Kieran McConville
ONE love, blood, life
Pooh Bear & Friends In "Special Delivery"
One day Pooh and Twitchlet were lounging in Pooh's hole when there came a ring of the doorbell far above.
"It's the mail man!" keened Twitchlet, overturning his overflowing hubcap of cigarette butts. "Don't touch the mail, it might be infected!"
"Nonsense," Pooh pooh-poohed with the genial detachment of a nebula. "There hasn't been any mail in aeons. It's probably just the wind."
There had been no wind in Pooh land for aeons either, since the Great Old Wind Machine constructed by the land's mythical and half-forgotten Creator broke down. The air had sat stale ever since, and was largely unbreathable.
"Go on up and see, Twitchlet," taunted Pooh with a dim flicker of muddy wit like a willo-the-wisp over some sour swamp. "See what it could be!"
Twitchlet did a complete somersault of anxiety in mid-air and fished through his overturned hubcap for an unsmoked bit of stub to ease his panic. Finally he mustered up the nerve to crawl through the tree roots and dirt to the door of their hole. A lone golden envelope sat by the doorbell. It was addressed to "The Master Of The House".
Overcome by curiosity, Pooh had compacted up behind him and now exited the hole with the satisfying plunk of a well formed stool. Pooh swiped up the envelope and opened it. "Why, it's from the Creator! He says I have won a lifetime's supply of <redacted>!"
"It's a trap," squealed Twitchlet, but Pooh swatted him away like a bothersome mayfly, and proceeded to do a little bobbling dance of happiness right there in the dirt outside their hole. "A lifetime's supply of <redacted>! Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy, this is better than honey or bacon, or anything I can think of, which is not much!" (This was true).
One day Pooh and Twitchlet were lounging in Pooh's hole when there came a ring of the doorbell far above.
"It's the mail man!" keened Twitchlet, overturning his overflowing hubcap of cigarette butts. "Don't touch the mail, it might be infected!"
"Nonsense," Pooh pooh-poohed with the genial detachment of a nebula. "There hasn't been any mail in aeons. It's probably just the wind."
There had been no wind in Pooh land for aeons either, since the Great Old Wind Machine constructed by the land's mythical and half-forgotten Creator broke down. The air had sat stale ever since, and was largely unbreathable.
"Go on up and see, Twitchlet," taunted Pooh with a dim flicker of muddy wit like a willo-the-wisp over some sour swamp. "See what it could be!"
Twitchlet did a complete somersault of anxiety in mid-air and fished through his overturned hubcap for an unsmoked bit of stub to ease his panic. Finally he mustered up the nerve to crawl through the tree roots and dirt to the door of their hole. A lone golden envelope sat by the doorbell. It was addressed to "The Master Of The House".
Overcome by curiosity, Pooh had compacted up behind him and now exited the hole with the satisfying plunk of a well formed stool. Pooh swiped up the envelope and opened it. "Why, it's from the Creator! He says I have won a lifetime's supply of <redacted>!"
"It's a trap," squealed Twitchlet, but Pooh swatted him away like a bothersome mayfly, and proceeded to do a little bobbling dance of happiness right there in the dirt outside their hole. "A lifetime's supply of <redacted>! Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy, this is better than honey or bacon, or anything I can think of, which is not much!" (This was true).