In the summer of yore and yon, Mogey and Smush found themselves confined to their manor house, for a plague of Itchy Thumb ran rampant across the countryside.
"I've had it!" declared Mogey, after their eleventh day of isolation.
"With what?" queried Smush most drolly.
"I'll tell you with what. I've had it with the whole darn thing! And most of all, I've had it with you, Smush!"
"Ah," Smush replied.
"Haven't you-- say, where are you going?" Mogey asked.
Smush paused, his hand hovering over the banister, which had been hand-carved from the trunk of Gnarled Frederick, the most conceited tree in Bean County.
"The way I see it, Mogey, we've got two options: Either I go defrost a couple of supremo p'zones, or we give Sheriff Troll J. McNutter a call. You'll want McNutter on hand, you see, because if you face me on the rasslin' mat - and surely that's where this discussion is headed if we don't get some p'zone in your belly - I cannot be stopped until I've administered at least seven reverse German suplexes or law enforcement intercedes. So: Which option do you choose?"
The sound of Mogey's tummy rumbling was the only answer Smush needed.
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