Butter and sporks and lamps and cats and sporks and copper wire and twisted paper and rubber bows and broken sporks and.... The Horde of Mr. Micomidden has grown out of all porportions. It has slithered to the lowest level of the city and gained something like intelligence but more like hunger. The horde feeds itself now, and one's only hope for escapes lies in either fire, or the spare spork.
This is something you needed to know.
STRANGE SPANNERS being an accounting of strangeness of the warp and woof of my mind For those of you new here, think of this as 1/2 "Night Gallery" Our Motto: Nos somnium quisnam es futurus fatum quod insolitus tutus vos!
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