Growing up - the awkward years

 

Teenage Ivysaur was so angsty.

#0097: Storm Toad Trooper

Who could have ever imagined that we would be talking about Bucky O'Hare in 2018, and it would actually be vaguely topical? For you see, over the last few years, a company known as Boss Fight Studio has been bringing the Toad Wars back for the modern era, producing an all new line of Bucky action figures. All of your favourites have made their glorious, highly articulated return - from Jenny all the way to Deadeye Duck. Still no sign of my dude Bruiser, though, and definitely no Willy DuWitt, as he is nobody's favourite.

Wave 3 drops this fall, and included among this batch is the villainous Storm Toad Trooper. You can grab a single Trooper for $34, or a two-pack for $65. If, however, you follow my long-term belief that the foot soldiers should greatly outnumber the heroes, they offer a Master Case Pack of twelve toads for the low, low price of $420.

If you have over $400 in expendable cash that you can splurge on imaginary frog enemies, then fuck you, you have too much money. And now, too many frogs.

Look at that! I have two now.

The Storm Toad Troopers were your average minion. They all looked the same, and were mostly there to be disposed of effortlessly as Bucky and his comrades spouted one-liners where they declared them to be 'slimy fly eaters' and whatnot. In hindsight, that sounds racist as fuck, and I don't approve. But it was a different time, and between this and Danger Mouse, it seems as though amphibians were typically considered to be assholes.

I did a quick Google search to see if I could find more examples of toad villainy, but typing 'frog enemies' merely led to this website that looks like it was made in 2000. I fucking love FROGLAND, and I have added it to my bookmarks.

But enough on that. Let's talk Storm Toad Trooper.

He's a little bit dirty from years of lurking around the garage, but otherwise, he's pretty much in perfect condition. No chipped paint or doggy bite marks, which suggests that even Peppy thought he was too gross to bother gnawing on. He is riddled with nice little details, including a K on the side of his helmet that I will assume stands for Karen.

Most significantly, however, this is one of the very few toys where I was able to successfully locate his weapon, putting him in the 95th percentile of most dangerous figures in the entire house.

Fuck yeah, neon orange shotgun!

It fits quite nicely into his hand with a satisfying snap sound (I hope that wasn't actually the sound of it breaking), but his arms are positioned strangely, and his elbows aren't posable. As such, he actually looks more like he wants to engage you in a boxing match, which in and of itself is pretty badass, but likely unwise during a fight in outer space.

That being said, however, I did a quick search for packaged Storm Toad Trooper toys, and I can't help but shake the idea that something here is amiss. No, it's not the fact that it's in French, nor is it the revelation that the French word for frogs is krapos.

What I am now realising is that he came packaged with an entirely different weapon altogether.

So what gives, krapo la (that's Haitian Creole, but bear with me for a moment)?? Whose gun did you steal? Did it belong to Mighty Max, or Ace Duck? Maybe Papa Smurf on a really bad day? In any event, it seems to suit you quite well, so I'll just accept this transgression and feign ignorance when the police come knocking at my door.

After all, when you're hanging out with space toads, you sometimes just have to accept that they'll get drunk and cause all sorts of mischief. I've been dealing with Slippy for long enough to know this firsthand.

#0096: War Planets

 

When you're a kid, you just kinda... have stuff. For whatever reason.

Sometimes it's an impulse buy from your parents, desperate to appease your insatiable hunger for consumerism, while other times, you're drawn in by the sweet aroma of a particularly compelling commercial. Whatever the case, we all had the occasional toy of unknown origin from a series you didn't have any particular affinity for. Unless you were poor, in which case you just had specks of dust. Even then, some specks were better than others.

Today's specks of dust are these rather obtuse War Planets. Evidently, this was a late '90s toy franchise that spawned a TV show with character designs from Brendan McCarthy, formerly of ReBoot. The toys never really gained much traction and the show was short-lived, but despite all these factors, I ended up with not one but two of the eponymous planets of war. Allow me to take you on a trip to Bone Planet and Ice Planet.

Side note 1: I really had to force myself to use the term 'eponymous' in that leadoff. In actual fact, I much prefer 'titular'. Must be the 'tit' that does it for me.

Side note 2: "Allow me to take you on a trip to Bone Planet" sounds like the worst pickup line ever.

The narrative of War Planets is fairly self-explanatory, focusing on the ongoing struggle for galactic supremacy, with the occasional handshake armistice between parties to help shake the narrative up. Despite its tentacular exterior that threatens to molest oncoming spacecraft, Bone Planet is purportedly a heroic nation, and according to the Shadow Raiders wiki, part of the Alliance against the wicked Beast Planet.

Fuck Beast Planet. Hate that guy.

If you're unimpressed by the first photo, you'll be pleased to know that the planets are merely a precursor to the true wonder that lies within. Deep within the core of your War Planet are a bevy of aliens, ready to do battle with a wide variety of weapons and creatures. Does this imply that all War Planets are hollow? If we dug deep enough, would we happen upon the subterranean kingdom of Atvatabar? Will anyone actually understand this incredibly vague reference?

No time for answers, dammit, we need to crack our planets open and feast on the goo inside.

Whoa, that's a lot to unpack. Quite literally, actually, as it took around seven minutes to even set this stupid photo up. My dad walked in during the process, and asked me if I was working today.

"Clearly, I am!" I hissed, slamming the door shut before I continued to prop up my tiny little monsters in a manner I deemed aesthetically pleasing.

From what I can glean, the Bone Planet is a bit of a loose cannon, only entering the Alliance out of a convenient place of mutual interest, while masking their true intentions of double crossing everyone else at the last minute. In that sense, they're rather similar to the Forsaken legions of the undead from World of Warcraft, or North Korea if you'd prefer to be a little bit more on the nose.

There's beasts and cannons aplenty, and it was quite the nightmarish task to unearth all of these pieces from the toy chest and ascertain what actually belonged to the Bone Planet. If it was fairly green and vaguely lumpy, it was probably Bone Planet. Or infected.

I appear to have been so fond of Bone Planet that I acquired supplementary pieces, as there are some characters and vehicles that weren't included with the original set that look a little bit more yucky. I don't have any recollection of enjoying it this much ("they like War, they like Planets... One kid seems to love the Bone Planet"), which leads me to believe that it was in actual fact my father who was the Bone Planet fanatic. Holy shit, that phrase really rolls off the tongue.

And yes, I do intend on saying Bone Planet as much as humanly possible. It's what Bone Planet would want me to do. It's also really good for SEO.

Brr. This is Ice Planet. Hopefully their frosty reception doesn't give you the chills, they're just known to give the cold shoulder. Yes, I'm fully aware that that was a terrible sentence, and nowhere near as funny as the concept that Bone Planet is a euphemism for sex.

Ice Planet has a myriad of tiny blue denizens toting firearms, as you might expect. I particularly like the crystal spiders, but the missile turtles aren't without their charm. Particularly the one on the left there that appears to have stuck its nose right up another one's ass - he's tons of fun!

There aren't as many projectiles on offer in this set (disappointing if you particularly enjoy shooting your younger siblings in the eye), but they do have a sweet blue automobile that appears to be too small for any of the local fauna to fit into. This leads me to believe that there is a tiny unseen race of beings that operate this vehicle, or the people of Ice Planet are actually clowns, and they miraculously squeeze an entire group in there to great comedic effect.

Truth be told, I never waged war between my planets. I just believed in the sanctity of the peace treaty that much couldn't come up with enough things for them to do. Such is the plight of the miniature figurines; they're just not as hale and hearty as your hand-sized toys. For this reason, I also put a great deal of thought into how I would tag this piece; 'figurine', or 'action figure'.

Dictionary.com defines an action figure as "a toy figure with jointed, movable limbs, representing a character in a cartoon, movie, etc., or a real person or animal, often one known for exciting action or extraordinary powers."

The War Planets collection fit most of these distinctions, particularly their 'exciting action' or 'extraordinary powers', but it's worth noting that several of the pieces have no jointed, movable limbs to speak of. To this end, Reis O'Brien of The Spruce Crafts delegates them as figurines; "often small, sculpted and painted representations of personified characters like superheroes or movie characters. They have no moving parts."

The sizing is also consistent, as O'Brien goes on to note that figurines range "from extremely miniature (6mm model train figures) up to approximately 6 inches. Anything larger is generally considered a "statue.""

Or my penis. Ho ho ho.

In the end, I just said fuck it and chucked both tags on there. I'll allow you to argue amongst yourselves as to which is the more accurate delineation. Odds are, you'll find yourself a mutual enemy more worthy of your rage before too long.

#0095: The Terminator(s)

Deciding which Terminator film you prefer is similar to comparing pizza with ice cream. On the surface, they're both foodstuffs, and one can easily be enjoyed immediately after the other. However, they evoke different sensations within you. The first movie was harrowing and gritty. The second was spectacular and fun. They are very different beasts, and combine to make one hell of a cinematic one-two punch.

Unless you opt for Terminator 3, in which case you eat shit and you die.

As a child of the '90s, Terminator 2 was always my preference growing up. With its emphasis on catchphrases and special effects, it was practically made for kids, just as long as you looked away when he cut open his arm. Or shot all the people. Or when the T-1000 stabbed the security guard in the eye.

You know what? It actually wasn't child-friendly at all. Who knows what the fuck we were thinking, it was a different time. Regardless, action figures came out in the dozens, and I myself was the proud recipient of these handsome Terminators.

On the left is the Power Arm Terminator. I figured this out thanks to this blog entry from Poe Ghostal, which is incidentally a really excellent read that I highly recommend. I will resist the urge to steal material from that post as best I can, but I'm only human. To his right is the Meltdown Terminator, complete with a canary yellow singlet and a 'white-heat bazooka sprayer' (read: a spray gun). The main meltdown is the one your child will have when they realise that you've given them the wrong toy.

They each feature a few curious design choices that can make you scratch your head and wonder aloud when that ever happened in Terminator 2. The Power Arm variation looks more the part with his black leather jacket, albeit a sleeveless variant that suggests that the seasons are a'changing and he wants to get a more even tan. However, it comes with three interchangeable arms that do a series of things that the T-800 has never been able to do.

The first one sees him pushing a metallic beam from his fist in his best Robert Patrick impersonation. The second is a claw kinda apparatus that looks particularly good for pinching bums. And the final is a goddamn rocket launcher, although in my case, it's down a rocket, so it's just a launcher. A launcher of nothing. A nothing launcher, perchance.

So what gives? Why is Uncle Bob suddenly wielding a magic arm? In all fairness, Kenner had to come up with a plethora of variations of the same basic concept, so creative license had to be taken. My fondest memory of this toy was slowly lowering him in the bath while humming the Terminator theme, ala the climactic scene in Judgment Day. Unfortunately, he was incapable of gesturing with a thumbs up before he went into the imaginary molten steel, so I just had to settle for him firing off a ceremonial rocket at the last moment.

Then there's this asshole.

Despite arguably being the better made figure (that battle damage exposing his inner chassis is a nice touch), all it takes is one look at the bright yellow wife beater that renders his army pants completely useless, and you know that mistakes have been made. And if you thought that interchangeable arms was a curious decision, you haven't seen our dude Meltdown here unleash his fearsome weapon on hapless foes. Y'all are about to be H2OWNED.

The packaging suggests that you're supposed to shoot the water at the White-Hot T-1000 figure, which would change colour upon contact with warm water. But does that mean that you actually have to buy two toys to really make this one relevant? Power Arm has threatening weapons, while Meltdown is reduced to spraying water like a damned five year old? Unless he decides to load up with acid or really cheap gin, it's just not going to cut the mustard. Not even the mustard singlet.

Beyond the two Terminators, the only other T2 toy I collected was John Connor. As you can appreciate, it didn't really see much playtime, because the only thing an Edward Furlong action figure would be good for is hacking into computer systems and releasing lobsters from their tanks. He had a pretty sweet motorcycle that probably ended up in the possession of Raphael, so it wasn't all bad.

Overall, I'd say that these figures are decidedly okay. They could have stood to have a few extra firearms on them to make them feel more movie authentic, but knowing me, I would have lost those within a week anyway. Indeed, before I started this entry, I figured I was going to do this whole thing without Meltdown's water gun or any of Power Arm's powerful arms. So in that sense, I'm coming out of this much further ahead than I had anticipated.

#0094: THINKChip Pokemon Battle Stadium

I try to strike a balance on this blog as I send yesteryear's paraphernalia into the ether; the major impetus, obviously, is to select things that may be of some interest to the wider toy-collecting demographic. Folks out there tend to get a kick out of items related to popular '90s fads like Street Sharks. Less so when it's a pig I made from a sock. Go figure.

The other side of the coin, I must confess, is how much benefit I will receive from jettisoning these toys. Not fiscally, mind you, because I've made no more than a $4 return for Madden NFL 2005 on the DS (I legitimately had to argue with the staff member over trading in SmackDown: Just Bring It, as if it was carrying an ancient curse). Nay, the benefit I receive is slightly less clutter, hence why I've been trying to up the ante lately by turning my attention towards more unwieldy items.

It From the Pit no longer haunts the laundry room. Rock & Roll Elmo has ceased from tumbling out of the closet. And hey fuck you, those Gashapon figurines took up more space than you'd think.

So today, we shed the THINKChip Pokemon Battle Stadium. Now, the only battles we shall enjoy are the ones of our mind.

Two men enter. One will be blessed with immortality. The other, ripped piecemeal by the gnashing of a thousand bloodied fangs. Gotta catch 'em all!

Based on principle, this was one of the more relevant pieces of Pokemerchandise. You pitted your beasts against one another in the form of detailed figurines with a microchip lodged up their rectum. You could choose between a standard or a special attack depending on the type matchup, then press the button to stop a light on the floor as close to the middle as you could to maximise damage.

That made very little sense in hindsight, and I'm the one who wrote the goddamn sentence. It's all a bit much to explain it, so let me just refer to YouTube for further information. It's win/win, really. They get the extra two and a half clicks that come with my blog, and I cut approximately 800 words off my total. That gives me more room to say 'fuck', and that's very important.

Well, that sure was fun! Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeb!

There were a couple of issues holding it back from being a rollicking success, however. If you've recently read my entry on the B.I.O-Bugs, you can probably guess one of those issues already (if you haven't, well fuck you you're not invited to my slumber party). For you see, it's all well and good to have these fancy electronic devices where you could trade data and battle your friends and rellies, but the odds are, nobody else is going to own a single figure to justify it.

So what was I going to do? Invite people over to play with my battle toy thing? How do we decide who gets which Pokemon? They're mine, after all, I earned them through hard work/wise investment/pleading with mommy and daddy. So to be perfectly honest with you, I don't think I ever actually engaged in mortal combat with anyone other than myself, and remarkably, all of those matches were gerrymandered to ensure that Bulbasaur would always win, because he's my boi.

These were all of the Pocket Monsters I managed to collect. As you can see, it's a fairly conservative figure (pun? Maybe?). Squirtle and Geodude came with the stadium, and near as I can recall, tracking down the others was an absolute nightmare. Bulby and Charmander were must-haves, because damn those Kanto starters make me moist, but I never got around to amassing anymore. Either I reasoned that I had plenty of time to find the others, or I saw the writing on the wall and knew that I would hardly ever use them. I kinda doubt the foresight on the latter.

Only during my current investigation have I discovered that they actually went as far as releasing a few gen 2 critters like Cyndaquil and Totodile, but had the audacity to deprive the world of Venusaur. Clearly, they reasoned that Ivysaur was already too overpowered, and they would have to suppress its potential before it overthrew the Indonesian government.

As you can see, the figures look really damn good. You can even move Geodude's arms around to help boost his street cred. The actual functionality of this is probably to make him a lot less fragile as you haphazardly yank him to and fro. Even if you ended up snapping off a limb, that would be fine - because let's be honest, nobody was using Geodude to begin with.

Once again, any intention I had of taking my THINKChip posse for a spin was put on indefinite hold once I opened up the battery compartment. If I've said it once, I've said it a thousand times; take your fucking batteries out of your fucking toys. They're mean old pricks who demand your constant attention, and if you leave them to their own devices (or more accurately, your devices), they will leak aggressively.

Is it irreparable? Probably not. Is Tony going to repair it? Oh hell no. He's got more important things to do! He hasn't worked out what they are yet, but he's well aware that he's got to do them eventually.

In any event, you'll just have to venture over to YouTube for any battle fixin's you were craving. There's a fair few. Some of them are fairly cringey, I must confess, whereas I'm fairly confident that mine would have only proven to be mildly cringey (and rigged as fuck, because you know that everyone is jobbing to Bulbasaur).

So thank you, THINKChip Battle Stadium, for being there through thick and thin, during some of the greatest times of my life, and some of the worst. I'm not suggesting that it was super supportive, I just mean that it was literally there, sitting around. Doing jack shit. A bit like its owner, actually.

#0093: Trapped in Bat Wing Hall

I may not look it, but I'm actually a very hardy young man. I've survived being forcibly conjoined, painfully frammilized, and subjected to Gwyneth Paltrow's acting. Despite all of these mishaps, I've still come out swinging. Not my fists, mind you, but atop a wrecking ball, stark naked. It wasn't as sexy as I expected, and rather cold, to boot.

But perhaps my luck(?) has come to an end, because evidently, I now find myself Trapped in Bat Wing Hall. Good gracious, Ignatius! How did that happen? Did I misplace the key? Has Bruce Wayne taken me hostage? Do I have a third gag to complete this tired analogy (no, I do not)?

Indeed, we return to the mayhem and the maiming - I wanted to say maimhem, but it sounds vaguely Yiddish and I didn't want to offend - of the Give Yourself Goosebumps books with the third entry in the venerable series. Oddly, every single book so far has appeared on this blog on a number ending with 3, and I swear to you that it wasn't intentional. Partly because I lack the self-restraint to implement such a practice, but mostly because that is a really fucking random tradition.

Some of the GYGs got more runtime under my eyeballs than others, and Bat Wing Hall falls under the 'I can't remember a goddamned thing' classification. Whether it failed to impress, or if I was just swamped with Goosebumps titles at the time, I can't quite decide. Going in blind ought to be a double-edged sword, then, potentially thrilling but most likely disjointed and ending in my swift demise.

A quick scan of the back cover reveals that I'm the new kid in school, and tragically, I haven't a friend in the world. That is, until I meet up with Nick, a member of the Horror Club. I swear to god, if this leads to another meta R.L. Stine reference, I am flinging this thing out the fucking window.

Anyhow, my first encounter with Nick is of a dubious nature, as it seems to imply that he captures my attention by tossing a pebble that hits me in the back. Afterwards, we have a pleasant discussion about our hobbies and living arrangements, before he invites me to Bat Wing Hall to join his club.

I'm crying foul early. Why did you throw a rock at me, Nick? Do you not know how fucking dangerous that is? What if I turned around unexpectedly? You could have taken my eye out. I may have fallen victim to an unfortunate ricochet, and lost two eyes. Moreover, I'm a drunken thirty year old man and yet I'm still in high school, there is clearly something wrong with me - get the fuck away from me, Nick.

Bat Wing Hall is the eerie mansion at the end of the street. It's possibly haunted, or at very least loaded with asbestos, but I decide to screw my courage to the sticking place (I have no idea what that phrase means, so I assume I screwed my courage up my ass) and accept his offer. I have suspicions that turning him down would result in an early game over. Maybe he would just straight up shank me for my refusal, like the time I decided against becoming a Mormon.

I meet up with Nick at nine o'clock, and he introduces me to a skinny, fidgety girl named Debbie, who has messy, long dark hair and always seems to be squirming about. She sounds like a Japanese ghost. She also receives far too many adjectives for my taste.

The three of us make our way to Bat Wing Hall. It's a huge, dilapidated building with broken windows and menacing trees with gnarled branches. The previous owner, Professor Krupnik, died two years ago, leaving it to fall into a state of disrepair. It was completely abandoned until Nick and his cronies pried the boards off the front door like the thugs they are.

Inside, we encounter the other members of the Horror Club. Among them are a shrill girl with short, curly hair named Marcie and a large boy with bulging arm muscles. Isn't he, like, twelve or something? He must be eastern European. My arrival is met with disapproval (art imitating life), because tonight's schedule won't be consisting of the usual spooky storytelling. It's game day. And no, that doesn't mean we're taking on the Packers at Lambeau.

An argument ensues. Some of the kids are open to me joining in their reindeer games, while others don't think I'm up to the task. Sick of waiting, I bravely voice my opinion. "Fuck you, you pansy ass bitches, I'm playing your shitty game!" or something to that effect. Debbie tries to warn me at the last moment to flee, but the group finally relent, and allow me to participate.

Apparently we'll be playing a rousing round of The Hunt. They split up into two teams; the red team, consisting of Nick, Debbie and a smelly kid named Connor, and the blue team, made up of Marcie, the roided up kid (who is apparently called Martin, but I'm pretty sure they just misspelled Bogdan) and Lara, a beautiful girl with long blond hair and green eyes.

It's up to me which team I want to join up with. I'm really keen to see how things pan out with Debbie - is she really a ghost? Does she put out? - but ultimately, I opt for the blue team because I always gravitate towards hot blondes. The aim of the game is to scavenge about for the scariest item you can find, like a voodoo doll or an existential crisis. Bogdan demands I scope out the cemetery across the street first, because I'm the new guy.

That seems like both a terrible idea and a really strange place to put a cemetery, but I won't be so easily rattled. I've got my courage screwed up my ass, after all. I make my way there, eyes peeled for some cool shit to steal, and happen upon the KRUPNIK CRYPT. It sounds pretty badass, though it comes with a warning engraved on the door that declares that "WHO TURNS THE STONE WILL GROW BAT BONES".

Such a harrowing message might frighten most, but I'm fortunate enough to be illiterate. I pull open the heavy door and enter, only to find nothing but cobwebs, a bat, and a coffin. Could I just bring back a dead body? I think that would win the contest. When I emerge from the crypt, everyone seems to have bailed out. Ugh, this happens every time I make a quick trip to the cemetery. So lame!

I make my way home, feeling rather ill, and plop into bed. Knowing my luck, I probably contracted tuberculosis while I was dicking around in that graveyard. When I awaken a few hours later, I am horrified/bewildered/vaguely aroused to discover that I have been transformed into a motherfucking bat!

Oh no, not again!

The thoughts rattle around my little bat brain like a castanet. This must have something to do with that stupid warning I had chosen to ignore in the cemetery. At the time I thought it was a little cryptic (badum-tish!) but now I'm fully aware of its severity. Perhaps if I close the door, it'll reverse the spell? Kind of a 'make it that didn't happen' for the world of bat-related curses?

With a few flaps of my wings, I shoot out of the window and into the night sky. Alas, I fly about as well as I drive, crashing into trees and striking several pedestrians, and I end up discombobulated and unsure of my location. Nearby, there is a young couple taking their dog for a walk. I briefly consider asking them for directions, before concluding that, wait no, that's fucking stupid, and try my best to find the cemetery on my own.

It takes a few hours, but as dawn begins to break, I've finally located the crypt. I swoop in (an adjective I so rarely get to use), only for the door to slam shut behind me. Now I'm trapped, and still at least 97% bat. It's pitch black, but with my sonar I'm able to find a crack in the floor with a message engraved that reads "WHO ENTERS HERE WILL BE". Man, whoever constructed this crypt is sure fond of engraving.

Fresh out of options, I descend into the crack. I try to flap my wings as I fall into the void, but they've turned back into arms. Why, I'm a real boy! That would be awful swell, if it didn't mean that I was now plummeting towards my inevitable death.

When I finally hit the bottom, I find myself in a strange swamp. A smell of decay overwhelms me and mournful cries fill the air. The logistics of this are far too bizarre for a man of my simple upbringing, but I'm confident that I would rather not stick around here for longer than absolutely necessary, or at least long enough to take a cute selfie.

I happen upon a sign that points in two directions. One leads to the crypt, while the other is so old and weathered that it has no words left on it at all. It's a moot point, since I can't read, but I like the broad possibilities that lie with the blank option. Maybe it goes where I choose for it to? They always told me I can achieve anything if I just wished hard enough.

After a few short steps and an ill-advised game of hopscotch, I hear footsteps behind me. They're big, heavy and terrifying, and odds are they don't belong to someone nice like the king of the wild things or Robert Wadlow. I scurry into a cave marked as the MONSTER LIBRARY to make my escape. Hopefully security can escort this villain out for being too noisy.

Before I can lose my pursuer or at least check out a copy of Where's Waldo, a bony hand lands on my shoulder, and I'm face to face to face with a hideous two headed beast. It stares me down and demands to know where my library card is (no, for real), before warning me that there's only one way back to the crypt. Before it can tell me, it politely asks if I'll join it on a tour of the monster library.

Considering that I was recently transformed into a bat, going on a tour of a monster library guided by a two headed ghoul sounds comparatively normal. Sure, I'll play ball. The books are your standard spooky fare: monster cookbook, monster travel book, monster encyclopedia, monster at the end of this book...

After a little while, I ask the monster if it can please show me to the exit. It says that it will, on the condition that I first read it a story. All of the stories. In the whole library. Otherwise it'll eat me. It's at this point that it dawns on me that I'm probably going to be stuck here for the rest of eternity.

...Also, if we're going with the running gag here, I can't actually read in the first place. Uh-oh...

Final result: 27 pages.

Addiction renewed, part 2

...nuff said.