The feathers dangling from her ears were

The feathers dangling from her ears were vintage 80's, like the dream catcher from her rear view mirror. He laughed despite his murderous intent. "You sleeping in your car now?"

pan handle with his pan flute. He had been ripped off by Barry Gordy and the Motown Maffia. He had written all those songs for Smokey Robinson, but did not keep the publishing

monster in check. And that was the end of him. But it was not the end of his legacy, you see, for he had planned for such a demise so that

we, the unbelieving masses, might come to worship him, kneeling before statues of him, replacing our accustomed holidays with feast days devoted to his monstrous appetite for

spaghetti. There were reasons he was called the Flying Spaghetti Monster, after all. Soon, his worship spread throughout the town. There were t-shirts, coffee mugs, FSM hats, all

the co-eds were wearing them. Every Thursday night at the clubs they'd be getting their Flying Spaghetti Monster freak on. Kiddie pools filled to the top with pasta and wrestling

noodly appendages. Yes, the Flying Spaghetti Monster's plan was working - Lure the masses as devoted worshippers through clubs, raves, and an unexpected return of the fannie pack

It was the fannie pack that clenched the deal for Ravioli Man. He wouldn't have accepted the contract but knowing humans would once again don the svelte crescent-moon-bag-w/-belt

buckles made of Chef Boyardee's noodles provoked his rage. No longer would he allow another Master of the Make-It-In-Less-Than-a-Minute Macaroni.