The Yellow House

The Yellow House, susceptible to broken windows and susceptible to things not yet known, and the famed landmark was not yet known for its susceptibles but possibly, one day, it would be. The leader after-all had not a foggy face but was a clear picture to all she encountered, with a tongue for sharing. Also, when gaining in the knowledge of the Yellow House, one should bear in mind the name of the Candle Man, who was not a candle maker but a master over other makings. He worked for an organisation of sorts who'd named themselves TrueReign. None of the other residents were aware of this.

But away from the tricky flames of the candle, in a much less inconspicuous environment, there could be found a Madam President.

Brey was the president of 'Bamerica, the Powerhouse Country' of Earth. She lived in a very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very large house. The Yellow House. Its colours mainly were blue. Inside this house, located in a city dubbed with the name of Ploatmainlarger, lived those who worked with the President and right now there was a potential new employee having an interview with Brey in her office. It was a desert themed office. The floor was only made of sand and behind the boss a mural had been painted of C3PO and R2D2 roaming a vast desert. Above C3PO there was a speech bubble which read,

"No, it's this way!"

Above R2D2, who had had enough of his best pal's metal tongue, was written,

"Tourists…"

Now, if Paul, the interviewee, got the job, the Yellow House would be his new home.

"So," said Brey, looking at him with suspicious green eyes. She had a natural yellow tan and a dark quiff holding a yellow stripe. "Here we are."

"Um, yes," said the young man quietly. Was he shy or hiding something? The President knew not but what she did know or at least could astutely guess was that the man had a funny sense of fashion. In fact, by the brown woollen sweater over the blue shirt and grey tie, she went one step further to think he had a bad fashion trajectory she happened to adore.

"Why did you hesitate?" she asked.

"Because…well, what do you mean?" he answered.

"You hate it?"

"I'm sorry. I don't understand the question."

Brey had begun her controversial method of investigational interviewing. Like interrogation but with less common sense and more metaphorical flying ants.

"What do you mean you hate it?" she proceeded; her voice somewhat higher pitched. Currently, the hypothetical situation swirling in her journalistic mindset, was Paul, the interviewee, had recently told her of his hate for her beloved hairstyle. In reality, he wasn't a fan but, he dare not express this feeling, not without first the correct provocation anyway. But that was the crucial point. The President was provoking, testing the waters, dangling her toes in the pool of piranhas. What might the interviewee do if she persists with her hypothetical situation? Will he snap? Resort to violence? Continue to be gracious and willing? Anything was possible, something was probable. This was the President's mantra.

"Oh God, your voice is so annoying!" Paul blurted, already showing his first signs of breakage like an old brown sweatered cat that's been watching the washing machine for too long.

"Sorry?" she retorted, unable not to laugh a little.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean that. I've got turrets. Tourette's, I mean. That's not true. I'm so sorry."

"Wowie…this is an interesting development…my breasts are small, no?"

"…?" Awestruck, he had not the capability, nay, the sensitivity to answer.

"Do they annoy you too?"

"No, they're fine," he managed, shaking his head. Paul was light skinned and had a brown, curly bonce.

"What about my tattoo?" asked Brey, showing him the inside of her bicep. She wore a smart black and white vest shirt.

"Urgh. What is it with you type of women and tattoos? Getting a tattoo is like dying your hair. It's all fake, fake, fake!"

"Paul!"

"You asked me a question. I'm being honest."

"Too honest."

"Of course you would say that."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You're probably a woman who over exaggerates all the time, right? A liar."

The President laughed for a while. Paul sat there awkwardly, fidgeting and agitated.

"This interview is incredible," the woman decided. "You got a girlfriend, Paul?"

"Waste of time."

"You got a boyfriend, Paul?"

"Waste of time."

"You got friends, Paul?"

"Waste of time."

"You don't have friends, Paul?" She carried on calmly.

"What did I just say to you?"

"Alright, fine, you grumpy emoji. Surely you've at least one friend?"

"How am I supposed to change the world when I have friends to deal with?"

"I don't know," she replied in an over-the-top exasperated manner, reclining back in her chair.

"Don't be so dramatic," he complained. She threw her hands in the air again, her legs – which were covered by black pants – now dangling over on the chair's black arms before the oddly fingered chair-hand. The feet of the chair were glimmering deep blue and planted in sand and the back resembled the anatomy of a mighty desert roaming dung beetle for this was the theme of the desk chair. The odd fingers were the fingers of a dung beetle. The deep blue glimmer was of a sun glinted beetle, trapsing the dunes and the head of the chair was like a roaring lion but a beetle instead, rising taller than the height of the woman sitting in its lap.

"You got a mum, Paul?"

"Not many," he said as if he was making a joke.

The interviewer peered at him, a confused expression on her face. He began to laugh. A lot. Brey just watched him. Once he'd settled down, she admitted, "You are fascinating, Paul. You're like a wild weird wiry animal. In fact, I'll tell you what you look like, you look like a baby bison."

The room went silent. Brey stared at him with a wild yet secretly pleased expression. After a few seconds his hand suddenly slapped against his mouth in self-realisational shock.

"I feel like I'm on a rollercoaster when I'm with you, Paul."

"That's a boring metaphor."

"It's more of a synon-synon-sy-no-nym-synonym."

"Well done. You've managed to speak your language. Though you're wrong still. I'm right. It's a tiny, unfulfilled metaphor," he told her.

"Technically it's not my language."

"What are you talking about?"

"I don't own this language, do I? Some dude probably invented it. Won't have been a woman because people didn't like women back in the days of language inventing." She was gazing at the ceiling as she spoke, still in her chilled-out position. The interviewee slowly banged his head against the desk because of his heightened frustration. He soon stopped though and touched his forehead. Fortunately, he hadn't noticed the dangling noose above him, hanging from the ceiling, western style.

"What the hell is this desk made of?"

"That would be something called sand."

"That's not possible."

"Why?"

"Because it's solid."

"Why can't sand be solid?"

"Have you ever seen sand?"

"I feel like you're looking at this matter with a very limited view in your curly head."

The young man stared at the table, thinking for a moment. Then he got to his feet and started kicking it.

"Hey!" She also got to her feet. "What are you doing?"

"I don't understand!" he cried, with genuine worry emanating from him.

"It's okay." The woman moved over to him, placing a hand on his arm. "It's okay, Paul, relax." She guided him back to his chair and then moved back to hers, sitting down normally and bringing the chair closer to the desk so her legs tucked under, her bare toes arching into the sand-floor. "You've got the job."

His sad face lifted and gradually it brightened.

"Follow me, Paul, let me give you a tour."

Curly Bonce silently got up and followed her to the sand-door. He eyed it incredulously. Above it was a pale wooden sign, cracked and faded like one might find in a western movie. It bore no words but a tiny speaker sounding with a whisper every time someone opened the door. No one but Brey knew what the whisper said, though it was something politically incorrect. To have understanding over the whisper you need to know two things. There is something called a Bbible the final 'e' is silent and in the Bbible are people called the Bjews, the 's' in 'Bjews' is silent but it's still a plural noun. And finally, the whisper from the sign above the door says something along the lines of, "Welcome home, Bjewish man!" The 'h' is silent, making it a peculiarly hard word to pronounce, unless the person has a lisp. To understand why the President finds this funny in her desert themed office, you'll need to know some of the Bbible, which means there are three things you need know to know why the sign whispers what it whispers and why it is funny. An important side-note, the President is not racist, she's an immigrant woman, so the likelihood of racism coming from her is void. But yes, indeed, her sense of humour is often risky.

"Yes, it is made of sand," Brey remarked, gesturing at the door beneath the sign which whispers.

"I don't understand," the man replied with big, worried eyes.

"Don't think about it. Just look over there." The President pointed to a yellow door across, what was known as the Black-Rainbow-Slice of Carpeted Passageway. The carpet slice travelled across the passageway and consisted of all the shades of black a colour expert named Mark, short for Marker Pen, could imagine or for a better word invent. Some might question if any of the carpet slice was actually black but they would be naysayers.

"That is the Rehabilitation Centre," Brey explained about the yellow door across the passage. "You should preferably never open that door unless you want to do the course because…weird stuff might happen to you if you don't do the whole process correctly, um, yeah, it's dangerous and weird. It's just best if you never go in unless you need to or unless you know your way around."

"Is that not dangerous? Not having a sign or something?"

"Yeah."

"Well, shouldn't you do something about that?"

"I like to keep things light. Having a big red danger sign wouldn't exactly scream, WELCOME LOVED ONES, now, would it?"

"I don't think it should be like that. This problem needs fixing, we need a sign," he insisted, having barely listened to what his brand-new boss just said.

"Okay, this way first," she chimed happily, carrying on the tour.

"Wait," he called after her. Brey went right, leaving the Black-Rainbow-Slice of carpet.

As they walked, the ceiling opened up in front of them like a movie with a slow plot line, revealing more space for little nibblets of lore and vast, unnecessary sexual tension. The little blue lights would sparkle rays of glitter on Paul, arousing distress but then would arrive the grand murals of momentous political points in the history of Bamerica. These murals were the first thing in the slow unravelling of the plot line to successfully excite the new member of the Yellow House family but when the Steal Drum Band Choir for Children were met, he almost resigned.

Further on, Paul's complaining was interrupted by a fellow named Bap, a blonde, long-haired white man who suddenly appeared from around the corner, coming out from a branch of corridor.

"Brey, my dude!" he said grinning, slapping her hand.

"Sup, homie?"

"Who's this homie?" He nodded towards the newbie.

"This is Paul, a new addition."

"Ah, sweet curls, bro." He held out a hand.

It wasn't shaken. Instead, what was received were these words: "Why do you speak like that?"

"What words come out of your mouth, bro?"

"What?"

"What?"

"…"

"…"

The tension was killing Brey with silent laughter, brewing all warm and curled up in her belly.

"You skate, man?"

"No, I don't skate, only Yobs skate."

Bap turned his lively gaze from Paul and looked to Brey in confusion.

"Yob means he loves to skate. He's just joshing with you, Bap," she explained.

"Oh! No way! That's rad man! So you snowboard too then?"

"No! I don't snowboard!"

Bap laughed out loud. "I like it, I like it. You've got some jokes man. Alright, sweet man. See you on the flip side, my curly brethren," said Bap, smiling, swiftly lifting two fists, twisting them back and forth and literally sprinting into the distance at full speed. Newbie watched him go, worried by such events. Brey watched her new member of family with intrigue.

"Why does he speak like that?"

"This isn't going to be another sand-desk thing, is it, Paul?"

"Please don't remind me."

"Sorry. Block those thoughts out and follow me onward."

Corridors the two were traveling through presently were fairly wide and white-walled. The carpet was a nice sunset yellow and forest green, intertwined in a way that may trick you into thinking you've taken drugs. There were varying pictures on the walls throughout the entirety of the house like one of a pigeon and a rhino-pigeon in mortal combat with swords of steal and surges of unlimited power. Also, an alligator dressed as Dorothy travelling down the yellow brick road in red shoes.

"Okay. Through this unassuming windowless door brandished by a no-entry sign is Nigel Pink. This man wanted his office to be as far away from mine as possible but I wanted him to be as close as possible, so we compromised. He hates his last name, so don't bring that up. Okay, here we go," she said excitedly, opening the door and the overwhelming scent of liquorice poured out.

"Oh, no." Paul cringed, putting a hand over his nose.

"Yeah. Just wait a moment."

"What do you want, sand woman?" asked Nigel, sitting at his extravagantly large mahogany desk in dim light, a cigar in his mouth. The room was like an old jazz bar, Paul thought. He didn't mind it, except for the smoke.

"Hey, Nigel. This is Paul. A new member of the family."

Nigel, a black man with long grey hair stood up and walked around his massive desk. He stuck out a hand. It was received and shaken. He was silent, every now and again eyeing the President. He had a commanding officer kind of way about him, strong in will and in power for sure…but on the other hand, whenever those quiet glances to the President would occur, one could spot a little boy in pyjamas in a big man's body. Why was that?

"Nice to meet you, sir," Paul blurted.

"Mm," he answered, whacking Newbie on a shoulder, causing him to stumble sideways a bit. Brey kept him steady with a helping hand. He cleared his throat and listened to the loud words:

"Sorry about that old chum!" Then Nigel also cleared his throat awkwardly. "I've been working out since I was in my father's testicles…you work out, Paul?"

"No, sir."

"You look like a baby bison."

"Thank you, sir."

"You served in the army, Paul?"

"No, sir."

"You're saluting, why is that?"

"Oh, I was not aware I was saluting, sir." His hand dropped.

"You like my desk?"

"Yes, sir."

"You want to touch it?"

"No, sir."

"Okay. It was fond to meet you. I mean I'm fond of you. NO! My apologies." Nigel cleared his throat. "I mean…it was good to meet your acquittance, aquatic, acquaintance, yes, that's it. That's all. You may vacate the premises, please."

"Yes, sir." With that, Paul walked out of the room.

"Salute me, Brey!" the commanding officer ordered.

"No, Nigel. You carry on subtly making the most of Paul's lack of familiarity. For the present, he doesn't know the truth about your shaky knees but never forget I'm the one really in command here." She tapped his cheek with a hand and smiled perfectly pleasantly.

In an instant, Nigel turned into a very little boy dressed in pyjamas, literally. Brey's patronising-ness was one of the only things that could accomplish this with such ease. The therapists saw a need for him to have safe words designated for 'Time with Madam President'.

"Now look what you've done! This is why I wanted to be far away from you!"

"Deal with it." Madam President strode out. The little one threw his hands in the air, tiptoed around his desk which was now taller than him and struggled to climb onto his seat but eventually managed.

Paul, standing outside around the corner of the doorway, peered as she exited the office. "What just happened?"

"Go on?" replied the woman with a yellow stripe in her hair.

"I saluted unwillingly?"

"He has a strange effect on people sometimes when they first meet him. It'll fade with time."

"Oh…I do not like that. That is a violation."

"Look, you're going to need to loosen up a bit. This place is a mess."

"It cannot be!" Cried he, following her. "This is the President of Bamerica's house. It should not be a mess!"

"What do you want me to do about it?"

"You're the President!"

"And? I'm still human."

"That's generous."

"What is?"

"CALLING YOURSELF A HUMAN!"

She stopped, met his eyes and slapped the face.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" The slap now returned.

Brey was shocked, slapping again.

"Stop it!" moaned Paul, red-faced.

"You slapped me, Paul! I'm the freekin President!"

"Oh, go, cry to the government!"

Brey tutted angrily and started in a direction. A second or two passed. Newbie jogged after her.

As the tour went on, little Nigel was in his office sitting on his oversized chair with his arms crossed, telling himself, "You're manly, you're tough, you're big and strong, you're wise, you're roughly fifty years old. You are not a boy! You are not little!" Finally, with the courage of a tamed lion roaring inside of him, he transformed back into his former, tall, manly self. "Suck it, Brey! Woo!" He swiftly settled down after this outburst and cleared his throat once more. Clothes all correct, precise and manly, Nigel Pink made his way out and down the corridor, turning, walking on, turning, walking on, reaching a black door and knocking two simple knocks. The bottom half immediately dented like something on the other side had smashed into it. The manly fellow ran away, instead traveling two down to a deep blue entrance. He knocked two times. Whilst awaiting the arrival of whomever the deep blue door belonged to, his attention wondered nervously to the Breathing Wall behind him. Apart from Brey, there were few things, he'd say that were able to turn him into a little boy but the Breathing Wall was one of them. It had been painted pitch black by the owner of the black, dented door a decade or so ago. She'd painted the wall at night for about a week. The only sign to show someone was re-decorating was of course the slowly changing colour of the wall but she never left out her paint-stained sheets or extendable roller. She always tidied up after herself, leaving no clues of her presence ever existing. People started to notice movement in the newly furbished corridor, movement not from the workers but from the corridor itself, a once non-moving entity. The wall breathed, the chandeliers squeaked and twisted and spun, sometimes when you were right under them, causing you to sprint in fear. And rumours tell of the big magical painting with the twisted frame. The daunting shadows are told to swallow you up and trap you inside, adding one to the number of broken streetlamps bordering the never ending, murky path. Theorists suggest, when the path in the painting is fully lined with streetlamps, they'll switch on their lights and everyone trapped will be set free. And on top of it all, as a kind of cherry, beneath the painting there was a rocking horse as if someone was trying to attract children to the trap! If it was really a trap…Nigel had to wait for a full minute in his nightmare state, trying his best to put on a brave face before the natives. Eventually, someone answered the door. She couldn't be rushed, the apprentice of the owner of the black door and Nigel was well aware. The door opened a very small amount and a dark eye peered through the crack hopefully.

"Damn it," she moaned, seeing the knocker to be persistent rather than giving up and leaving as she'd hoped he would. Soeshie opened the door further and backed up. Nigel observed as two males dressed in black and white suits with suitcases in hand, left the room.

"What do you want?" asked Soeshie. Like her immediate boss she had vampiric features. Pale skin and dark everything else. As far as Mr Pink knew she was not a vampire though. No pointed teeth yet discovered. A small white, skeletal chandelier glinted above his head as he began confidently, sweat on his forehead.

"I need you to do something."

"What?"

"I need you to feed Moon."

"That's not my job."

"Yes, but Shaun is otherwise—"

"What a dick," she interrupted, exiting and slamming the door behind her. The tall man was left standing there, shivering as she stormed off. "I am a man, I am strong, I am brave."

Soeshie made her way to the elevator. Once in, pressing a silver button with the word, MOON, engraved on it with a piece of intergalactic-coherent fish food dangling on an attached piece of thin white string beneath it. The elevator proceeded upward after the entrance was sealed slowly and methodically in accordance to the Rule of Thumb, and haunting violins sounding through the speakers in accordance to the Rule of Thumb, which is, whomever was the first to press their thumb on the calling button before entering the elevator would have their print scanned and their favourite door closing procession activated and genre of music played. Sometimes, great conflict arose between the Yellow House family members when taking trips in the traveling-help-mechanism, all thanks to the Rule of Thumb. The wallpaper also changed to Breathing Wallpaper. The joy of it was the intensity of the movement of the wallpaper and the feeling of inevitable claustrophobia in venomous darkness.

On the way to the roof, a suit of armour lifted from beneath the wobbly piano-themed floor. It was chunky and robust and it needed to be. It was coloured only white like an all-time classic astronaut's suit. The helmet was globe shaped and the boots were sturdy and firm. Every joint in the armour moved in perfect unison with the wearer. You may not win a 100-metre race in it but you could do better than expected. When fully risen, it lurched and placed itself on Soeshie's body, fitting head to toe. They'd had to install multiple suit sizes though there used to be only one set of armours for Shaun until one day, he was absent and someone else needed to feed Moon. The armour didn't fit the new feeder at all and he almost crashed disastrously.

When the roof was revealed, Soeshie walked out into a protective tent. In this tent was a classic pirate's cannon but altered ever so slightly. On reaching said cannon, the scary lady pressed a button on a panel off to the side. The panel held multiple buttons of varying colours. The one pressed was silver. The cannon's fuse sparked and Ms vampire lookalike climbed into the cannon, feet first and waited. While waiting, the machine aimed for a hole in the covering's roof. A crackly voice sounded from the panel, enacting a man communicating from Ground Base1 to the Pilot of the spacecraft named, Cannon:

"Ready your engines, ready your ass, vibrations are coming and they're coming fast!"

Soeshie was shot forth. It was such a powerful shot she went higher than the clouds and then further and further and further until she left Earth's atmosphere behind and began flight in weightless space. Once in space, using the specially made jet pack on her back, she propelled herself toward the Moon at a terrifying, death-defying rate. Had she not been dressed in the suit of space-armour, she would be dead already and for multiple reasons. The big one being, Space of course does not own oxygen! Space pirates though do exist ironically. Why is it ironic? They know, so ask them.

When getting close to the Moon's surface, slowing down significantly was necessary, yet still travelling at a fast pace her feet touched down and she activated Earth Gravity mode. The suit did as its master wanted and Soeshie sprinted across the grey surface, grabbing a carton of fish food off a stand and skidding to a halt before she could plummet into the deep, deep dark hole. The surrounding solar system breathed a sigh of relief, praying they wouldn't have to experience a repeat of that crash when the man in the badly fitted suit came to feed Moon.

"Hi, Moon. Shaun's busy. Sorry, you've got me today," she said to the dark hole. "I heard you like stories, so I'm going to tell you one." Soeshie took a seat on the ledge, letting her legs dangle into the pit. She tipped the carton of fish food and small colourful unique flakes dropped into the hole as if gravity was the same here as on Earth. Nobody understood this phenomenon apart from Moon itself. Soeshie halted, wanting to feed Moon gradually throughout her story.

"Once upon a time…No, that's a dumb beginning for hideous children…Upon the worst day of the year, Christmas began. I woke up at mid-day, already cursing the snow I could just tell was falling beyond my blacked-out window." She poured a few more flakes and continued. "Jack Frost is a liar and a dirty cheat!" she bellowed. "That's why I hate him." Something the listener knew about the storyteller for Shaun had once mentioned it when telling one of his many tales was that Soeshie grudged a strenuous crush for Jack Frost and was secretly in love with him. Her annoyingly kind mother used to read her fairy-tale stories about him before she went to bed and at Christmas time especially. They'd sit at the windowsill, beneath the fairy lights and watch the snow fall on a cold evening. Huddled together, they'd love on each other and bond over these stories, then make up some of their own. "I opened my blacked-out window," said the storyteller, "and told Jack Frost myself. You're a cheat and a liar! I didn't hear sight or sound of him as I'd expected. I shut my window and face planted back into my bed. With my face in my pillow, tears tumbling from my eyes, I heard a faint voice. It was a kind voice…like one I used to know. It floated up through the rafters and played in my mind, causing happy memories to return to me. The difference this time was they remained happy for more than just a second and they didn't become immediately painful. It was Brey singing, climbing to the top of the tower where I rest in my nest. Brey quite likes my bedroom, hers is similar in some ways actually, which is nice…" Soeshie sounded somewhat sad as she told her story. "Brey opened the hatch in the floor and climbed up without showing her true feelings, dampening down her glee for my sake. "Hello Soeshie," she said. "I've brought you breakfast. Monkey brains and snake soup like in your favourite Indiana Jones scene."

"Thanks," I replied, ungratefully. "Leave it there."

"You know I'm not going to do that," she said, placing the tray on my bed and standing at the end of it, understanding I like my personal space.

"I know how you feel about today," she began saying.

I nodded.

"But—"

At the very notion of the word, I frowned and spat.

"But," she persisted. "But I thought we could read together for a moment."

"NO!" I shouted angrily but I practically choked on the word as the tears overwhelmed me. Brey didn't say anything else that morning, not in conversation, not in any conversation I can remember. But she opened a book and read from the pages as my weeping lessened until I too read from the pages. In a moment I don't recall, I invited her to sit with me and together we read and eventually fell asleep, waking up at a minute passed midnight. Christmas was over and it had been wonderful.

Moon also knew that the storyteller's mother passed when the storyteller was only 12.

Soeshie walked to the stand and placed the fish food carton back where it belonged until the next feed. Job done. She sprinted away whilst deactivating Earth Gravity mode, followed by a leap of space-faith and the jetpack sent her bursting on a fiery wing. She was heading for Planet Earth. But on the short journey something happened. What happened was a person. He owned mad yellow and blue hair and big yellow eyes and his ancestors had developed natural bodily jet packs instead of normal backs. Jet Backs, you could say. This evolutionary novelty was formally named, SkinJetPack. Fire blazed out of the person's manoeuvrable back holes. He was heading toward the unaware space traveller and Moon feeder. She could neither hear him nor see him. The fellow wore no suit. He only wore a white t-shirt, a picture of an electric guitar occupying the front. The shirt had no back half. The bottom half of his body was nude but he bore no genitals and no butt. Only smooth, darkish green skin and flesh. Somehow impossibly he travelled faster than his prey. Rickeled knew about the feeding times of Moon. Revealed to him by the spy, the Candle Man Master. Rickeled, on his way back from visiting extended family having taken only a couple days off work to rest before the big job figured he would do some extra terrorising on the road to his next destination as the opportunity was so obvious and easy to exploit. Eventually catching his target, Soeshie flying ever closer to Earth's atmosphere, Rickeled purposely crashed into the back of her and the pace quickened. She gasped, completely in her own world of out of worry thought but now unpleasantly forced into a violent reality. The pair went tumbling down, down, down. The victim tried to punch and shove but there were blurry flames and quick panic, a smack, a punch, some cursing and falling and sporadic flying. The descent, otherwise fatal, was slowed by Soeshie who's jet pack proved a fierce opponent to Rickeled's unmatched SkinJetPack. She attempted to clamber around him, so he'd be the one to have his face forced into the Earth's surface. Maybe she could direct them to a snowy mountain and cause an avalanche to flow and bury him. In all her endeavours she was unsuccessful for though she didn't realise it, Rickeled was owning the flight as the much more experienced flyer. He knew where he wanted to go and they weren't going to land anywhere but there. He grappled with her in flight, causing her hands to slip and her head to fling wildly on its neck.

"Quite the equipment you possess!" he screamed with glee. "But you can't compare and won't compare to my own, which is me!"

Soeshie of course didn't hear a word of this and still believing she might have a chance, barely aware of the helplessness of her situation, she fought until her back struck glass. Smashing through a window on the top floor of the Yellow House, both crashed in, cracking into a wall. Soeshie was unconscious but the hunter was not and able to stand. There shone a manic glint in his eye. The room was one of the master chambers kept for when royalty visited the Yellow House. The pale pink curtains elegantly hanging from the master-bed frame were on fire. Rickeled cared not. He was to complete his mission. And so, where his butt hole should be opened a circular hole and out came a cream-coloured egg. The intruder ran out and through the hallway, an egg dropping every now and again.