The Janelle, Michael, Assafrass and Angela were deep in the tight, dark, wet plot hole. It so constricted the four of them that it was hard to magic much of anything but the thick walls of the plot hole.

Now, the Janelle started, Let’s fill this shit up.

Suddenly the cavernous plot hole contracted and stretched wide open. A shimmering ball of white light appeared over their heads. Then, a manatee suit apparated out of thin air and floated before them.

Alright, the Janelle smirked, Which one of y’all is putting this on?

Excrete me? Assafrass hee hawed and gaped. Why in the cluck would any of us put that on?

It’s part of the process. Trust me.

Michael volunteers, dog-chuckled Angela.

Whaat?

Excellent, nodded the Janelle, Thank you, Michael.

I dao noa sauch thaing!

Now Michael one thing you need to keep in mind is it’s very difficult to go to the bathroom in this suit, so you’re gonna wanna go ahead and empty your tank, as it were.

I’m naot emptaying may taank!

Suit yourself. Also, suit yourself up.

Michael huffed and lumbered over to the floating manatee suit. He sniffed it, recoiled, sniffed it again, farted, and sniffed it again. Michael then licked the suit once, then he licked it twice.

Enough himming and hawing! Assafrass hee hawed impatiently. Get the hamned thing on already!

Michael snorted and prepared to mount the suit.

Okay cluck this shit I’m not watching this, hissed the Janelle. She snapped her claw fingers and the suit wrapped around Michael like cellophane.

Oah coock! Thais hamnaed thaing chaffaes may hairay buttaocks soamthing faierce!

Your hamned accent chaffes my imagination something fierce! Now step into this inner hole over here, fussed the Janelle, pointing to a puckering hole within the plot hole walls opening up to Michael’s left. Looking into it one could only see hazy pink light and billowing mist.

Waiat a saecond! Michael wheezed, Thaere’s a haole withain thae ploathole?

Oh honey, mentally sighed the Janelle, It’s holes all the way down. Trust me.

Michael gave out one last huff before floating himself forward, moving his legs as if he were doggy paddling through the air into the smoky wonder of the plothole hole.

Michael floated forth and the smoke and pink light gave way to a dim, candelit bedroom in a rundown peasant shack.

“Cock hamnit boy! Were you puddling around in my liquor cabinet again?!” growled a mucusy old voice.

“N-” belch “-o, paapa! Not at-” belch “aall!”

“Shut the cluck up you lying little twerp! Do you mean to tell me I don’t smell eighty year old cognac in your breath?”

“N-nno! I m-mean, yees! You d-don’t ssmell eightyy year old cognnac on my breathh! It’s eightyy year old sscotch!”

“Broderick Thurbad Shitfacerson! First, you come home with shit smeared all over your face. Then, you tell your mother you haven’t even tasted the biscuit she made for you for lunch! Are her lunch biscuits not hood enough for you?! And then, after all this cockery, you dare to drink your papa’s hood scotch!” The man spat and cracked his knuckles. “I’m going to put the fear of cock into you, boy.”

The man unbuckled his belt and quickly unthreaded it from his pants, which promptly fell down to reveal sparkling purple unicorn underwear that were partially soiled. Broderick Thurbad Shitfacerson immediately let loose a drunken cackle.

“Stop clucking laughing at me!” The man raised his glinting belt buckle with malice. “Don’t you laugh at me you clucking punk! I’m gonna cluck you up!”

Suddenly, Michael accidentally floated out of the shadows, farting wildly as he tried to hold back from emptying his bowles, which had been growing weak as his regret at not listening to the Janelle about relieving himself had grown.

The man raised his arm back high. Michael farted again, and this time the man looked over to see where the flatulence was emanating from. With one sight of the floating dog in a manatee suit, his eyes grew wide as flattened turnips and he gasped, collapsing onto the floor in a pale heap.

“Papa!” screamed the boy. “Papa! Wake up, papa!”

“I’m still awake, my boy,” the man hacked a weak cough, “I’m going to—” hack “I’m going to cluck you up.”

“I know papa I know you’re going to cluck me up real bad.”

“No son of mine—” hack “—is gonna drink his papa’s liquor and—” hack “—get away with it. No—” hack “—sir.”

“Of course not, papa.”

The man hacked up blood this time. “Tell me, boy—” hack “—was the scotch any—” hack “—hood?”

“Cluck no, papa. It tasted clucking horrible.”

“You motherclucking scoundrel! Drink my liquor and tell me it’s bad?! I’m gonna clucking kill you!” the man then went promptly limp and died.

Michael scarcely had time to process this before he was uncomtrollably floating back into the shadows and through the mist and suddenly he was back in the cavernous plothole with his companions. He was shaking.

Whaat ian thae clauck havae I jaust daone? he cried. I’vae daone somethaing haorrible. I’m a maonster!

Yea yea yea whatever, the Janelle rolled her three eyes. Now then. Who’s next? We’ve got some more holes to fill.