Frank
Frank loved pootling about in his neighbours 1943 baby blue Dakwagon. It was a beautiful car. Everything in mint condition. Well, except for the upholstry on the back seat. It smelt like glazed ham and had become worn in two large circular patches. To his neighbour, an elderly muskrat called Gus, it was a complete mystery. .. but then his neighbour didn't know anything about Franks little outings ...or his stubborn refusal to wear pants.
The Freening Crunkflumper
The Freening Crunklumper was mad. Reeeeaaaal mad. Furiously he began shuffling his molecules into an irreversible, rock-like state. The process would take eons. But he’d show them. They’d be sorry. They’d pay for slightly jostling his arm at the deli.
Furgus Spankelschlooper
Hot vapours enveloped the bog. Furgus Spankelschlooper waited restlessly on his tiny mound of mud and tried not to panic. Soft chirrups of laughter drifted across the water. His friends were still here. The knowledge comforted him a little. This was his first time in The Shallows. He wasn't sure if he liked it. Everyone said it'd be good for him, it'd be relaxing. Quite frankly it gave him the creeping heebie jeebies.
The Grussy Hrak
The Grussy Hrak clawed desperately at the fibrous trunk, heaving herself up towards the sickly sweet smell of Snonkberry gum. It was all in her head of course. There was nothing in the evening breeze beyond the standard putrescence of a dying planet.
Blue Schamoo
The Blue Schamoo was feeling fine. Reeeal fine. His plump erotic lips and burgeoning blue cranial humps meant he could finally say farewell to the awkward adolescent years. The journey from hatchling to Grompling to full grown Momp-Gromper was over. Now, due to a noxious fug of pheromones, he was utterly irresistible to any females within gronking distance. Unfortunately he didn’t have long. Despite the first phases of his life cycle spanning across several long gruelling centuries, this last phase was unusually short. If he didn’t locate, woo and copulate soon he’d die a failure. He had about 3 minutes.
Marius
A putrid smog enveloped him, steaming up from the broiling garbage in the alley. He was trapped. His fur bristled with rolling waves of static electricity. To the Garrulous East City Stoats it looked like Marius was just another easy mark. Another dumb-bum hipster cat whose pedantic pedometered jogging route had drifted one street too far. They didn't remember him from a year ago. The bourgeois business-cat whose tail they'd hacked off as an afterthought to an already vicious mugging. He'd been different then. A tubby schlub with a penchant for soft cheese. Now he was something else. Now he was a coiled muscle trembling with anticipation. Now he was revenge.
Exploding Fajito
So far the children hadn’t noticed the tiny creature. If they did it was almost certainly dead. An unfortunate quirk of evolution meant that not only did a Peetling Hork look like a piñata, it also burst apart like one when startled. The children knew this. They also knew the candied entrails were delicious.
Lolloping Ranch
Plump jellied gizzards billowed like satin bloomers as the Lolloping Panch ran shrieking through the scrub. Soon his legs would fail. He be finished then. A shapeless pink mass on the ground. A sentient soup waiting for the scavengers. He tried locking his jaw, tried keeping his facial muscles taut. With any luck it might stop his scaled hide from completely sloughing off before he reached his den