Once upon a time in a magical faraway land filled with daisies and butterflies, where the air smells of water and the water tastes like butterscotch, were the cities aren't all that bad and Microsoft hasn't taken over yet, there lived someone.

They called him Malcom. He wasn't the brightest fellow, nor the most handsome. In fact, he was a wanker. Not necessarilly in the litaral sense, but he had those beady wanker eyes and that smug wanker smile, and everything about him reeked of wanker. I probably shouldn't be so harsh on him, but, you know, he was a wanker.

Like this one time, Malcolm was going to the Boohbah Defense Advisory Meeting, hosted by the mayor and the city council, because everyone knows that boohbahs are the worst thing that can happen to a small city in a magical faraway land. Once you geh boohbahs, you can't get rid of them. The only way to prevent boohbah invasion is by kicking them in the bum and running. Well, as Malcom was walking there, he stopped and thought, "I don't need to go to that meeting. Boohbahs don't exist. They can't invade!" So then he went home and ate bunnies. Baby bunnies. Pink baby bunnies.

Malcolm worked for the GAWD, which stood for Grand Association of Wankers. associateD. He had a very important job there, as far as jobs in the GAWD go. Yes indeed, Malcom worked in the Department of Pink Baby Bunnies, where he pushed paperwork about how many bunnies were delivered on this day, or how many magenta adolescent bunnies were accidentally placed in that crate of pink baby bunnies on that day, or whatever the department wanted him to. It was a tough job, and truth be told, he sucked at it. But someone had to do it.

Malcom was pretty dull, as metaphorical wankers are wont to be. When he wasn't obsessing about pink bunnies, he was doing something boring, like sleeping. I mean it. Watching a day of Malcom was like reading a year of Garfield. No kidding. Would I lie to you? No.

One special day, things changed. The sun rose slowly; it took it about six hours to reach the top of the sky. The morning air coming in through the window smelled like an impending moral. Outside, a shadow was cast forth (a fore-shadow, one might say), of a short man with a scruffy beard and a sign that read "Malcom's end is near." Malcom turned on the weather channel and listened to the weatherguy drone on.

"As you can see, the northern part of the map is partly cloudy with high pressure to the west. The high temperature today will be in the upper seventies, with a low in the mid sixties, and Malcom is forcasted to die somewhere between the two."

It was a special day indeed.

So Malcom got in his car and started driving to the GAWD offices. He was going at the speed limit, but he was going up a hill, and the sun was in his eyes. There was no way he could have seen the chicken crossing sign, or the chickens on the other side of the road. When he got to the top, he swerved off the road to avoid the chickens, who stared at him as his car rolled a good distance and came to a stop on its side. (Come on, even wankers are decent enough to swerve for chickens.) When they found him, the radio was still playing. It was no one's fault. Nature was against him, that's all.

They found him, all right. He was at the bottom of the car, and the lock mechanism on the door was broken, so he couldn't open the top. "Help me!" he cried to them.

"No," they said.

"Why not?" he cried unto them, this time in a more crying manner.

"Because you're a wanker."