To The Ball . . .

The only problem with enchanted forests is that they're enchanted. They and everything in them seem to be operating under a magic spell, but this is an illusion. They're actually operating under millions of accumulated spells that the wizards casting them couldn't be arsed to cancel once they'd done with them. The trees thrive on these spells. That's why, when you sit under a tree for a spell, you always feel you're in the right place. Trees store the magic up just like they store up carbon dioxide in the real world. That's why enchanted forests never burn down, get stricken with blite or are bulldozed to make way for urban bypasses. Anyone taking an axe to an enchanted tree is likely to find their blade swiftly taken by the tree and used on them. Fir trees are particularly good at that sort of thing. Stand among a clump of them, listen carefull and sooner or later, you're bound to hear them whispering together about how many chopping days there are left to Christmas.

Something else all enchanted forests have in common is that they seemingly have no end; just loads and loads of middle. Morgan has walked all day and got nowhere, but then again his day hasn't been a complete waste of time. After all, he did managed to talk Tom Tom, the piper's son out of stealing a pig by explaining to him that **** simply isn't allowed in CHYOA stories.

Still, it’s evening now; it's getting dark and Morgan's getting tired, hungry and depressed. That's why he's so delighted to suddenly come upon Stoneybroke Manor: home to Baron Hardup and his three daughters. That's why he's also taken aback to hear the house indignantly shout "How dare you suddenly come on me like that without consent. Wipe your filthy spunk off me this minute!" Having spent a full day in a world of unremitting magic, Morgan doesn’t find it at all strange to be talking to a building as he replies "I haven't c.u.m. on you, I've c.o.m.e. on you. The two words sound the same but are spelt differently and have two different meanings. I believe they're called homophones." "Whoops! My bad! Sorry about that, only its hard to see the difference in this fading light. Anyway, about these gay phones you mentioned . . ." "Sorry to interrupt but is anybody home right now?" "Oh, you'll have to check with the front door about that. I only do edifices. Sorry!"

Morgan rapped on the door in question. "Man, I wish people wouldn't keep doing that" said the door peevishly, "it really ought to be made illegal, hitting poor defenceless doors in the face like that." "I might have known: a talking door!" groaned Morgan, "I wonder how it works?" To which came the sharp retort, "it's no good asking me, you plonker; I'm just a fucking door! I don't know, people bothering us hard-working doors with their bloody stupid questions, morning, noon and night. It's enough to unhinge the strongest of portico, I can tell you." "That's as maybe but can you also tell me if there's anyone's at home?" "Yes I can and no there isn't. Everyone's over at the castle for Prince Charming's birthday bash. By the way, love the nightgown dear heart. Very swish!" "Dear heart?" "Yeah, I swing both ways; live with it!"

Hurriedly taking a road made up entirely of yellow bricks, Morgan sets off for the castle. He hasn't got far when he encounters a garden gnome sitting on a toadstool and apparently fishing with a rod and line - dangling the hook into a very small, very broken flower pot. 'Weired' thinks Morgan, 'I suppose I ought to humour him, poor deluded fool that he is'. "Hello there, my good fellow; I see that you're . . . er . . . fishing . . . from that little broken flower pot there." "That's right, so I am sir." "I see, and er, have you . . . caught many," "Oh yes indeed sir; you're the fifth!"

Prince Charming's castle is exactly what a fairytale castle ought to be. It's big and rambling (in the sense that it never stays in the same place for very long) and has more conical turrets than you can shake an enchanted stick at. It's also 'Party Central' on this particular evening. The Sentries guarding the castle pay no attention to Morgan as he wanders in. They, like the late Goldilocks, make the mistake of thinking that simply because he doesn’t belong in their particular story, he doesn't count. The same applies once he's inside. He's therefore free to help himself to wine and food and more wine before having a little dance by himself next to the wine table. There’s a full glass of wine in front of him - so he drinks it. Immediately, there's another full glass of wine in front of him. "Hi coo get uzed to thish" he slurs as the castle starts to spin around him.

It's round about midnight when Morgan staggers towards the drawbridge, lost in his own little world of **** induced oblivion. However, the high decibel sound of glass slippers careering over flagstones manages to break in and grab his attention. Unsteadily, he turns in time to see a beautiful young woman running toward him as if the devil himself were after her. He isn't of course, but Morgan can't help looking, just to make sure. This girl is clearly in distress and his heart goes drunkenly out to her. Something else that are well on the way to coming out are the girl's bouncing boobs as she runs, due to the provocatively low cut of her ballgown. 'O thu ssssshame ov it' thinks Morgan and seeking only to help, he grabs the girl as she runs passed and tries to ladel her soft, follopy bosoms back in place. A scuffle then ensues during which a glass slipper becomes dislodged. The girl eventually manages to break free and dashes off across the drawbridge. Morgan, in one last attempt at an heroic deed, picks up the slipper, yells "doe faggit thish" and hurls the not unheavy glass item after her.

It strikes Cinderella (for it is she) on the back of her pretty head, stunning her so she staggers sweetly sideways before toppling most demurely over the edge of the drawbridge and plunging into the murky moat beneath. It's murky because it's mostly soft mud. Therefore, she sinks very slowly into it, feeling its chilled stinking slime engulfing every inch of her intimate virginal feminity. 'Just my luck to dance all night with a prince but end up getting fucked by sludge' she thinks as the cold noxious ooze fills her mouth and nose. In sheer terror, she holds her breath . . .

Morgan staggers across the drawbridge looking for the girl as he didn’t see her fall. "Where th ell did she goo" he wonders as he lurches away from the castle. Down in the thick black depths of the moat, Cinderella can hold her breath no more. With a final series of dead sexy convulsions, she inhales, chokes and suffocates into extinction. Up above, Prince Charming's castle and all the characters involved in the Cinderella story vanish - along with Morgan's drunkeness.

"Oh shit!" he moans as he looks pathetically around, "I've done it again, haven't I."