Unfortunately enough, subsequent to the infamous winding, binding, babbling creek was the even more infamous pit of wibbling, wobbling, masticating slowsand. The problem with slowsand was that, once stepped upon, it would swallow one up whole in but half a second, sumberging you in thick, seemingly endless sand. This was somewhat contrary to its own name, which implied that slowsand might act slowly, when in reality it did anything but. But that was beside the point. The point being that an absentminded step into some slowsand could easily spell certain doom.

Pamela, of course, had been trained as a member of the Royal Gourd, which did not prepare her to deal with slowsand. Henry, who was actually Officer corporal Sergeant Officer Jarmish, had been trained with slowsand a total of three times. The first was for his variable espionage exam, which covered terrain from lush forests to icy tundras to welfare offices. The second was for his entrance to the Caldonian navy, which also covered terrain from lush forests to icy tundras to welfare offices but required you to wear a dark navy camouflage as opposed to wearing the crisp tuxedos the varialb espionage exam was well known for. The third was for his part time position as Henry, the Fancy Forest ranger, but all that trained him to do was scare children on tours by telling them they’ll die if they fall in the slowsand.

Despite all of this training and preparation, Henry managed to take absolutely no notice of the slowsand that would soon be underfoot. It seems his passion for cheese had so blinded him that indeed even the ‘BEWARE: SLOWSAND’ sign overhead did nothing to avail the danger. On he swaddled, stubborn and unaware.

“Henry! Henry! Watch out! There’s slowsand, Henry!!” Pamela cried.

“There’s a what now?” rasped Henry as he stepped in a big glob of slowsand and was immediately yanked down below its surface.

“Shit,” Pamela froze, slapped herself in the forehead, and then paced around the edge of the pit of wibbling, wobbling, masticating slowsand, “Shit, shit, shit.”

Pamela looked at her kerchief for comfort, admiring her naked sketches of Henry—she’d had time to bang a few out while they’d been arguing about cheese. Surprisingly enough, she realized upon observing these sketches for the first time with excellent memory that naked creek people had been trying to get their attention the whole time.

“Fascinating…” Pamela’s fingers traced the contour of what she imagined Henry’s testicles might look like, wondering at the picture perfect memory gazing upon it granted her. In fact, she scarcely could remember what she’d been worrying about before whipping out the kerchief before a couple of bubbles of slowsand popped loudly beside her, jolting her into the present.

“Shit!” Pamela stuffed the kerchief back in her pocket and ran back over to the creek. “Hey, naked people!”

“Cluck off,” groaned a naked creek lady as she brushed her creek hair with a wide-toothed creek brush.

“But I need your help! My friend just got caught in slowsand!”

“Ugh,” a naked creek man rolled his eyes, “We’d been trying to catch you two in this creek for clucking ever and then the clucking slowsand gets him in a second? That’s bullshit.”

“Are you even listening to us?” hissed a naked creek lady, watching Pamela scrawl speedily with her pen to her kerchief.

“Sorry, sorry, I just, I need to practice my figures,” she glanced back the naked creek people before her, frustrated that she’d soon run out of kerchief space. She felt a rush of blood pumping through her veins as she sketched and a flash of fresh memories forming. “This truly is fascinating.”

“Okay, so, like,” a naked creek lady started, “Were you actually coming here to convince us to help your friend or were you just coming back to oggle us? Because I’m feeling pretty oggled. Which I will admit was originally our intention, getting you to oggle us, that is, however we only wanted you to oggle us so that we could lure you into the creek and disembowel you. Now that you’re hip to our game I’m feeling quite exploited, like some sort of creek-based piece of creek-meat, and would prefer you stop.”

“You heard the lady!” a naked creek man butted in figuratively and literally, “Stop looking at her tits! She’s over it!”

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“I’m not oggling,” Pamela scolded, “I’m practicing. There’s nothing sexual about it. I’m an artisté.”

“If we tell you how to get your friend out of the slowsand, will you please stop drawing us?” whined another creek nady as she jiggled her posterior half-temptingly.

“Eh,” Pamela shrugged, feeling engrossed in the artistéic experience.

“We’ll, uh, we’ll tell him that you’re right about…whatever it was you were saying about cheese…if you just stop drawing us and let us help you help him,” mumbled a naked creek man dejectedly as he flexed his creek pecs.

“Fair enough,” Pamela shrugged.

“Okay,” a naked creek lady started, “First thing you’ve got to do is move around erratically, like a waterfish on the land.”

“Gotcha.”

“Next,” began a naked creek man, “You need to be sure make yourself super duper heavy. You’d think that being heavier would make you sink into the slowsand faster, but actually the slowsand has trouble handling heavier weights. So if you’ve got a backpack, just fill it with rocks before you step in any slowsand.”

“Wait, what was the first one again?”

“You want to move around erratically if you’re caught in slowsand. Like, think flailing like a headless chicken, or something.”

“Okay, but what was the second one? I can’t really tell Henry to move around erratically, he’s already sunk into the slowsand.”

“Well, the second one is that you’ve got to make sure you’re as heavy as possible, because that’ll keep you from sinking.”

“That’s counterintuitive. Also, I’m pretty sure Henry is already pretty heavy. Like, definitely one of the heavier people I’ve met. At least since I started sketching everyone I interact with naked, that’s for sure. And he just sunk right in.”

“Well, there’s also a third tip for slowsand.”

“Third? Why, you’ve only told me one, and I can’t even remember it!”

A naked creek lady turned to another and whispered, “What the cluck is wrong with her? It’s like she’s got the memory of a silverfish.”

“What was that?” interjected Pamela, “Was that another tip?”

“She’s pretty annoying,” vitched another naked creek lady.

“Hey, I could do without the personal attacks. Just the tip, please.”

“P-Pamela!” sputtered a frazzled voice.

“Henry?” Pamela swiveled around to see Henry standing beside her, covered in slimy slowsand ectoplasm. “Eew, Henry! That’s nasty.”

“Oh, believe me, I know. I just so happened to, after getting sucked into the slowsand, remember the three tips to get out of a slowsand trap. The first tip, of course, being to move around erratically. However I seemed to have been frozen in shock so that was a bust. Then I figured maybe I wouldn’t even have to do anything, because the second tip is of course to just weigh a lot and if you’d imagine this Pamela normally I weigh quite a considerable amount. However I recently had a wizard enchant me with a weight loss spell, so that too was hopeless. It was only through the third tip, which is to tickle the slowsand rhymically whilst deep inside its depths til it reaches a climactic release, that I was able to escape its clutches.”

“Oh,” Pamela tried her best not to throw up in her mouth, “I see. Henry, erm, why don’t you wash some of that muck off in this conveniently located winding, binding, babbling creek?”

“That’s a capital idea!” Henry lit up and, before either he or Pamela could notice the gleams and indeed cackles of joy emanating from the naked creek people, he jumped right in, “Cannonball!”

SPLUSHHHHH

The creek water sprayed every which way in a dazzling flurry. When the splashing subsided, Pamela was drenched, and all of the creek people were gone. She squinted in suspicion, and stepped carefully towards the creek. There were but small bubbles at the patch here Henry had jumped in for a moment, and then there was nothing at all. She gasped. It was as if he’d vanished completely below the apparently crystal clear surface.

“What in cock’s name is going on?” Pamela whipped her kerchief back out and quickly attempted to sketch someone naked, so as to seal her memory of the events, but had trouble finding any open space. Eventually she found a clear patch of fabric, in fact it was the patch of fabric that had been covered in snot and tears, but it was better than nothing. Or was it better than nothing? Not really, because the dried mucus was preventing Pamela’s pen from making but a faint indentantion of imagined genitalia that soon faded into nothing, as did her memories.

Pamela suddenly stood there, at the foot of the winding, binding, babbling creek, grossly unaware of what had taken place. In fact, all she could remember was consulting the naked creek people for tips on dealing with slowsand and being asked by them to stop drawing. Tricky little fellows. But where were their beautiful naked bodices now? Pamela had not an inkling, in fact she wasn’t entirely sure they were creek people and not just strange naked people.

She knew Henry had disappeared, but she wasn’t sure if he’d disappeared in the slowsand or the creek or maybe he’d just left on his own accord. It was very troubling, and she would’ve been disoriented if she wasn’t already quite accustomed to having a dreadful memory of high stakes situations.

Then Pamela, against all odds, remembered something. She remembered she was in the Fancy Forest. Staring at a weeping willow decked out in cocktail jewelry probably helped.

Pamela knew the trees could talk to her if she let them attach one of those gross viney things to her again. But how would they respond to being interrogated?