One evening, Mogey and Smush were down at Frank Manky's Pub for the annual darts tournament, undoubtedly the biggest event of the year in their little town. Almost every man in the village entered the competition, but every year Mogey and Smush had high hopes of bringing home the bacon.
"Next up," the Master of Ceremonies announced, "Smush versus your defending champion: The Pulverizer."
The crowd gasped. The Pulverizer cut a fearsome figure; his father was a goblin and his mother was a tyrannosaurus rex. The fellow could do two things well: eat steak sandwiches and throw darts, and he had won the tournament three years running.
"Do you want to go through with this or just forfeit now?" The Pulverizer asked Smush.
"Listen here, 'The.' If that's your real name," Smush retorted forcefully. "I grew up playing darts. I'm not afraid of the likes of you."
"You do know that the sharp end goes in front, right?" The Pulverizer said, gesturing to the way Smush was holding his dart.
"Poppycock," Smush replied. "The sharpness is to help you get a better grip. If these feathers aren't meant to work like a four-pronged grappling hook, what do they put them on the dart for?"
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