When I woke up this morning the first thing I noticed was the thick stench of rotting turtle meat. I thought “Hmm, this is quite peculiar.” Normally my room contains a bed, a desk, a closet and a mini-fridge. And nothing else, contrary to what the Australians want you to believe about the contents of my room. This current room however did not so much have a desk as it had a pile of dead turtles. And it didn’t so much have a mini-fridge as it had a humongous industrial fridge used for storing said turtle carcasses. Also there wasn’t so much a closet as there was an odd man standing in the middle of the room with a look of bewilderment mixed with furious Australian rage (I was later informed of his Australian descent). And there wasn’t so much a bed as there was a conveyor belt of death, which to my shock and horror I realized I was currently traveling on towards a huge turtle shell slicing saw. “Hmm,” I thought, “this just keeps getting peculiarler and peculiarler.” Apparently I was not in my room at all but in the bowels of a turtle slaughter house. I exclaimed to the strange Australian man that I was indeed not a turtle and that this was a violation of the “people shall not be used for turtle meat treaty of 1864.” He realized once I spoke that I was in fact not a turtle. Boy was his face red as he came over to untie me. “Crikey! I thought you was a turtle mate. Boy is my face red” “I know” I replied as he untied me. “I already narrated that it was. Weren’t you listening?” “Sorry mate, I’ve been a little distracted lately what with the boss demanding a 200 times increase in turtle murder.” “Phew, that’s quite an increase. I can see how you would try to use me as a turtle in you desperation, what with my unusual shell shaped growth on my back.” “That must be what caused the confusion. You really do look like a turtle, you know.” “You sir, have just crossed the line. Mistaking me for a turtle and sending me to my death is one thing, but saying I look like a turtle right to my face is cause for arms. En garde!” I roundhouse kicked the brackets holding the turtle shell slicing saw in place and sent it flying up in the air. I caught it and began swinging it wildly toward the Australian turtle slaughterhouse employee. He squealed in terror and ran around the room like a chicken with his head chopped off. The next thing I know the floor disappears and we fall through an abyss for approximately 22 days, 32 hours, 14 minutes and 72 seconds, the whole time I slash at him with the blade. We finally land on what could only be described as a bouncy castle suspended 15 miles above Australia. “Jinkies” the Australian yelled, because that is a little known Australian exclamation stolen by the evil men behind the creation of Scooby Doo, “be careful with that saw, mate, or this thing’ll pop sending us plummeting to Australia, the worst fate imaginable to man or turtle.” I remained still, pondering my options, then I yelled “NO!” and plunged the saw into the magical floating bouncy castle. We fell for another 10 days before finally landing in Lake Australia (Fun fact: they only have one lake). We swam ashore and waiting for us there was a crowd of Australians brandishing various weapons, chickens, containers of empty root beer bottles, turtle saws, kangaroo pelts, light bulbs, and, surprisingly, pizza boxes. Having not eaten for about a month we both sprang toward the pizza boxes and dug in. And we both lived happily ever after.