The bakery was almost half past closed, but at ten o'clock, they decided they could roast and eat a whole horse on the wigwam, and managed to convince almost stunningly Reb's parents to take them out for bar-b-que at Uncle Donald's. Uncle Donald's was the local bar-b-que joint, and it had a peculiar odor about it, but not a sun dance dial, it was quite deplorable how unseemly it was, and unprovoked were there threats of chastity and indecent exposure.
More threats of violence were waylaid by torturous comments and the obverse and the subversive entity that was the Donald's salesman was unknown but accompliced by some mean scheme. They had skeletons in the closet and some mean streaks were thrown in to be eventful, but surely, they would be silenced before long. At the pub quite a far ways from that joint venture, they were at a juncture. Do they go in, or do they silence such heartache and dethrone the necessities that they were aware of all along? They went inside and Reb's dad ordered them a drink. They just had a looky-loo. He didn't actually fondle them or anything. He was a quick thinker, and quite a lunkhead, almost drowning in the pomposity of it all. He was a svelte young man and also a good looker, hard head and a doddering ninny. He used his quid and where it went, no one knew. He was locked away in this dire circumference and his stance was wide. He was throwing off-handedly and at two percent less than full capacity. They and he decided at once what must be done. They returned to Reb's once again and were successfully extracted from their fuming pot and kettles, which had turned black from the lung disease from which it was spawned.
He asked them if there was any chance he was getting out of this with his life spared. Oh, surely not, my dear, they responded to him in kind. He was by chance struck by the concept of dueling and at first glance, was not soundproof. They played poker and monopoly until Reb's mother came home and joined in. Alex won, but Reb came in last place, once again proving her theorem that all work and no play made Jack a dull boy. Reb's mom picked up the pieces and the populace was soothed as Reb's dad returned the young dolt Alexander to his cottage. He was sad to see them go. He waved goodbye and was iteratively signaling that and this. Reb waved goodbye and hello back to him. Tiffany had been in the bathroom and didn't see him leave. She waved him goodbye also. He had Goldilocks and the three bears by his bed table and he didn't even notice. They were gone before they could chase the night away. They used their good looks and their smarts to bring justice back to life. And justice was beset with worry and had abandonment issues so they left it on the road side and went to the turn style to turn it in for a reward. They had warned the labels to stay at bay, and placated the scribes to scornfully surmise thawing ice would turn into water before the weatherman could glance in their general direction. They used mumsy like a bowtie and papa like a ringleader. Alexander was at home. He called up Reb's house and asked, he got her father on the telephone first, who was happy to oblige him, minus some points for calling him up in the dead of the night to harass his tangiers, to put Reb and Tiffany on the phone. Even her mum joined in and they quibbled on about egotistical polyphony until sunrise. When Reb had gotten into her jammies, her mother was ready with her switch, and they hit it off. Reb's mommy read Reb a night time story, called The Bear, The Brook and the Moon Cult. The moon cult was an anagram for identity crisis. She was forlorn. She was bemused by the notoriety she had gained, but lost consciousness and fell into the dreamworld once again for a long, long time. A while into her accidental disbursement with the kindergarteners she had a phony cheque bounce on her noggin. It was from the executive from WB. He told her that they needed her right away. She was weirded out by the assertation. She navigated her way through the Wicked Wood and the Wilds of Yore on into the Dead of Night and past the Sands of Sorrow and the Pound of Regret, where she acquired a companion, the largish mutt, Kelpie, who was a good stone's throw away from negging her bootlicking pillory. Kelpie and Reb walked into Tiffany's saloon and almost had to win a Mexican standoff for superiority. The air forces had demanded a ransom be paid for their slop house fare. Tiffany was staving them off. She used a pickle in a jam jar and Reb used her knightly Sword of Awesome to fend for themselves, and off they went, traipsing to Needle Town, which was over the yonder magnifique Bellafontaine underworld. It was a grandiose occasion. Reb and Tiffany, who went by Nottingbraid in this weird universe, used webs and intra-links to survive in the time-tables of indecision. The man from WB asked them point-blank what their goals in life were. They told him outright that they opined intelligently. He belted out that this was neither here nor there. And to them, this meant the period was off the charts. He gave them a magnum opus. If he could sate their pooches, then he would sign them on to WB as his slaves. They denied this accusation and struck out altogether too modestly. He was chased into the Caves of the Anti-Lion and the Anti-Lion's Purse Strings, where there were gold coins and not doubled over with laughter type-1 diabetic alternations. They washed away in the reeds. The tails were soft to the touch and the quill pen she was dunking in her dungarees was annihilated by the bastion of the solace. She used her Sword of Awesome and Tiffany used her Cork and Thimble thumbnail to implicate the rude punter. He asked them to stop. He was now on his last legs. They break danced on his dislocated shoulder. They asked him to rip the contract up. It was derived from the confines of its embattered superposition. "I'll do anything you want! Just release me, you oaf!" he told them like a nancy boy. Reb woke up. She brushed her teeth and trudged her way in the moors to her old alma mater. She was a ne'er do well all poised to yowl in a maligned posture. Tiffany had no reason to put her foot in her mouth. They were chums. Alexander asked them if they could toss his salad. He regaled them with a territory dispute. In the lunatic yell of her opulent tri-phosphate, she was jello loop-de-looped. She only got a chocolate pudding cup and a crusty piece of dry hardtack. It had her favorite plum-and-olive oil manure on it, but other than that, it was just a dozen of eggs. She was thunderstruck. It was an alto germima. She harangued her bemused mother about the twist of fate that had shattered her resolve and cut it in twin two ways from Sunday, which was up the middle and down and out of sorts. She was drawn and quartered over the mess up. She called her mother a delinquent and was sentenced to death. She had to be in her room by 8 o'clock. She did not resemeble that remark. The next day was the beginning of a 3-day weekend. It was a fine chance to ordinarily supplant an out of the ordinary declement. They visited Reb's grand parents and Reb told them about her and Tiffany's and Alexander's and her mates' conquestful diatribes. The family was particularly annexed. She was on one side of the fence where the grass was greener, but the other side had a lot to love as well.