The Brilliantly Rainbowed Adventure

        The harsh cry of a curlew rang out across the desolate flats. Wisps of steam, belched up from the bubbling murk, drifted slowly across the barren landscape. Tall clumps of brittle gray grasses obscured our view of the dreary swamp that lay ahead of us, while a strange hissing sound waxed and waned in the distance as we pecked our way towards the gloomy depths of the great Grizzly Dismal Rotting Swamp.
        "Shhhh..." hissed Billy. We stood as still as stones, straining our ears to locate the sound that he had heard. I heard it now. In the distance a bizarre cacophony of squeaks and squeals was approaching, drawing nearer to us with every passing second. The sound was at once fascinating and dreadful. I suddenly remembered the vivid dream featuring the neon garbage bags. Could this be......? The noise grew louder and louder as the source of this strange symphony seemed to travel our way.
        Without warning, the noisemaker hove into sight and our eyes were strobed by the sight of our old buddy, Zeb Hendrix. He was playing some sort of electrical bagpipe device. Way up on top of his backpack he had mounted an amplifier and a battery pack, and he was jamming away as he followed our trail.
        "Dig it," he cried out when he saw us. "Don't I know you cats, or am I dreaming a laid-back riff from the heavy vision-file of my mind?"
        "Shh!" said Billy. We all shut up.
        Then, we heard it. It was a rhythmic stomping sound. Something was coming! Twigs crunched and bushes swayed in the distance.
        Something, some fell, fey creature from the depths of the abysmal Grizzly Dismal, was coming our way. It was hidden in the bushes, and it was coming right at us!
        "Oh noooo," moaned Slug. He had heard all about the renegade boar hogs of the Grizzly Dismal. These rampaging scavengers were known to kill folks just for sport. They were vicious, brutal, rapacious beasts whose gleaming tusks had tolled the knell for braver souls than ours. Egghead turned white.
        "Gnngh..." choked Zeb. Billy drew his knife. He was tauter that a drawn bow string as he bravely squared to face the towering clump of saw grass that the creature was bulling through. The tension had become unbearable. My knife was in my hand.
        "Come on, you," I hissed. "Come on!"
        With a tremendous crash the saw grass exploded in a shower of flying dust and twigs. The creature plowed into the middle of the clearing, smashing the thin grass aside as if it were dust before a gale. Now it paused and turned to our left. It was a disgusting, quivering brute. It was as ugly as a banshee.
        It was the homeliest armadillo that I had ever seen.
        "Bleagh," it bleated. It hopped into the air and shook its head twice. On its side somebody had painted a message. In day-glow orange some sick yuppie had scrawled "Eat at Joe's". Needless to say, we all exploded all over the clearing with a King-sized case of relieved laughter.
        "Ho Ho Ho!" we boomed.
        "Bleagh," bleated the homely little 'diller. It leaped into the air again, landing with a splat in the muck; then it humped it on out of the clearing, running every bit as fast as an armor-plated jackrabbit. In the meanwhile we were all doubled over with a bad case of laughter. Even old Slug got into the act.
        "Har de har har har," hooted old Slugeroo, wiping the tears from his eyes. Then Billy spoke up.
        "That was one of my cousin's armadillos." Billy told us. We had heard that his cousin Joe Tigertail had started up a restaurant in Gutchinville.
        "I hadn't realized that he was so desperate for business," I blurted. Billy riveted me with an icy stare.
        "The pratings of a fool are welcome at court," he cried, "when cretinous jackals reign! Or when princes, cast down by envy, wallow in the dust, or villains ride in trains upon thrones not built to fit the brunt of infamy… or to bear its bitter end."
        "Gosh, Billy, that was mighty pretty," said old Slug. He was trying to impress us. "I told you dumb hicks that Billy could talk Seminole," he announced solemnly. We were all too embarrassed to speak. Even Zeb was found for once without a freely associated reply. Now that he had used up his word trove old Slug promptly fell asleep on his feet.
        As I looked around at the boys now my eyeballs rolled over and fell into a little pool of foul-looking liquid at the far right-hand side of the saw grass that bordered the clearing. On the top of the pool, to my surprise, I saw Stink's corncob pipe. It was emitting a faint hissing sound as well as notable stench.
        "Looky there, boys," I cried. "It's Stink's pipe!" They all gaped at it.
        "A most inexplicable phenomena," pronounce Egghead.
        "ZZZZZZ," snored Slug.
        "Enough. Away!" quoth Billy.
        "Putrid olfactory glimmers of its missing owner," said Zeb. The shifting breeze was blowing across the top of the pool, delivering the pipe's scent free of charge.
        "That's quicksand," said Billy. He looked mournfully at us all. "Stink must have fallen in there."
        "No!" I found myself wailing.
        "Bummer!" said Zeb. We paused.
        "You mean?" asked Slug.
        "Yep," said Billy.
        Zeb's mouth dropped open. He stared at the disgusting pool of quicksand. Then he slowly inserted the mouthpiece of his strange instrument into his open mouth.
        "Squeeee-ahhh-yeeks-aiorrrr," he honked on the electric bagpipe. He was playing some unknown, unknowable dirge in memory of our pal.
        "Shut up!" cried Billy, and silence suddenly ensued. The distant cry of a ranting loon was the only sound that disturbed the stillness in the Grizzly Dismal Rotting Swamp.