Mac wiped the crusty mucus off his eyes and

Mac wiped the crusty mucus off his eyes and rolled himself out of bed, falling on a pile of empty cups and used undergarments. "What a hellhole", he muttered to himself, tiptoeing

until towards the door, as to not wake up the guests. When he reached the hallway, he noticed something was strange. All over the walls there were crayon scribbles with strange and

somewhat disturbing imagery. One especially morbid picture caught his eye. A headless man was holding hands with smiling young woman. He shuddered. "Which guest could do it?"

"Surely it couldn't be that man who I saw the other day in the bathroom washing red food coloring off that unusually large knife! It was probably the butler."

A man wearing what could only be described as "conceptual clothing" walked into the room unannounced, saying "It most certainly could be that man you saw, and don't call me Shirley

Temple, as I have neither the dimples or dancing ability." He seemed quite mournful over this. "Well, err, plastic surgery can give you dimples, at least. As for the dancing...

...well, let's just say that Bionic Leg technology isn't advanced enough yet," he sighed. "Believe me, I've looked." His face had a sadness of the magnitude seen on basset hounds.

He then took his large hands and cover up his face, trying to hide his tears. "If only the had rocket wheelchairs! My life would be so grand!" he cried out.

He cursed his own grammatical errors, then carried on with searching for his lost sanity. Soon the doctors arrived. "rocket wheelchairs? Whatever next?" they asked him as

he put the finishing touches on his rocket wheelchair. Abandoning his quest for sanity as bourgeois indulgence, he smashed through the window and flew off into the night. "Whoo!"