I’m many things, but no liar, so believe you me when I say that there is no-one else alive less qualified for a good brawl than yours truly. The drunkard, in his stumbling, has a swan’s grace when wobbling in my vicinity, and even the infant child’s dexterity is fit to dazzle my poor and clumsy soul and inspire in it a true and jealous yearning.
Yet this fight was not hopeless in its entirety. Urinals, you see, are fixèd ornaments, so though my foe had transplanted himself from the stained walls of its mart to this grand and honest tree, transplanted still he was and thus unable to maneuver himself as you or I might have done and often do. And though the marshmallows, which were tall enough to approach my pecs (had I pecs to boast of) and wide enough to topple most dogs, were amply limbed and most capable of mobility, their capacity for movement dwarfed their capacity for thought. I suspected this as they stood silent for the totality of the urinal’s monologue and recognized it as certainty once they were sicced on me like obedient-though-feral hamsters belonging to some ornery pet-store fiend.
“Get him!” the urinal cried, and the marshmallows ambled after me with surprising speed. Luckily, just before they reached me—stunned beyond movement as I was—they collided into each other and toppled to the ground. As they struggled to return to their feet, one’s flailing limbs would trip up the other, and vice versa, leaving me free to regain my nerves and acknowledge a fear-buried desire to chortle madly like a sitcom studio audience.
“Not both at once,” the urinal snarled. “Use your candied brains! Approach him from either side. Give each other space! Do I have to spell everything out for you? And—for the love of scrubbing—stand up one at a time!”
Just then, an idea struck me. I gallantly leapt over the marshmallows (though I’ll admit I caught my foot inside one of the fiend’s elbows and unceremoniously met the earth with my face, but I did not thus tarry long) and—after I had cleared them—I then charged the urinal straight on. Though it had no face with which to don an expression of surprise recognizable by my too human eyes, its warbled scream belied its fear. Just before I reached it, I dove to the left and—on all fours—scrambled behind the tree, which was wider than I (a feat in and of itself! Grand tree, you have my thanks!), and there I remained, catching my breath as quietly as I could.
“What—where is he?” the urinal barked at once. “Get to your feet, you fools. Get up, get up!” I peered around the tree carefully and spotted the gelatinous creatures, finally on their feet, in a desperate search for my visage. This endeavor consisted of their waddling in semi-circles without moving from where they stood. After twenty seconds or so, one shrugged and then the other followed suit.
“That’s not good enough!” the urinal shouted, fear creeping into its voice. “Damn all, damn all!” it cried. “If we don’t find him soon, he might make his way to the castle and uncover our scheme. I’ll be ruined. Ruined!”
“But he’ll never find the castle,” one of the marshmen spoke at last, his voice floating to my ears as a sleepy, fan-warbled sound.
“Are you an idiot?” the urinal shot, “of course he’d find it. It’s the only bloody building around. It towers over everything around here and it’s right behind my tree. I’d be surprised if he hasn’t seen it already. Only a fool could miss it.”
My cheeks burned as I craned to look behind me. Sure enough, there it stood. A silver structure reaching up high enough to pierce the clouds, resplendent and… ah… silvery.
And though unfairly shortened this fragment must seem, I fear it is here that I must end for today. This segment is already two days late and I am two hours late for lunch—though my stomach screams out as if years instead where what had transpired since last it had something fitting to dissolve.
But fear ye not! In a week’s time, or somewhen there-like, we shall return to this poorly wrought narrative and—perhaps—to the castle itself!
Be well, friends; be well!