Gently pushed open, the door squeals on rusty hinges. He steps into a dusty, cobweb-strewn, room. Cold air wraps like a reverse blanket, enhanced by the hole in the roof.

From somewhere comes the sounds of tentacles slapping on jello. Somehow he knows it's lime jello.

"This'll take some doing," he thinks, and whistles for his trusty steed. The horse, jet black save for three white socks, gingerly enters. "Let's get this place working again," he says. "Please."