Graveyard turned towards Spongie with a droopy face, "air's sticky," he noted, as his face melted off and slowly dripped like not-so-iced cream down a cone.
Spongie (pronounced SPAWN-jee) pulled a snow shovel from his bag and poop-scooped up Graveyard's puddle reverently and carefully. "Here we go, boy," Spongie whispered in a comforting and encouraging voice, while his eyes sighed defeatedly.
Spongie carried Graveyard's puddle through the entire swamp. Snapping branches and dragon logs whipped and gnashed like slappy vines, but Spongie stepped confidently into every mud pupple, determined, until he reached the sandy shore of the nearby desert. There, he flopped Graveyard onto a hot red rock sweating in the sands and fried him into a pancake.
After a minute or two decades, Spongie announced to no one, "should be good enough," as he poked Pancake Graveyard with his snow shovel. All this culinary work was making Spongie sweat. His pores sobbed globs of bodily fluids as he began the dehydration process. "Thank you, Spongie," Pancake Graveyard smiled up at Spongie, who now was drying exponentially. In a matter of 12 sweating seconds, Spongie had decreased 59.64% of his original size, and lie on the sand lifeless.
Pancake Graveyard whistled a tune as the vultures circled over head(less).
