I am done. I am officially done with the Inkwell Isle bureaucracy.
I just spent 48 hours straight staring at a ceramic rim and a straw. My thumbs are raw. My vision is vibrating in 24 frames per second. I close my eyes and I see parriable pink butterflies. I hear the ghostly whistle of a train that isn't there.
"It’s just a boss rush," they said. "It’s a tribute to 1930s animation," they said. They didn’t mention that Grim Matchstick is a war criminal. They didn't tell me that Dr. Kahl’s Robot was designed by the devil himself to harvest my sanity. I have been turned into a hot dog, a plane, and a ghost, but mostly I have been turned into a loser.
I walked into the Devil’s Casino thinking I was a high roller, but King Dice looked me in my porcelain eyes and told me I wasn't even worth the chipped paint on my handle. I’ve dashed so many times my soul has physically left my body. I’m not playing for the soul contracts anymore; I’m playing because if I hear that "A KNOCKOUT!" bell one more time, I might actually transcend into the hand-drawn afterlife.
A GREAT SLAM AND THEN SOME! A BRAVE RED CUP WHO NEVER GIVES UP!
Don't deal with the Devil. Deal with my medical bills.
