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Sketch of a Plan to Break the Bank

Chocolate zeppelins appear on the horizon of Midgaard. They float in slowly, startling and intriguing the inhabitants of the city. They are not immense, perhaps the size of an average Pasadena swimming pool. They begin to crash onto the streets, onto the Market Square and the Temple of Mota, breaking, rupturing, disgorging tides of molasses, chocolate syrup, and silken toffee. Others are crammed with brightly colored jelly beans which bounce and scatter like shattered rainbows.

The citizens of Midgaard, the battered battle-crazed warriors, the weaving wobbling drunks, the surly and sanctimonious city guards, forget their quotidian concerns and become intoxicated by these hyper-sensuous delicacies. Some rush around gobbling beans. Some gnaw on the chaste chocolate carcasses, whimpering softly. Some simply slurp and slather themselves in the exquisite goo, wallowing in a piggish frenzy.

Meanwhile, my propositionally prehensile henchpeople, Mordsith, the Original, A Lagging Libson, and Undaunted Touji are assaulting and distracting the only Immortal on duty, the eternally instructive Filt, with questions of the most intricate kind. How many aard-angels can dance on the head of a pin? Do the rules allow the use of roller blades in a lasertag match? Why are no lamb sandwiches sold at the petting zoo?

It is at this point that I make my way up from the Rat's Lair with a horde of zombies with whom I have tunneled all the way from the Graveyard. Zombies, being notoriously immune to sweets (indeed, preferring above all else to feed on the bitter brains and astringent innards of moralists and metaphysicians), are perfect for this task. We proceed past the engorged and sweet stupefied Midgaardians, up to the Bank where I encounter the few remaining guards and bank staff unbeguiled by my succulent ruse. Irmie, my impish intelligence officer, now flips on a recording of Lasher's 'Vote for Aardwolf' speech and these hardy souls immediately lapse into snores.

Then, I combine a hint received from an Immortal lover I have seduced with a porridge made from over-ripe rutabaga and the dark tears of degenerate reindeer, with information derived from my ingenious proof of the Goldbach conjecture, to crack the code to the safe. I swing open the heavy door. I enter and load all of the gold onto my restless zombie legions. We depart back through our crooked tunnel and I begin making lavish plans to invest in equipment that will further ensure my hegemonic status in the disreputable realm of the untiered snewb.

The End