Jakob blinked in pouty confusion, his limbs akimbo like a Stretch Armstrong doll that had been tied to the back of a car bumper and then stretched until even his formidable powers of stretchiness were exceeded, revealing the viscous corn syrup within.
“What strange mockery is this?” he cried? “Truly I would betray myself if I denied the passing oddity of this transformation!”
“Can other parts of you stretch?” Bela asked with newfound respect.
“Why are you talking like that? You sound like an extra in a DeMille film.” Fig sneered.
“Verily?” Jakob countered. He stretched one arm a good 14 feet and made bunny ears behind Fig’s ghostly head. Even Woeisme had to giggle. With preternatural dexterity he morphed his fingers into a passable approximation of walrus tusks and an unflattering set of tortoiseshell bifocals over Fig’s glowering countenance.
“Stop that. Really. Stop that now. Make him stop that!” Fig pleaded to Bela.
Bela put down her copy of the illustrated Kama Sutra (pro edition) long enough to admonish her fluid friend. “Knock it off, Jakob. Save your strength.” She mumbled under her breath as she flipped page 127 upside down in a bid to gain some perspective “’Cause you’re going to need it.”
Jakob playfully vibrated his hand mere inches away from Fig’s head. “I’m not touching you,” he helpfully pointed out, “I’m not touching you. You can’t complain when I’m not touching you.”
“If you two don’t cut it out I’ll turn this quest right around. Don’t think I won’t.” Bela said distractedly as she began a series of yoga exercises to limber up. Fig swung at his tormenter but Jakob easily evaded him, his entire body stretching into an amorphous blob of dough. His face was still visible on the gelatinous surface; he looked like wad of Silly Putty that had been pressed onto a newspaper photo of this year’s winner of the coveted Emo Wáņkër Award. Fig landed face first upon the Gin-gold brick road.
Jakob chortled heartily as Fig got up, sputtering and spitting. His mirth turned to something more akin to chagrin when Fig’s body began to ripple and bulge, as though a thousand beetles were crawling just beneath his skin. Really, pretty much the most disgusting thing you can imagine. Woeisme lost her lunch and one of the guards, grumbling, had to break out the sawdust.
“Behold my mighty hands!” Fig cried out as lightning coincidentally flashed across the sky, striking a tree and loosening a branch that crushed a frog, who had been just minding his own business and wasn’t bothering anyone, which pretty much sums up the unfairness of a capricious universe, if you ask me. Fig’s once handsome features, if you like that sort of thing, had been transformed into a strangely textured orange mockery of a man.
There was silence. Nobody moved. Somewhere in the distance a dog was barking.
“You look like you’re made out of circus peanuts.” Woeisme marveled, saying what everyone was thinking.
Fig stopped posing long enough to stare at her. “What?”
“Circus peanuts. Those awful marshmallow things they give away at Halloween and you can find them behind your couch decades later and they taste exactly the same.” Woeisme stooped to the road and ran her finger over the moistened bricks. “This is more than just ordinary gin. It seems to have the power to transform us, to give us powers and abilities far beyond those of mortal men!” She brought her finger to her lips, then paused. “but the effects are unpredictable, like red Kryptonite—“
“Or Viagra.” Jakob offered helpfully. The others stared. “Or, uh, so I’ve heard.”
“How came it to be that I, a phantom, with but a tenuous grasp upon this reality, was able to partake of this elixir?” Fig queried, “And do you really eat decades old candy you find behind the sofa?”
Woeisme rolled her eyes. “What am I , the DC Answer Guy? Your no-prize is in the mail.”
“Hey, I hate to break up this nerdfest,” the meanest looking of the Vole guards said menacingly, “but this changes nothing! Prisoners you are and prisoners you shall remain!”
“Oh really?” Fig said, smacking his soft billowy marshmallow fists together.
“Well, yes,” the guard replied. “I mean, what are you going to do, give me tooth decay?”
Fig smiled, revealing row upon row of dagger-like candy corn. “Something likest that.”
“Right, off you go.” The guard said agreeably, his feet suddenly buried beneath a pile of vole pellets. “Look at the time!” He hurried after his comrades who were already a good half mile down the road.
“The weed of crime bears bitter persimmons.” Jakob said sagely, “Wouldn’t you agree…BELA!”
Bela looked up at him, a trickle of magic road juice dribbling down her chin. “What?” she queried.
Woeisme swallowed hard. “You’re not going to believe this, mom. Here, look in this mirror.”
Bela glanced in the mirror that Woeisme had hidden God knows where and was stunned by what she saw.
• 
““Behold my mighty hands!” Fig cried out as lightning coincidentally flashed across the sky, striking a tree and loosening a branch that crushed a frog, who had been just minding his own business and wasn’t bothering anyone, which pretty much sums up the unfairness of a capricious universe, if you ask me. Fig’s once handsome features, if you like that sort of thing, had been transformed into a strangely textured orange mockery of a man.”
Best paragraph ever
Yeah, that crushed frog bit was pure gin-gold.
Good stuff, my friend. Good stuff. I got more than a few good laughs out of it, as did Jeannie.
Bitter persimmons…brilliance, but the circus peanuts are going to give me nightmares.
Well, thank you all. Much credit should go to PAD’s skills as an editor of amateur writing. It ain’t as easy as the good writers make it look.