff made her very nervous. Not that she'd ever admit that to anyone. Tiki had her pride to contend with, sometimesit was all she could do to keep from running away screaming in terror. she took a deep and trembling breath and lit a cigarette. this is probably the last thing she should have done. none

The one weak spot in her character, perhaps her Achilles heel, was a feeling of helplessness and futility which overcame her at moments like this, moments of great sturm und drang. She shrank away into a corner of herself and could'nt act, couldn't think, could only tremble. And always in the most dangerous situations. Newton

The only option left was to slither off the barstool he had been propped up on and in a burst of supernatural locomotion, run toward the picture window screaming for Martina to not desert him. His spastic flailing and yelling went unnoticed by the near comatose patrons of the bar, these incidences of dementia being a nightly occurence. "Pipe down you loon," yelled Dagget Bonhumph the bar's owner and pour man. Gumjob

Thus did Dr. Smack's dream conclude, there in the swirling cacaphony of the vortex, where instead of the infinitely compacted and densified death he had assumed was his Fate -- to be the proverbial Angel, impaled upon the head of a pin -- he found himself floating in a pearly, milky, cottony whiteness, the vague crests and mounds of which glowed with a soft silvery light like tinsel sheened with cooking-oil. Where was he? What had happened? And his legs, that -- that woman, that creature had been feeding on him, for Christ's sweet sake! Or had he merely dreamt the whole thing? -- Yes, yes, that was it! A dream! And he was still dreaming. His legs were fine. He reached down to feel them, but in the new gravity of his situation, the reaching down could hardly be called "reaching down," nor did it occur through the medium of what we like to think of as "hands," nor when what did actually go forth come to alight upon the place where legs should be did it encounter something justifiably classifiable as "legs." He giggled, realizing that the whole store of words he had inside himself had in one fell swoop become completely useless for describing his current whereabouts and -- yes, admit it -- form. He had arrived at something that could not be sent via Morse Code, he had arrived at a singularity from which there could be no retracing of one's steps, only going forward, onward, allons-y! as they used to say in his schooldays. But for our own purposes here, dear reader, let us just say that if he had retained a mouth, it would have been spread in a broad, wide grin; but having no need for a mouth anymore, the being Dr. Smack had become lit up with a rosy glow that sent its tendrils to the very edge of the vortex, peering out at their former world with a benevolence verging on the omniscient. Poor, evil, nefarious Dr. Smack had at last found a home. Philip Welsh

The Story	The Authors
This Was Quite A Shame, Because Those Very Muffins Were The Last Ones Steve Schildeburg Ever Baked. He Had Baked Them With The Same Loving Care He Gave All His Muffins. His Boss Thought His Muffin Related Talents Were At A Waste In His Small Tim Hortons, But He Didn't Want To Lose His Biggest Seller. People Came From Miles Away For Steve's Muffins.	Jesse
Steve was a tall man, probably from eating all the muffins he made with his artistic hands of wonder. Yes he was a tall man almost 7 feet high in all, he was allways growing. Every day he'd grow a bit and hed feel rather large a bit like tractor cutting through the harvest during autumn.	piggy
Raaaahh!!! Went Steves friend Paul Bigidlesnip thats what i said "RAAAAHHHHH" and went OHHOOOOOHHHHHH!!! so then I went UMMMMMER!!?? and he said "ok ok you win" I thought it was strange but you know how it is.	Peter
Paul was plumber he would fix pipes all day long but today was a special day for he was to spend this very day enclosed within a rather large but shabby looking cardboard box. This box was given to him by the one and only "Rupert" he was black as the night it self and was able to get hold of those special things you often need but no one has.	Sarah
Tiki didn't know what to make of it all.	jermy
All of this kind of stuff made her very nervous. Not that she'd ever admit that to anyone. Tiki had her pride to contend with, sometimesit was all she could do to keep from running away screaming in terror. she took a deep and trembling breath and lit a cigarette. this is probably the last thing she should have done.	none
The one weak spot in her character, perhaps her Achilles heel, was a feeling of helplessness and futility which overcame her at moments like this, moments of great sturm und drang. She shrank away into a corner of herself and could'nt act, couldn't think, could only tremble. And always in the most dangerous situations.	Newton
The only option left was to slither off the barstool he had been propped up on and in a burst of supernatural locomotion, run toward the picture window screaming for Martina to not desert him. His spastic flailing and yelling went unnoticed by the near comatose patrons of the bar, these incidences of dementia being a nightly occurence. "Pipe down you loon," yelled Dagget Bonhumph the bar's owner and pour man.	Gumjob
Thus did Dr. Smack's dream conclude, there in the swirling cacaphony of the vortex, where instead of the infinitely compacted and densified death he had assumed was his Fate -- to be the proverbial Angel, impaled upon the head of a pin -- he found himself floating in a pearly, milky, cottony whiteness, the vague crests and mounds of which glowed with a soft silvery light like tinsel sheened with cooking-oil. Where was he? What had happened? And his legs, that -- that woman, that creature had been feeding on him, for Christ's sweet sake! Or had he merely dreamt the whole thing? -- Yes, yes, that was it! A dream! And he was still dreaming. His legs were fine. He reached down to feel them, but in the new gravity of his situation, the reaching down could hardly be called "reaching down," nor did it occur through the medium of what we like to think of as "hands," nor when what did actually go forth come to alight upon the place where legs should be did it encounter something justifiably classifiable as "legs." He giggled, realizing that the whole store of words he had inside himself had in one fell swoop become completely useless for describing his current whereabouts and -- yes, admit it -- form. He had arrived at something that could not be sent via Morse Code, he had arrived at a singularity from which there could be no retracing of one's steps, only going forward, onward, allons-y! as they used to say in his schooldays. But for our own purposes here, dear reader, let us just say that if he had retained a mouth, it would have been spread in a broad, wide grin; but having no need for a mouth anymore, the being Dr. Smack had become lit up with a rosy glow that sent its tendrils to the very edge of the vortex, peering out at their former world with a benevolence verging on the omniscient. Poor, evil, nefarious Dr. Smack had at last found a home.	Philip Welsh

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