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Young Tititarius, gawky and rather delicate in appearance, trudged along a path leading in the general direction of Schmegma City. His goiter-headed charge Nate followed close behind, walking awkwardly with his stiff mannequin legs.

About twenty-seven minutes later they exited the dank jungle and came to Necrolagnia, a town that was almost completely taken up by an ancient cemetery that seemed to stretch for miles. The thousands of worn tombstones were covered in pulsating mold and thin, slightly undulating veiny vines. Titi nervously began whistling.

“What does that sound mean?” asked Nate.

“Don’t pay any attention to it,” said Titi. “I’m just whistling as we go past the graveyard to protect us from evil spirits.”

“I’d whistle myself, if I could push my lips together,” remarked the goiter-headed man. “I fear, dear father, that in some respects I am sadly lacking. Speaking of which, will there be much more walking, dad?”

“I’m not sure. Are you tired?”

“No, not at all. I’m not even 100% sure what ‘tired’ is!” replied Nate. “But I feel like I’m slowing you down on account of I can’t walk so good.”

Titi had been thinking the same thing, and wondered what he could do to make Nate’s legs more functional. They walked silently for a while, and eventually they came to the edge of the graveyard, and standing by the gate was a clever chainsaw statue that was a bench in the shape of a raccoon. There was a large rough-hewn head on one end, and a big grooved tail sticking up vertically on the other. It’s back was flat to accommodate sitters, and it had long, narrow legs.

“Why don’t you sit down?” Titi asked the goiterman.

“Won’t it strain my joints?” inquired the other.

“Of course not. It’ll rest them,” declared the boy.

So Nate tried to sit on the raccoon bench; but as soon as he tried to get into a sitting position he tumbled backwards over the raccoon bench. He came clattering to the ground with such a crash that Titi feared he was entirely ruined.

Titi got up and lifted Nate to his feet, straightened out his arms and legs, and felt of his goiter to see if by chance it had become dented or smashed. Then Nate attempted to sit again, this time with Titi’s help, and was successful. Titi sank down on the bench next to him.

Presently the goiter headed man asked:

“Dad? What is this thing we are sitting on?”

“Oh, this is a wooden bench. I think it’s a chainsaw sculpture,” replied the boy, carelessly.

“What is a chainsaw sculpture?” demanded Nate.

“Someone took a big fleshtree and used a chainsaw to carve it into a bench in the shape of a raccoon.”

“What’s a raccoon?”

“It’s a wild yokai in the forests of Bonertania. But a real raccoon is alive, and trots and prances and eats alien feces and balnuts, while this is nothing more than a lifeless raccoon, made of fleshwood.” The raccoon bench’s head had a frowning gash for a mouth, much like Nate’s smile except turned upside down.

“If it were alive, wouldn’t it trot, and prance, and eat alien feces?” inquired Nate.

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“It would trot and prance, perhaps; but it would be like you and unable to eat or go to the bathroom,” replied the Plotzian tween. “And of course it can’t ever really be alive, because it is made of wood.”

“Well, I’m made of plastic and gloves and a goiter and such and I’m alive,” answered the goiter headed man.

“Why, so you are!” Titi exclaimed. “And the alchemistic concoction that brought you to life is here in my backpack. I wonder if it would bring this chainsaw raccoon bench to life?”

“If it would,” returned Nate calmly, for nothing seemed to surprise him, “We could ride on its back, and that would help us travel quicker.”

“I’ll try it!” cried the boy, jumping up. He helped Nate dismount the bench, then he dug out the snuff box and began sprinkling the Make Living Concoction all over the bench. Almost immediately it moved, stretched its legs, yawned with its chopped-out mouth, and shook a few grains of the concoction off its back.

“Super genius!” called Nate. “You are a very clever thaumaturge, dear father!”

The Chainsaw Raccoon, finding themselves alive, seemed even more astonished than our friends. They rolled their knotty eyes from side to side, taking a first wondering view of the world in which they had now so important an existence.

“A sibling!” said Nate, cheerfully. He tried to embrace the newborn golem but the raccoon unexpectedly stumbled forward, tumbling Nate upon the purple moss that lined the roadside.

Titi became alarmed at this accident, as well as at the persistence of the Chainsaw Raccoon, who was now prancing around in a circle, so he called out:

“Whoa! Whoa, there!” shouted Titi, “Whoa, you dork-butt, whoa!” The Chainsaw Raccoon would probably have paid no attention to this, but just then it stepped a leg into a protogopher-hole and tipped to the ground, where it lay upon its side.

Titi ran up to it.

“You’re a nice sort of a raccoon, I must say!” he exclaimed. “Why didn’t you stop when I yelled ‘whoa?’”

“Does ‘whoa’ mean to stop?” asked the Chainsaw Raccoon, in a surprised voice, as it rolled its eyes upward to look at the boy.

“Of course it does,” answered Titi.

“And a hole in the ground means to stop, also, doesn’t it?” continued the raccoon.

“To be sure; unless you step over it,” said Titi.

“What a strange place this is,” the fleshwood golem exclaimed, as if amazed. “What am I doing here, anyway?”

“Why, I’ve given you life,” answered the tween.

“Ah. Life. I see. Then I suppose I will do as you tell me.” replied the Chainsaw Raccoon, humbly.

“Keep those legs still a minute and I’ll set you right side up again.”

The Chainsaw Raccoon now became quiet, and held its legs rigid; so that Titi, after several efforts, was able to tilt him and set him upright.

“Ah, I seem all right now,” said the queer animal, with a sigh.

“Now,” said Titi, addressing his steed, “pay attention to what I’m going to tell you. ‘Whoa!’ means to stop; ‘Giddy-Yup!’ means to walk forward; ‘Cheezit!’ means to go as fast as you can. Understand?”

“I believe I do,” returned the raccoon.

“Very good. We are all going on a journey to Schmegma City and Nate Goiterhead and I are going to ride on your back.”

“I don’t mind,” said the Chainsaw Raccoon. “Anything that suits you suits me.” The large yokai who lived in Bonertania refused to be ridden by smaller creatures, thinking it below their dignity, but the Chainsaw Raccoon didn’t know anything about dignity.

Titi assisted Nate to get up off the ground and onto the raccoon, sitting side-saddle.

“Hold on tight,” he cautioned, “or you may fall off and smash your goiter head.”

“That would be horrible!” said Nate, with a shudder, and threw his arms around the raccoon’s tail. Titi climbed on in front of him, straddling the bench and grabbing ahold of the raccoon’s ears. Then he said:

“Giddy-yup!”

The obedient chainsaw sculpture at once walked forward. It was a little bumpy but not unpleasant. After journeying on for some distance the narrow path they were following turned into a broad roadway. By the side of the road Titi noticed a sign-post that read:

“NINE MILES TO SCHMEGMA CITY.”

But it was now growing too dark to see anything, so he decided to camp for the night by the roadside and to resume the journey next morning by daybreak. He steered the Chainsaw Raccoon to a grassy mound upon which grew several purple fleshtrees, dismounted, and then carefully assisted the goiter headed man to disembark.

“I think I’ll lay you upon the ground, overnight,” said the boy. “You will be safer that way.” He lowered Nate to the ground, where the garbage golem lay flat on his back staring up at the clear night sky.

“How about me?” asked the Chainsaw Raccoon.

“It won’t hurt you to stand,” replied Titi; “and, as you can’t sleep, you may as well watch out and see that no one comes near to bother us.”

Then the tween stretched himself upon the grass beside Nate, and being greatly wearied by the journey soon entered the Land of Nod.