The R.G.A.
Duke and Michel were sucked into another giant, windy, pitch-black vortex. They were thrown around in it like rag-dolls, not that they noticed as they were both fast asleep. After a considerable time of being swished around, the dark became light and they entered into another atmosphere, in a land full of bright colours and food-shaped landscapes. The whooshing air eased and they touched down, asleep, upon a mint green, turnip field.
Nearby, a blinding white light struck, forcing a round electric car to skid, lose control and hurtle into a tree dripping with watery spinach.
A tall, skinny and suited man using a cane emerged out of the crashed car. The suited man whipped out a pair of sunglasses and put them on.
“Curly, what in bloomin’ roses are ye playin’ at!” the tall, ski
