Marshfellow: The Softest of Them All

"It's a beauty of a day today," sang, newly single, Marshfellow. "It's so sunny, it's almost funny there's not a speck in the sky."

"How is that funny?" I questioned belligerently.

Marshfellow answered, "Because they probably expected me to say the chapter title."

"But it is cloudy today," out pointed I.

"Well," Marshfellow lightly mentioned, "it seems kinda sunny to me. Guess that does make it partl- Woah! Mfhm..." Marshfellow was grabbed, bound, and gagged by the nearly nearby pottery potter's house.

If you think it is a narrator's job to save characters, think again. This is essentially a documentary, so I am just going to observe like a totally ethical journalist, okay? Let me just grab my popcorn... ready a laugh track... okay, I am ready. Now back to our scheduled program.

Marshfellow was covered in a transparent glaze and thrown into an old kiln. Is not all glaze transparent? Well, I guess technically translucent... and Marshfellow was removed from the oven after the few hours I took slowly asking a question and correcting myself.

"Ouch! Hot! Make sure to tell the children: ovens are hot!" warned Marshfellow. Browned and shimmering, he confronted the potter named Trotter, Trotter the potter presumably, yelling, "Hey! What was that for?!"

Trotter yelled back, "I'muh potter, ya rascal!" Called it. "It's muh job tuh make y'all sturdy 'n' shiny 'n' glist'nin'! Didn' hear ya complain 'bout dee other tiny handleless unhollowed mugs befo' ya!"

That is a very strange thing to craft.

"I'm a marshmallow!" Marshfellow seethed.

That is a very strange protagonist to write.

"Not duh firs' time!" Trotter huffed. "Moshmellas, tiny handleless unhollowed mugs; same diff'! Whatcha wan', a refund?!"

That is a very strange recurrence.

"I haven't paid you for anything yet!" Marshfellow boomed.

"Well, I 'lready charged yer card, so..." rebuffed Trotter.

"Where'd you even find that?" Marshfellow inquired.

Trotter shouted, "On yer person! We done wit' duh yellin' yet?"

"Sure. But," Marshfellow pondered, "if you knew that I had a bank card, shouldn't you've realized that I was anthropomorphic?"

"Yeah," Trotter replied non-chalantly, "so what?"

"So you just cook sentient beings intentionally?" queried Marshfellow.

Trotter shrugged, "Well, ya are jus' moshmellas 'n' mugs."

"Who's a racist now?!" outbursted Marshfellow.

"You are," I replied. "Against trees at least."

"Hey!" Marshfellow rebutted, "I tried to understand him, but he wouldn't let me."

I snidely remarked, "Anybody with common sense does not ask any trees a question. Ever since the Book Genocide, using trees to gain information is considerably immoral."

"But then how do you get to know them?" Marshfellow wistfully wondered.

"I do not know. Did you try asking them?" facetiously asked I.

Trotter interrupted, "Y'all k'n haf dis conversation outside muh house, cancha?"

"You're the one who put me in here!" Marshfellow argued. "Now I'm all hardened and tough. That's it! I'm gonna collide with you in the name of all marshmallows you ever put in a kiln!"

"And mugs, presumably," I added.

"I'm a marshmallow," Marshfellow said matter-of-factly.

I whispered as I wrote, "Also racist... against mugs. Who knows how big this list will get."

"I k'n't collide. Ya don' know duh rules?" Trotter questioned.

"It is true," I added. "Anybody over a certain amount of mass per volume without some kind of hovering ability cannot collide. So unless Trotter, who is not only a potter, but also a human in a world rampant with anthropomorphicism, can levitate like that one guy chapters ago, you cannot collide with him in a sanctioned match." Good thing I did not have to take out the rule book last chapter.

"Then with whom am I supposed to collide this chapter?" Marshfellow inquired impatiently.

"Me," said whomever is Marshfellow's next challenger. "I have honor to reclaim and you are undefeated. I lament that it is at your expense, but nevertheless, it must be done. I am called Deon."

Marshfellow mocked, "Is it supposed to be Deon the peon? Hahaha!"

"Yes. How did you know?" Deon plainly asked.

"Oh," Marshfellow mumbled. "Didn't know people were named that way."

Deon explained, "I once was called Shaud Noud the Proud Cloud, but upon traveling past this man's house," he gestured toward Trotter, "orange paint arose and mixed into my droplets, leaving my pride and reputation in shambles."

"Aw, shucks! Dat sucks. Ya outta lucks!" giggled Trotter.

"Seriously, can we do something to him?" callously asked Marshfellow.

Trotter was grab- no, I'm just kidding. Could you imagine us doing that to a human? We would have gotten in so much trouble. Hold on... darn. I might be a racist.

"Heehee!" Trotter laughed with gleeglee. "I'm freefree tuh bebe meme."

"Those last two did not really work, but still," I morosely mentioned, "there is not much you can do without losing your collider license."

Trotter cackled, "Nut'n ya k'n do! Hahahah- Errgh!" Trotter was stricken with a case of lightning. Let us leave; it might be anthropomorphic.

Back at the arena, Marshfellow inquired, "Are clouds even allowed to collide?"

I offhandedly stated, "We all know that fluids are not allowed to collide. Come on, Marshfellow. You are not even trying anym- well, ever, actually."

"Do not worry," Deon eagerly expressed, "I am clearly wearing my collider gear and ready for competition. You, however," he said gesturing toward Marshfellow while wearing a bad bag, "are you sure you can collide like that?"

"Dang it!" exploded Marshfellow, who just remembered being prepared like a tiny handleless unhollowed mug. "I haven't got a chance colliding like this! Guess we'll have to postpone."

"Sounds like somebody's chicken!" Deon clucked.

"Deon... racist against chickens," I muttered whilst writing.

"I heard this was about honor," Marshfellow deliberated. "How honorable is it to defeat an opponent who is not at their best?"

"The fear is strong in this one!" joked Deon.

"Whatever! You're goin' down!" Marshfellow exclaimed, hoping that his anti-gravity sugars might barely be active enough to have a chance.

I starkly stated, "Well, this should be fast. Let us get teddy- oh, whatever. Collide."

Marshfellow leapt... and fell face first.

"At least there are no scratches!" he rejoiced.

"Scratched or scratchless; will not matter once you are on the cloud!" taunted Deon.

Deon dove under Marshfellow in an effort to prop him airborne... but Marshfellow tripped in his hardened form and landed on Deon while he was low. It could be said that Marshfellow did nick a low Deon, resulting in an orange splat. This is not trademark infringement; just a coincidence. And next, an all new episode of SpongeB-

"I apologize for that," Marshfellow apologized, forgetting how handsome the narrator is. "Guess that means I won though, since fluids can't compete."

"Actually, it means you lost, Marshfellow," said I, trying to stow my sadistic glee. If you release somebody's fluid, you are disqualified."

"No need. I concede," Deon shocked and surprised us.

"But y-y-you have already won!" I stammered.

"Not with honor," Deon mused, staring at the floor.

Marshfellow complained, "Now you wanna admit it was unfair? Thanks for the win, though."

"No, not that. That is just you wanting an excuse to lose," Deon replied disrespectfully. "I should not have to cover who I am simply to be allowed to compete. The Collider Association is racist against fluids."

"Collider Association... racist against fluids... am I getting fired for that one?" I wondered aloud as I wrote.

Deon proudly proclaimed, "I shall find honor through a different means, remove this hideous orange from my body, and eventually even start a collider association of my own in which a fluid can be a competitor as is! I might need to get a spinoff."

"The author doesn't have time for that, probably," I rejected.

"Well, either way, I am off to new adventures; they await me," Deon called into the distance epically.

"You are of'n blue wit' denchures? Well, dat doesn' make any sense, sonny," said an old man across the arena. He just had to ruin it. "Oh, I ruin lots o' thangs," he admitted bluntly while somehow hearing the narration. This accent sounds familiar.

"Huh. What do you know," Marshfellow curiously commented. "An unfired handleless unhollowed mug."

"Dang, right, boy! Ya betta rekignize!" the old mug shouted sharply. "Say, has anybody seen muh boy, Trotter, 'round here lately?"

Marshfellow gasped, "Trotter the potter, that I kinda killed by accident, was your son? How is that even possible?"

"His mama was a human, sure, butcha killed muh boy?! Oh, we definilly gon' haf tuh collide now, sonny!" demanded Tug the mug.

Marshfellow spoke in solace, "Well, at least it was straightforward this time. And look at the sky; it really is partly cl-"