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“In the age of old, you could nary move
For monsters and pests,
Vacant detests,
And a hero who’d outflank them all.
As the tale goes, they were slain quick:
Slimy and wretched
Enemies shredded,
Spilling blood and slime and muck.

“But that time has passed.
Ghosts have amassed
To be wardens to the damned.
Without fire, there’s no smoke.
No webs bridge the crevasse,
No song fills the night.
Those pockets, once filled with gold,
Belong to someone weary and old –

“Credit is due, but so is revenge.
While you massacre the bullies,
You too kill the poor,
The ones who had no choice.
The ones protected by no law,
The ones without a voice.
It is for them that I sharpen my blade,
And sharpen I shall ‘til my debt is paid.

“I hope you’re comfy in your little town.
Cosy and warm in your bedgown;
But know this, hero of old!
Your victory is done.
Spent are your lives,
Cut down by my knives
For the ones who are lost and can never return:
The slimes and the rats
And spiders and cats
And all those who challenged you.

“Oh, pig, I beseech your last words stay silent,
As so did my brothers.
You think only of yourself, of your kin –
And then you sin,
Blood herein.
And so begins a new chapter,
One of a new domain.
The year of the pig is upstaged,
Long live the wolf age.”

I do beg your pardon, good sir. Lovely day, is it not? Perfect day for a sundae, I should say! See, I was thinking a little bit about maybe spicing things up a bit. Y’know, shaking the tree a little, seeing if something good hits. Of course… perhaps shaking the tree isn’t always the best idea. It reminds me of the time, maybe three, four years ago, when myself and lil’ Mitch were fishing up north of the Maple Mountain. Ah, you should’ve seen it, it was gorgeous – the conditions were just right for a great haul. Yet, lil’ Mitch, bless his soul, decided to shake a big ol’ pine. Down came the hive, of course, and, well, the rest is history. Long story short, we wake up in Oniontown with a dozen or so jars of pickles and absolutely no idea how we got there. Now, I tell you, my young man, that was quite the conversation with Mitch’s old man. Quite the conversation, indeed.

Now, I know I usually go for a medium cup. You see, it’s a long walk from here to where I’m staying and, well, my bladder’s not what it used to be. So, if I go for a big cup I’ll have to stop by the park and use their facilities. It’s no pain, really, it just feels a bit of an unnecessary stop. Yes, I think I’ll avoid that if I can. But, even so, I think a small cup wouldn’t hit the spot quite right. Now, Mitch tells me that a small cup can be just the right amount of frozen goodness. I’d love to believe him, but, well, he and I are quite different specimens indeed! Why, I’ve seen the deluded tomfoolery that boy puts in his body; perhaps I should be thankful that he only takes it in half measures, ha! No no, a small cup won’t do. What do you think, my boy? Ah, a man after my own heart – yes, I think I will: a medium, please.

Blueberries are my usual poison, it’s true, but as much as I’d like to pass on them for something “new and exciting,” the doc tells me they’re good for the ol’ pacemaker, so… yes: I’ll stick with blueberries today. I say, do you know what blueberries remind me of? Well, I suppose you’re probably too young to remember, but there used to be this absolutely marvelous candied bar called a ‘Blues Bar’. Oh, I wish they still made them. They don’t make sweet treats quite like they used to, that’s for sure. Ah, don’t look so disheartened, my boy – this place is certainly an exception! Oh, you couldn’t keep me away from here if you glued my cranium to a stick of radium! Like a fish to water, I am. Oh, yes. Crumbs, where was I? Ah. I know I’ve asked a thousand times by now, but please indulge an old man: has your stock of sardines come back in yet? No? A shame, truly. Oh well. In that case, make that a strawberry syrup. Good for the soul! Get that blended to perfection, young man!

My tackle box and I will be sailing out this evening. The Calypso Marlin will be mine sooner or later, you have my word. That nemesis of mine may have stolen years of my life from me, but I have a much greater punishment in mind when the job is finally complete. We’re at the tail end of the season, though, so I must remain sharp. There’s some long hours ahead. Get me some of that good meringue cream on there, since I’ve gone for the blueberries. They go hand in hand, really, it’d be a shame to split them apart. Oh, and let’s get a little bit of strawberry sauce, maybe some plum? Y’know, when I was just a little spud amongst the shrubs, we had a bit of a plum tree in the garden. Yeah! The plums themselves were… well, let’s just say there was a sharpness to them… a, well- Honestly, it wasn’t until my thirties that I truly experienced plums for what they could be. I’ve never looked back! So yes, lots of plum sauce, please! Nice and sweet and tart. Impeccable!

Oh, crumbs, I’ve only gone and done it again. You and I know it: this is the same as it always is. My ex-wife always used to tell me, “Walt,” – this was back when my compadres referred to me as Walt – “you have one trick and one trick only. You talk a good game, but you’ve got one trick.” Y’know, she’s right! I know what I like, and I like what I like. It’s why I like it! So, if you would please, some peanuts and a cherry on top would go a long way. Thank you so much, my good man. It’s so good to have such a polite, young gentleman running this lovely little shop. Oh, and please do say a warm hello from me to Jake in the back. He’s quite the little champion you’ve got there. Reminds me of my lil’ Mitch, though Mitch has never come to my aid in a frozen-treat-related emergency before! Quite the refined chap, indeed. Oh, my deepest condolences once more, my dear boy. I’ve taken up enough of your time, let me take no more. My ex-wife would be quite disappointed in the way I’ve conducted myself. “Walt,” she’d have said, “let the poor man do his job!” And that I will! Have a good day on me, young man. And, please, remember to check up on those anchovy orders. I’ll be waiting!

‘It’s no dream, Shaggy,’ – a wound, disguised within the pleasant comfort of words. It’s a sentiment I’ve been forced to pass forward on more occasions than I care to remember, figuratively stripping the world of a coat of golden foil. A dream? No, sadly not. If only! But then again, no – between the constant death and rebirth, the furious violence and the darkness closing in, I’d rather know my mind clear of such torment. So, I ground myself thus in a world I must admit is real, even if it mustn’t be so: a world which seems to float and fall and collide and spin. A world built like a jigsaw with no corner pieces.

Forgive me, for though the wickedness of the universe has indulged its appetite greatly in recent years, I must admit to a joy brought to my heart. People. Extraordinary people. I’ve met smiling bananas with unmatched loyalty, men of deadly elegance and skill, users of unmatched sorcery I can barely comprehend and, bizarrely, LeBron James. With each in turn I have laughed, philosophized, mused and joined in the merry pursuit of basketball. And, sure, we’ve all fought, but it is as the universe seems to command. But we resist the need for violence, we overcome, and we laugh and we dine and we play. There is nothing else, after all.

I need not tell you how much I long for your company. I’ve done this dance hundreds of times. Each time, I wonder where you’ll be, what you’ll be doing, that sort of thing. I’m long past guessing. But somewhere in my soul, there’s a tenderness that strikes up now and again – I know it’s you. Velma’s fine. She always is. I’ve always thought she thrives here in a peculiar sort of way, like her destiny was to be right here, right now, among the chaos. It’s, frankly, terrifying; I’d love for you to see it. But, well, perhaps it’s for the best.

But, Scoob, it’s about time we accept the reality of our situation. What was once merely a shadow, a border highlighting the corner of my eye, is now rampant. I hear talk of ‘The Nothing’ and of a losing battle and it worries me. The situation has been dire for some time now, I’ve gotta tell you. Every fight has been etched with a new agony. Every beckoning of the golden light brings a cold spirit to my spine, so much so that I can hardly foresee a return to the way this world (or whatever you might call it) once was. It was always my hope to see you again, to return home, but… I’ve told you about Reindog, right bud? Little green guy, I think you’d like him. Well, even he seems defeated. And, well, it’s got me feeling lost. He was once so determined to restore his legacy, to repair this universe and the next; no more.

I sat down with Batman last night. He spoke of the end times like they were guaranteed. I’ve never known him to be wrong. We sat there a while, we talked about pastimes, of victories and losses and dreams and, eventually, nightmares. For, he was right: this is no dream. We live a nightmare. Ha, if only! I wish I had the words necessary to understand what I’ve experienced, but what use would that be in the end? I’d trade all of the words from my mouth to see you one last time. But if that means bringing you here, to suffer, then I shall have to decline. My jigsaw may have few pieces left, but at least you, Scoob, are complete.

So, before I go, know this: between all of these worlds, bleached by the darkness, fractured by the Nothing, blitzed by battles in their thousand, is, in fact, a dream. And in that dream, I am safe. In that dream, I am home. In that dream, I am with you. Goodbye, Scoob.

And so we wonder this: the divide which has flustered, will it ever settle? Will our world have peace again? I bid a goodbye today to the woes of the past and declare onto you all this: I see a future more alike the past than the present. I see a future where the bridge we cast between us will secure peace and harmony. I see a future where we cherish tradition but do not allow it to hedge our minds from running their natural inquiry. Do you see this future too? I know it must be difficult to imagine; yes, frankly I, too, am outraged by recent discoveries. But once we cleansed the tree of the rot – and that goes for all of us! Yes, once we have cleansed this world of corruption we can become one. No more lies. No more oppression. No more pecking order. A world united.

I have heard a great many things these few weeks. Faith has been lost, I understand! We sit in a world which is so familiar, but we have opened our eyes to colour for the first time and all has been warped! I have heard stories of the zealous, collecting faith and betraying their flocks. I gather word of coercion and scandal and seclusion. This age has ended. I hear by mark the end of the secrets, the lies and the wickedness. Our faith cannot be blind, our minds cannot be ignorant. This is why we gather here today in Meriloft. I think you all know what I propose, and I hope you know why. I also hope you know to consider what I say carefully, else I am wasting my time.

The old regime is gone! It comes time now that we instigate a new world order! I propose a united front. A union between our communities. Meriloft, Sugar Bunting, Shellmound and Loruna – one nation, one people. Settle down and hear me out – yes, I know. You feel betrayed by tradition, which is exactly what I am telling you. Tradition has supplanted us our families and our freedom. A war will but trigger another later down the line. What I propose is that we put behind blame, for I can assure you that your differences are outnumbered by your similarities. We can change the world as one, and settle the actions of the present. The gates of oppression have been destroyed. Do not let them return.

So, if you have my backing I beckon you to consider the future once more: an age of prosper, of peace, of security! If we unite, if we create the nation I propose, well… the horrors we have discovered will soon be behind us. And don’t you worry, the oppressive minority will pay their dues! No more secrets. No more lies. Unity. Yes, together we can say goodbye to this broken age.

Too long have wolves threatened the tranquil life of the humble pig. Look at them: aimlessly navigating this world with nothing but their trusty cleaver, perhaps hoping to find the last remnants of bacon that the world has to offer. No; you can set aside your baton, sir, and your basket, madam. Leave your pokeballs and your skateboards at home, folks, because there is no need. Stop flaunting about with your pogo sticks and your despicable, maternal disguises and face me wolf on pig.

Do you think I fear you, wolves? Do you know how many have come before you? The districts I have cleared... if you knew, you'd be running the other way. I'll drive you from your cities and back into the woods, where - yes - I shall also be waiting for you. Even if I must hit you 25,000 times, the deed will be done. Wolves, beware, for I have killed thousands and there are thousands yet to fall.

And yet, I see it in your eyes that you still do not care. Does your lust for blood overcome all, wolves? Perhaps I now know something of that. The satisfaction I gain in every pummelled canine only seems to grow and my viciousness increases with every punch. Why do the piles of carcasses, often shredded by dropped chainsaws or scorched by misfired projectiles, not deter you? If I saw - and indeed I have - a stream of my brethren's bodies, I would be filled with dismay and would, helpless, flee on sight. But you do not. Why? You're but a lone wolf, before me now. You've seen firsthand the slaughter I provide to your kind, yet you still fight? It's commendable, but stupid.

Still, you must know what your fate is. I was trained by the torment of my soul, the aching of my people and the dominion of the wolves. I have, a sole swine, taken on waves upon waves of your finest warriors - sometimes without withstanding a single scratch to my own person. I may not have been tutored by some general, but I have proved myself more than capable. Yet you stand there, cleaver in hand, ready to strike.

I counted, once, you know? 321. That's how many bones make up your fragile little body. Sometimes it's less, granted, but there's nothing remotely special about you. I've done this dance with thousands exactly like you; pray tell me where you think they ended up. I'll let you go if you yield. But you won't; wolves like you never do. Alas, I tried to let you go. I did, I swear.

Another blade and another body. Perhaps one of these days the wolves will listen. Until then, the violence shall ensue. The war will continue. Even if I am the final pig (and some hope does remain even now), at least hopefully a tertiary civilisation will rise up from the ashes of this battlefield and learn something from all of this. Otherwise, what was the point?