The Press

’Twas a strange building — but not the strangest he’d seen: like pancakes, stacked on top o’ each other, ’cept ’stead o’ pancakes, they were magazines — magazines bigger than the average yoyo’s yard.

He stepped up to the front door, finding it hard to believe a front door could exist on a building that looked like this. He had a lot o’ time to think ’bout that as nobody answered. Finally, he had no option but to bust the door down using his office-supplied spiked shoes. It went down in a tinkle.

’Pon entering through the former doorway, he saw everyone inside, the receptionists & the men in suits playing plots, glare @ him. But before they could try anything, he reached into his pocket & pulled out a li’l audio device.

I have some recording that I think the Gearmother wants to hear.


recording, magazine, estate