The Brilliantly Rainbowed Adventure

        In a dark, dreary pond, in the midst of a sour, bubbling marsh, Sha-no-she-ba had been sound asleep when the bullet was dropped by the tiny bat. It had been easy for Cuddles to mistake her huge, glistening form for one of the fabled rocks of the Grizzly Dismal Swamp.
        Sha-no-she-ba hadn't moved in hours. She was in a foul mood, bewildered and bebothered, vexed beyond depression by her recent failure in pursuit of Frogstick Gutchins. She had been thoroughly humiliated in front of her peers.
        She was a miserable failure as a reptile. She moaned softly, slightly shifting her meaty bulk, blowing huge murky bubbles with her elongated nose; bubbles that she didn't even snap at. This gator was sinking fast: going with the gloom: melting into a disgusting fishy-smelling blob of lard that sniffed and snorted and snuffled and blubbered like an old leaky faucet that needed to be fixed with a hammer.
        As she lay there commiserating with the swamp lice and the owls, she little suspected that the solution to her malaise was whistling down toward her at a high rate of speed, growing closer by the second. A low-flying jet blew by overhead, drawing a yawn from the melancholic beast.
        Then, it happened.
        Her inspiration returned.
        She found a reason for living.
        Hatred.
        Franz Kafka's bullet plummeted down into the swamp, striking the yawning gator squarely in the soft, fluted opening of her left nostril. The bullet, falling at top speed, plowed down into the uttermost depths of her sinus cavity, burying itself solidly in the middle of her head.
        It really hurt.
        Sha-no-she-ba cut loose with a tremendous sneeze, and suddenly, in a hot, viscous flood, the burning magma of her white-hot hatred spewed from the volcanic depths of her heart and blew off the top of her mind, filling her conciousness with a deadly rain of fiery rage that scattered like an evil fountain in every direction.
        There, in the searing heat of her anger, the image of the man that had first caused her to suffer the agony of sinusitis returned with a vengeance. And lo and behold, the image that was projected onto the screen of her mind just happened to be the doofy-looking countenance of Frogstick Gutchins, a.k.a.: "Drumbie," "The Old Drumble Bum," or "The Frog Pound."
        Her dull but persistent brain focused on this picture: on the original source of her nasal anguish: Frogstick Gutchins himself. He had hurt her once, and to her malignant, pea-sized brain, he had somehow managed to hurt her again.
        Now, it was her turn.
        The relentlessly stubborn mind of Sha-no-she-ba was fully settled at last. She would hunt for Frogstick. She would hunt until she found him, and when she did... she would shove a bullet up his nose, just to see how he liked it!