"What's this?" Dr. Foldenstein cackled. "A

"What's this?" Dr. Foldenstein cackled. "A new fold! Freshly unfurled this morning. Mmmm this one shows promise. No telling where it could go. Perhaps this calls for a

mimosa. Eegor? Mimosas for everyone here this morning!" Dr. Foldenstein rubbed his gnarly hands together as he contemplated the possibilities.

It was a disastrous thought that then infiltrated his scheming mind; for the great Doctor had no heir. He would write one into existence. The hands of others would write with him.

Then the hands of others would play Death Yahtzee.

On Travis turn he threw the dice & all five turned up skulls. What are the odds? The other members in the treehouse club looked at the dice & then at Travis. In Death Yahtzee when

the dead guy keeps kicking it somebody that is banking it is lying.

Such was the story behind the headlines of the newspaper. "All the crap that fits on the page", he told his henchmen. They had to do something fast. There was revolution brewing.

No, strike that. It was just bad coffee brewing, the kind of mud that was always in the newsroom. They hated it, but they drank it to stay awake, and their heartburn heated their

starched shirts, and their writhing fingers loosened their collars as time passed in the city that never sleeps, and fingers and keys and letters clattered out the news in a wild,