Mr Gimpson

I awoke somewhere else. The floor was folded paper, corridors stretching endlessly, walls lined with napkins pinned like sacred texts. Each bore stains — cranberry blotches, gravy smears, grease halos — forming glyphs I could not read. The air was heavy, thick with judgment. At the center stood a figure. Its cloak rustled with endless…

Cheesy!

It’s a big one!

Goose? In a sandwich?

You’re right, I wouldn’t normally eat salmon.

A classic combo