Revenge of the Swindled

Alas, my comrades, I have been boonswoggled by a most wretched of persuns!

There I was at Meijer, innocently picking up ingredients for my world-famous ginger Schnapps, which I intended to fill with mind-altering substances, thereby securing my victory at Coliseum feed to my dear friends in Lansing. Alas, I was thwarted! I momentarily turned my back on my cart, which at that time contained my meticulously planned grocery list; a rare Peruvian pastry brush, imported at great personal expense directly from an ancient Incan temple, its balsam handle lovingly carved with special charms to ward off evil spirits, its bristles plucked on Midsummer Night from the body of a two-headed goat born at the new moon, its gold filigree gathered from King Solomon's mines in deepest Africa; and a kayak. Alas, in this moment whilst I was just down the aisle grabbing frozen pizzas in order to restock my larder, my cart was stolen from me.

Stolen! Without my shopping list, how was I to remember to pick up that most exotic of foods, ramen? Without my kayak, how was I to traverse the hidden river of Orontes to arrive in the secret valley of Tezcatlipoca where the certain ginger root grows, heated by the flames of the volcano Orodruin, which can only be cut by a silver dagger that has been polished by the pastry brush in the darkness of a total solar eclipse? And that pastry brush! Many bothans died to bring me that pastry brush!

As one would expect, I posthaste made my way to the end of the aisle, looking frantically all the while for my precious shopping cart and its exceedingly rare cargo. Rolling a natural twenty on my spot check, I SAW HER. It was the selfsame wheelchair-bound woman from whom I purchased my coffee table all those years ago! Exceedingly miffed and obviously maddened by a desire for revenge, she had installed a set of jet engines on her wheelchair. Cackling maniacally when she realized she had been spotted, she turned these on and started mowing down small children on her way to the exit, dragging my shopping cart and its precious contents with her all the while. In desperation, I began the operation for calling Pi-man, and his most noblest of steeds, Trog-dor, to my aid, perhaps to magically change the shape of her wheelchair tyres, but unfortunately in my haste I erred at the 297th digit and, alas, failed at my attempt.

I swear, upon my stash of chocolate, with a vow to not trim my handlebar mustache until it is accomplished, I will not rest until I have brought this malodious harpy to justice!