Mogey marched out of his yurt to where Smush sat before the fire pit, whittling a life-size corncob out of a piece of driftwood. He angrily thrust a fuzzy sweater under his pal's nose.
"Did you fold this?" Mogey demanded.
"No," Smush replied.
"Because it's genuine alpaca, you know!"
"Didn't fold it."
"It has to be folded in a very specific way or it loses its magical fluffy qualities!"
"Twasn't me."
"Well then who 'twas it?" Mogey shouted.
Smush calmly continued whittling a particularly lifelike kernel of corn for a long time, before he looked off to the horizon for an extensive period, and finally let out a protracted whistle. "In uncertain times like these you never can tell - it could've been anyone really. But my money would be on Bruce Foldington."
"Who?"
"You know that gnome who's always hanging around the camp, trying to fold stuff?"
"Ohhhh," Mogey answered with a nod of dawning realization, "Bruce Foldington."
"What'd you think I said?" Smush queried.
"Erm.. 'Moose...' Foldington? Anyhow, I suppose it's not his fault... he just can't resist folding things."
"And I admit it, too! Twas me!" exclaimed a small individual with a pointy beard, pointy hat, and pointy elbows as a burst out from under a pile of origami swans. "But you'll never catch me alive - never!" He snatched the sweater from Mogey's hands, folded it into a perfect square, and ran out of the camp, cackling like a witch whose steroids arrived early.
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