Fog the carousel, the belching melon horde approaches!

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Dex hunkered down in her home made bong shelter, hatches battened and legs akimbo. That stupid voice again, yammering into the night, echoing down the back alleys of sin-drenched streets.

"Fog the carousel, the belching melon horde approaches!"

She lined up her knives in order of lethality, prescient of fanged hams lurking around unsanitary corners. Her favorite glistened in the orange soda lighting with machine oil. The ground thumped, then rumbled, and she was showered with Immanuel Kant's Garlic Gum packets, knocked loose from the top of the 8 pallets she'd managed to horde.

It was goodly and meet that the bong was big enough to make a shelter out of, and God was pleased as well. Karl from down the block said so at his last sermon. He was an ordained gadfly sans the ointment, allowing for the cracked radiator. For elephants, it was a boon.

Even the frog people had fangs now. They got them done at the Beck Bristow Launderette/Barber Shop/Fang Emporium on West Sixth Street. Beck was partners with a catatonic bird named Ulysses. When the power grid went down for good, fangs got real popular.