THE ULTRA-TITANIC SAILS AT MIDNIGHT

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“Oh Cheddar, how will we find a way out of this one?”

“Elementary, dear Pickle. Think back to that night in Montevideo. The sweat, the heat, the perfume . . . You remember the moves?”

“You know I do, Cheddar.”

“Then baile el tango, Pickle! Dance up a dizzying dream. And while the guards are distracted, I’ll pick the lock.”

With an awkward grace, Pickle activated his terpsichorean talents. The guards, agog, fell into a trance.

Meanwhile, Mature Cheddar fixed his withering gaze upon the lock, which lost all hope of ever upholding its end of the argument and promptly fell to pieces.

* * *

“Run, Cheddar!”

“You know I don’t run, Pickle,” Mature Cheddar said, striding on his long legs at a decently brisk clip. This alacrity was not enough for Pickle, who swiftly became exercised.

“But the Ultra-Titanic is super-sinking!”

Mature Cheddar stopped in his tracks. “How do you know that, Pickle?”

Pickle broke into a briny sweat. “Because, Cheddar . . . I am the one who planted the bomb!”

. . . PICKKKKLLLLEEE!

* * *

Mature Cheddar and Pickle crawled onto the rocky shore of Pickle’s ancestral homeland, Oh My God This Fucking Place Again. Cheddar was most cross. “Pickle,” he said, tersely. “What in Chutney’s name were you thinking, bombing the Galactic Emperor’s new pleasure barge?”

“I had to, Cheddar,” Pickle said. “I heard the boatswain say something disparaging about Oh My God This Fucking Place Again Island.” A dark look crossed Pickle’s face.

“Pickle,” Mature Cheddar said after a moment’s pause. “I shall withhold cuddles for this.”

The dark cloud left Pickle’s face, replaced by fearful shock. “But, Mature Cheddar . . . ! The fate of the sandwich . . . !”

“Oh Pickle,” said Mature Cheddar, “come now. What is Mature Cheddar without Pickle? Just some old cheese. What is Pickle without Mature Cheddar? A cucumber in a jam. No, fear not, Pickle, we shall always have a sandwich.”

 . . . TO BE CONTINUED!