Breaking free

    A trapdoor squealed open in the ceiling of wherever it is they all were, I don't think it's been described apart from the enlightening comment "pink room" — and out popped the Rolfaroo. "Sun arise, early in the morning," it said for no apparent rhubarb, and the Word was with бог (Russian, sorry) and the Word was τέξτ (τό).

    "Not bizarre enough!" yelled Karswell, who had just poured a plate of melted butter into his ear. "I want to break free," he droned reginally. "Have you seen the latest edition of Dustbin Builder's Hourly? I haven't, 'cos it doesn't exist."

    Suddenly, out leapt a new character from behind a Scrabble board that wasn't there befour. It was Donkey Hoatee, and his fine bang of marry mep. He strode up to Arthur on his fine green stalliom, peered oddly at the cheese-grater welded to the llama's head, counted to ten very slowly in order to relapse, and then suffered spontaneous combustion, kicking Arthur backwards into a gash in the very fabrique of space-thyme (which had conveniently opened up).

    Arthur was vaguely surprised to find himself standing on top of a horrible concrete multistorey carpark in Worplesdon town centre.

    He looked around, unbelieving, flabbergasted.

    The pogo-stick was nowhere to be seen.

    "Carpet cleaner?" suggested a passing raven, and let him have it.