“Hey Samuel. Remember when we had two feet apiece instead of the 4 between us?”
“Never mind that,” he answered Reggie. “I’ve got more sand in this bag to put them on.”
“Excuse me, guys,” he said, feets still moving. “Just passing through.”
“Sure, sure mister,” they both exclaim, then remember to put a little on their eyes first to keep up the illusion.
“Will you two just *stop* with the arguing,” requested Inky Woman from the Falls, hair getting wetter and wetter. The water should be becoming blacker any time now.
Any time now.
What were the two frog-ish goldfish, Goldie and Grayscale, arguing about or perhaps just discussing in a loud way? Bodies of water, I’m guessing. When does a pond become a lake?; how many acres does it have to be for the name transaction to kick in? 100, Goldie is guessing. “100 *feet* or 100 acres?” responds Grayscale, trying to differentiate 1d from 2d, like any good mathematician. Goldie is a linguist, though, and his experiences with numbers is not good. Instead: letters are his numbers, as Grayscale would understand. If he grasped letters at all. “1 through 10: 100,” he exclaimed to the other in a voice that definitely argued for argument now. “Well, A-Z right back at you!” Yells. Definitely getting louder and louder. “75! 3/4ths!” “A-B-C-D; R!” “125!!” “R. RADAR!!”
Goldie turned to his left and Grayscale to his right. Inky Woman had played her card, avoiding a crash. Jenny Lind enters Pickleland from above. All are embarrassed they even argued at all as the Great Woman stepped out of the ship and onto the green of the lake (or pond) peninsula. Graceful. Like a butterfly. She told her entourage to wait within while she settled the matter.
She takes 1 step. She takes 10 and is upon them. “Lake,” she responds to Goldie. She turns (changes). “Pond,” she says to the other. Then, hair still not wet, she moves away.
“Hey, which way to the Portal, Lt. Salt? I seemed to have been turned around when exiting David’s highly polished palace, pheh.”
“Thataway,” answers the military man with a point, part of the magical tapestry that is the citizens and denizens of Pickleland.
“Is that a Baby Yodo?” questions Sandman, distracted by creature directly beneath him on the table. “So adorable.”
“I must ask you to move on,” said the lt. politely but firmly. “Jenny Lind’s entourage will be arriving shortly. We must clear the area as much as possible.” Sandman knew he had to move the way Lt. Salt was pointing, or else be pointed at himself. But he couldn’t help himself.
“What do *you* say, little fellow?” he asked while leaning over, hands on knees. The creature’s ears twitched and moved back and forth, and his mouth along with it, as if he (or she) were searching for a correct response to Sandman’s question. Perhaps he (or she) was trying to make up for Lt. Salt’s rudeness in not answering the same — overcompensation. The answer had to be perfect and… he (or she) couldn’t do it. Neither ended up answering him, Baby Yada or whatever the f-ck it is shrinking back from the twitching and moving that signaled thinking into a state of immobility, perhaps Tennessee but perhaps also Kentucky (Ohio’s a longer shot).
“Outta here,” came the lt.’s next statement. Sandman was out of time. Feets get moving!