Oh, what ho, good citizen!
Jaunting about, I see, on this fine mid-sommer’s day? Good fortune! I am as well. Prithee, tell me what finds you on your journey this good day? Seeking out the lost hiding places of the Pocket Men? Ye must be, for all our fair citizenry have been simply aflutter with unabashed glee over finding these noble sprites.
What’s this? You aren’t flitting about our fair hamlet in search of those elusive ghoulies? Shame. Shame on you, I say!
Who are you? Who do you think you are to ignore the tranquil pursuit, the noble chase, of the Pocket Men?
I say it now. You are a scoundrel! A nave! A shiftless rake, doomed to a barren existence and a fruitless life!
What of the noble Onion-backed Slitherman? The Dampened Shellbeast? The Slumber Cat, with his melodious snores and whimpers? Would none of these whimsical denizens tickle your fancy? Would none of them serve as sturdy travel-mates? Do none of them garner one ounce of wonder or curiosity in your vile, spoiled head chamber?
Shame. Shame, I say. Again, I say shame.
Look around and about. See you not the revelry of your countrymen? Hear you not the squeals of delight from the young and aged alike? They have beheld the joy. They have known the great pursuit. There’s is a life lived well, and true.
But yours. Yours surely has become a rotten husk of an existence. Your tongue has surely ceased to taste flavor. Your ears have surely stopped audition. Your eyes, useless in their blank face-coffin. All because you’ve ignored the clarion call of the Pink Fluff Siren, the Blue Spaghetti-man, and the Lightning Rabbit.
Please, sir, pray tell what are your hobbies? With what do you toil about, passing through the march towards an inevitable demise? What precious past-time have you found that fills the numb void of existence? Surely one who is so sure of themselves and their life choices must have some noble pursuit that keeps them from the salty chase of the Pocket Men.
But, I warn you to choose your words wisely. Should you answer with an inadequate yarn, I shall be forced to strike you about the face and arms. What other recourse would I have? Even a man of your skulduggery should be able to see that my only course of action, upon hearing of your foul and farty choice, would be to lay hands upon you.
Hold fast. Perhaps I forget myself. Surely upon hearing of several more of these lusty ground-dwellers, you’ll be convinced of your new avocation.
The Great Ember Lizard. Silent Flop Fish. Hypnotic Sphere Boy. Bird. Larger Bird. Larger Still Bird. Angry Opera Maven. The Mysterious Lynx from The East Who Knows Your Secrets. Fisticuff Primate. Your Father’s Ghost. The Harlequin Fool. The list goes on.
Still not convinced, I see. Well your salvation is vouchsafed by mine own providence. I find myself unable to administer the thrashing you so desperately deserve because my Pocket Man Indicator Orb has alerted me to the presence of a one Dim Mallard but a few footsteps from here, and I must attend him.
I must attend them all.