"Will you cut out that infernal filing noise!" shouted Prisoner 9346 a.k.a. The Bacon Bandit a.k.a. Mogey.
"Shh!" said a voice from the window. "I'm trying to bust you outta here!"
"Smush! Can it really be you?"
Sure enough, Smush's jowly face materialized out of the dark, and with one last rasp of his file, the iron bars broke clean through. Like five plump wursts protruding from an arepa con queso, his hand lowered toward his pal, who seized it gratefully, doing his best to ignore the funny pang of hunger he always seemed to feel when he grasped Smush's paw.
With much heaving and gasping (and a short break for jerky and limeade) the pals tumbled out of the prison cell, and into Smush's waiting wagon.
"Quick, get under this canvas," Smush urged, "and I'll drive us home."
He was just about to put their donkey, Edouard McCluckins, in motion, when up strolled Warden Blubb Hayfever, an ill-tempered walrus who had clearly been at Prisoner 101001's prunejack.
"Whatcha haulin?" Hayfever inquired, giving the wagon a hearty smack of his flipper.
"My goat," Smush replied. "Right, goat?"
Mogey knew this was his queue, but he was so nervous that he completely forgot how to do his award-winning goat impression.
"HEWWWWWW!" he cried instead.
"He's an Australian goat," Smush confided. "That's the noise they make. They're all very nervous about falling off, you see."
"Of what?" asked Warden Hayfever.
"The Earth. You see, my dear warden, goats are too skeptical to buy into even the simplest scientific concepts. It's the same reason you never see a goat astronomer. That and you don't want wattle wool getting into your telescope."
"You know, Squash," the warden said, wrapping a flipper around Smush's back and leaning in close enough for the pals to smell the potent mixture of sardines and prunejack on his breath, "that's what I like about you. Every time we talk, I learn something new."
"HEWWWWWW!" called Mogey once more from beneath the canvas.
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