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We brought Miss Googenheim up onto our stage.
"Perform for us!", we yelled at her.
She stared coldly at the ceiling.
"What's wrong?", Pato quieried.
"It is the ceiling. I know no way to express my anger towards it."
Pato looked relieved.
"Oh, is that all? Phew. I was thinking it was us."
"No, no, my son. You and the children are faultless. It is the ceiling."
And so we all joined with Miss Googenheim in hating the ceiling. Never before, had we had the slightest feelings towards it, but now - with Miss Googenheim running things, our feelings were defined. Now we looked up at ceiling and harbored violent thoughts against it. And it, the ceiling, looked down upon its enemies, unprotected; its belly exposed. It could sense our anger. It kept the sky from us, pushed down on us, and our walls. We would push back.
I watched Miss Googenheim fashion a spear out of one of the children's legs. I laughed, but she chided me for being selfish. "Do not laugh at the sacrifices others make. Laugh only when they are out of earshot." I argued that the owner of the leg was clearly out of earshot, and therefore, it was okay to mock her. But Miss Googenheim was prepared to answer that challenge: "Ah! But it is my leg! I have made the sacrifice. Am in not in your earshot?"
I was shamed. Her legs were twine. Which means two. Meaning that she had both legs. Meaning that she was lying about the leg being hers. How could she think that I would believe her when I could clearly see that she was not missing a leg? Did she actually think I'd accept her claim that she'd ever had three legs? I hope not.
Miss Googenheim was losing her followers' faith. She would have to be bold. But also, crafty. Only through bold craftiness would she succeed in winning me and the others completely back to her side. We are suckers for the bold and crafty.
Pato was our errant-boy. He made second-tier last year, which made Miss Googenheim proud. I think I should have made the tier, but this is not how it works in this place. If you work hard and eat marshmallows you can get somewhere, but if you forget to work hard then it's no second-tier for you. At least I ate more marshmallows than Pato.
Lousy errant-boys. They have all the luck. They don't say "He has the luck of an errant-boy" for nothing, you know. There's a history there. Truth lies therein. Anyway, Miss Googenheim's war against the ceiling on the stage would last the next three fortnights. I was tired, so slept through most of it. Pato later told me that Miss Googenheim expanded to gargantuan size only so that she could properly unfasten a tomato (which had locked itself up during the night - despite our constant vigils). I thought that was a silly waste of making one's self gargantuan. If I was doing it, I'd either provoke fear in the enemy, or use my size to bash things of the enemy's - like light fixtures, electric fans, etc. It is a war, after all. Miss Googenheim always does things the odd way. She wears no feet.
Who won the war? We did. It is because of me. Not Pato. Pato defected and ultimately died by Miss Googenheim's scissors. And it was I that was weilding Miss Googenheim's scissors! How you like me now!?
I should introduce myself.
I am Captain O'Duck of the Blintz. Do not be alarmed. 'Blintz' is a fictional place that I like to pretend to be from. There is no such thing. I find that people think me in a higher esteem when they hear the word 'Blintz' associated with my name. "Oooh, 'Blintz'", they think, "He's from Blintz. He must be good." But I am not good. I am a demon's belch. An odor of a pig. I look back at the pig and squeel at it as I float away. I am glad to be free from the pig. Now I am an airborne odor, and will assault the smell of young minds. Yes, young minds smell. Do not think the nose is omnipotent. The mind, if not yet ripe, can be sensitive to an odor. The right odor. And I am the right odor!
Be not foul like me! But do not pity.
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