I claw my way up to the top of the table and stand upon the surface. The search for the plushie tribe begins now. I see their abandoned campsite. The coals are dark and no longer do they smolder. I look about the site for evidence of where they might have gone.
They’ve been using the voodoo dust again. In the clear light I see that it is a dull red dust. I bend down, and scoop some up on my fingers. I rub it between them.
The dust has a sulphurous smell. It makes my fingers look raw and shredded. Like Fatmouse bedding.

“How did you get back up here?”

It’s the lion speaking English. Bizarre. The lion ever spoke English to me before. The whole tribe of plushies were incapable of uttering a familiar word.

“I thought you couldn’t speak English?” I say.

“I couldn’t before now. Something about writers’ block, apparently. Oh, and sorry about throwing you to the Poodle. And it is ‘The Poodle‘ now, and not ‘Pooooodulllll.’ That whole drawn out pronunciation was just silly.”

“What?”

“What ‘What’?”

“What are you talking about?” I say.

“Writers’ block? When a writer gets stuck at a point in a story, and can’t figure out what to do next. Often it’s necessary to go back and rewrite some of the story, changing characters or plot slightly, or altering the order of events. Whatever is necessary to get the story moving again. Whatever is needed to get things back on track.
“The problem is that this isn’t a short story or a novel. This is a kind of serial affair. The writer can’t go back and rewrite earlier sections of the story because they’ve already been published on the internet.
“This also explains why the posts haven’t been as regular as they started out.
“Everything make sense now, Mumphred?”

I close my mouth, having noticed that it had fallen open during the lion’s nonsensical speech.

“Yes? No? Because honestly, you’re still looking a bit puzzled,” says the lion.

I decide to discount the gibberish about Writers’ Block, and ask a question that bothers me greatly, “How did you learn to speak English so quickly?”

“Mumphred, I’m really quite disappointed. Were you not listening to what I just told you? The author has writers’ block, but he can’t go back and rewrite the earlier entries, so he’s made some unlikely changes to my characteristics.
“I didn’t learn to speak English, he just changed me so that I always could. Admittedly it goes against story-telling conventions, but the author doesn’t really care.”

I decide that it doesn’t matter that the lion can now speak English. He might as well not be for all the sense he is making. I still seek vengeance against this plushie and the rest of his tribe. Preferably they must suffer, but if that is not possible, at the very least they must all die. Or I must die attempting to achieve this end.

“Where is the rest of your tribe? I have a score to settle with you. I have hoped that I may settle it honourably,” I say.

“Hey, I said I was sorry. Look, all of that stuff’s changed now anyway. There is no more plushie tribe, there’s just me.”

“I don’t believe your lies! I will have it out with you now. The others I will find myself.”

I charge the lion, screaming a battle-cry as I approach. My knowledge of battle-cries is limited. The care bears thing didn’t work before, so this time I try, “Go-go-gadget-go!”

“And the present tense, first-person-perspective thing is getting really tedious too. Might also be changing,” says the lion in response to my blood-curdling yells.

As I get into range of the lion, who has not moved since I started my charge, I dive head-first at him.
He side-steps effortlessly. I realise now that he has deviously positioned himself at the edge of the table.

Sadly I consider how long it took for me to get up here.