One warm summer evening, as the fireflies floated aimlessly, the polecats sneaked furtively, and a lone, moony toad dreamed of winning the 100-Meter Hop, Mogey sat by the fire pit, toasting marshmallows. Being a connoisseur of fine cuisine, Mogey was far more concerned with the toppings he added to fully toasted marshmallows than he was with the mallows themselves. So though he had but a few meager sticks on the fire, the picnic table was spread with an incredible array of so-called toppings, from caramel sauce and hot fudge to crushed cheez-its and an entire Hawaiian pizza.
"Ah," said Smush, wandering over from the hammock he'd strung between two ancient statues of trousers. "I was wondering where my bucket of chicken wings ended up."
"The honey barbecue ones are particularly tasty on top of a fresh-toasted mallow," Mogey replied.
"True, but this fire is pitiful! You'll never cook your mallows through on that thing."
Mogey simply shrugged and swept his arm toward the smorgasbord atop the picnic table. Smush sighed a weary sigh and trudged in the direction of their homestead's armory. "You know, Mogey," he said, "Uncle Herman was wrong about herring-scented candles and he was definitely wrong about his ability to fight that ostrich warrior who came to town, but he was right about one thing: If something's worth doing, it's worth doing with a flamethrower."
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