"Bullocks",exclaimed Transportation, "Big Bloody Bullocks on the lot of them!" Transportation was nestled snugly in his corduroy trousers with the oversized buttons seemingly punching their way into your sub-cortex, if you were quick enough to snatch a glance at them. He had just read the morning news. It seemed that a well-to-do scholar of Princeton was trying to dismiss his theory of Consequence-and-Result as pure rubbish. Transportation knew his theory was just, and he could prove it. Boisterous in size, yet riding low to the ground, Transportation headed to his private laboratory to retrieve the jagged-edged jigsaw blade from his damp, roach infested toolbox. The method of retrieval for an object in the toolbox was to close the eyes tightly, reach in with one hand and feel around. If you feel anything squishy or putrid, you ignore it and continue your search. Squelch McBratton was the soothsayer whom so sayeth that Transportations theory was nothing but a meaningless concoction of scribbles, scripts and scribes. Dancing in his enhanced fancy pants, by chance, he thought perhaps he shouldn't have been so harsh on Transportation, for he was but a mere pauper struggling to fiddle his way to freedom. He fudged a lot, but none was the observer to such. In blind neglect, Squelch spun his head too quickly one day after taking a sip of Fuzzy Naval Cola and has since been restricted to keeping his skull in the forward position, only swiveling north to south and vise-versa and what-nots. None was to pity him, though, as he was one of the richest men in Woodchipper Grove. Not only was he rich, but he was admired in a way that a skinless man might envy the dead. To say he was equisite would surely be the end, the absolute end. It would also be keen, tops, and sweet, Swisherly-sweet, if you will. But his was not a tale of personal triumph, but an oblong journey into the depths of a condemned man's soul. Condemned to the bowels of hell, was he. Smitten by the love bug. The Winsuckles who lived in the tattered barn across the corn field were watching him, and keeping an eyeball out for any mischievous behavior which might impale Squelch upon his own wooden stake. Bloodied and war-torn, Mr. Winsuckle had a personal vandetta against Squelch, for his was a life of leisure, or so thought Mr. Winsuckle, and man was not spawned to participate in such ridaldry. And so, with one eye reading "God Has Ninety-Nine Hands", and one eye out the window, the lantern was always in the window to catch Squelch in a bulbous act of obscenity and perverse inhumanity. "Bring him to his knees, I will. Make 'em pay for his wealth and well-being" mumbled Mr. Winsuckle under the frothy foam of his A&W rootbeer mustache and goatie, staring bastardlike out of the tall, mahogany-stained, artificial glass window. "Rich man indeed" he stated as he farted. Then he opened his mouth as wide as it could go, and belched really loudly. "Ha ha ha!" he sounded like the devil himself. This was supposed to be continued but was never finished.