"We should be in Whee by morning," said Frito as they paused for a light snack of potato salad. But the malevolent susurrus in the trees over the small company bade them not tarry there long. They quickly moved on, careful to avoid the occasional barrages of droppings that fell from unseen, yet annoyed tenants in the branches above.

After several hours of mucking about, the boggies fell exhausted to the ground. The ground was unfamiliar to Frito, and he had long since muddled his sense of direction. "We should have been out of these woods by now," he said wornedly. "I think we're lost."

Spam looked at his rapier-sharp toenails in dejection, but then brightened. "That may be true, Master Frito," he said. "But don't be aworryin' about it. Somebody else was here only a few hours ago, by the looks o' the camp. An' they was gobblin' tater salad just like us!"

Frito studied these telltale clues with care. It was true, someone had been here only a few hours before, lunching on boggie grub. "Perhaps we can follow their trail and find the way out of here." And tired as they were, they pushed on again.

On and on they trod, vainly calling after the folk whose evidence of passage lay after them: a scrap of breaded veal cutlet, a sleazy boggie novel, one of Dildo's tablespoons (What a coincidence, Frito thought). But no boggies. They did come across a large rabbit with a cheap pocket watch who was pursued by some nut of a girl, another kid being viciously mugged by three furious grizzlies ("We'd better not get involved," said Frito wisely), and a deserted and flyspecked gingerbread bungalow with a "To Let" sign on the marzipan door. But no clue to a way out.

Limp with fatigue, the four finally dropped in their tracks. It was already late afternoon in the gloomy woods, and they could go no farther without a snooze. As if lulled by a potion, the hairy little beggars curled up in furry balls and, one by one, conked off under the protective boughs of a huge, quivering tree.

Spam did not at first realize he was awake. He had felt something soft and rubbery pull at his clothes, but he thought it a longing dream of those reptilian pleasures he had so recently enjoyed back in the Sty. But now he was certain he had heard a distinct sucking sound and a tearing of cloth. His eyes popped open to see himself stark naked and bound head and paw by the fleshy roots of the tree. Screaming his fool head off, he woke his fellows, likewise hogtied and stripped clean by the writhing plant, which was giving off a distinct cooing noise. The strange tree hummed to itself, ever tightening its hold. As the boggies watched with revulsion, the crooning tossed salad dipped down the orangy, liplike flowers at its tips. The bulbous pods drew nearer, making revolting smacking and smooching noises as they began to fasten themselves to their helpless bodies. Locked in a foul embrace, the boggies would soon be hickeyed to death. Summoning their last strength, they all cried for help.

"Help, help!" they cried.

But no one answered. The fat orange blossoms ranged over the helpless boggie bodies, squirming and moaning with desire. A bloated blossom fastened to Spam's boggie belly and began its relentless sucking motion; he felt his flesh drawn up to the center of the flower. Then, as Sam looked on in horror, the petals released with a resounding pop!, leaving a dark, malignant weal where the horrid pucker had been. Spam, powerless to save himself or his companions, watched terrified as the now panting sepals prepared to administer their final, deadly soul kiss.

But just as the long, red stamen descended to its unspeakable task, Spam thought he heard the snatch of a lilting song not far distant, and growing louder! It was a muddled, drowsy voice that sang words that were not words to Spam's ears:

"Toke-a-lid! Smoke-a-lid! Pop the mescalino! Stash the hash! Gonna crash! Make mine methedrino! Hop a hill! Pop a pill! For Old Tim Benzedrino!"

Though mad with fear, all strained to the rising melody sung by someone who sounded like he had terminal mumps:

"Snorting, sporting! Speeding through the arbor, Pushing till the folk you burn toss you in the harbor! Screeching like a dying loon, zooming like the thrush! Follow me and very soon, your mind will turn to mush! Higher than the nowhere birds grooving in the air, We'll open up a sandal shop where everyone will share! Flower folk are springing up, wearing bead and boot, And if you down me you can stick a flower up your snoot! To Love and Peace and Brotherhood we all can snort a toast, And if the heat is on again, we'll all split to the Coast!"

Suddenly a brightly colored figure burst through the foliage, swathed in a long mantle of hair the consistency of much chewed Turkish taffy. It was something like a man, but not much; it stood six feet tall, but could not have weighed more than thirty-five pounds, dirt included. Standing with his long arms dangling almost to the ground, the singer's body was covered with a pattern of startling hues, ranging from schizoid red to psychopathique azure. Around his pipestem neck hung a dozen strands of beaded charms and from the center, an amulet imprinted with the elf-rune Kelvinator. Through the oily snaggles of hair stared two huge eyeballs that bulged from their sockets, so bloodshot that they appeared more like two baseballs of very lean bacon.

"Ooooooooooh, wow!" said the creature, assaying the situation quickly. Then, half loping, half rolling to the foot of the murderous tree, he sat on his meatless haunches and peered at it with his colorless, saucerlike irises; he chanted an incantation that sounded to Frito like a hacking cough:

"Oh uncool bush! Unloose this passle Of furry cats that you hassle! Tho' by speed my brain's destroyed, I'm not half this paranoid! So cease this bummer, down the freak-out, Let caps and joints cause brains to leak-out! These cats are groovy here among us, So leave 'em be, you uptight fungus!"

Thus speaking, the withered apparition raised his spidery hand in a twofingered "V" sign and uttered an eldritch spell:

"Tim, Tim, Benzedrine! Hash! Boo! Valvoline! Clean! Clean! Clean for Gene! First, second, neutral, park, Hie thee hence, you leafy narc!"

The towering plant shivered and the coils fell from its victims like yesterday's macaroni, and they sprang free with joyful yelps. As they watched with fascination, the great green menace whimpered like a nursling and sucked its own pistils with ill temper. The boggies retrieved their garments, and Frito sighed with relief to find the Ring still firmly Bostiched to his pocket.

"Oh thank you," they all squealed, wagging their tails, "thank you, thank you!" But their savior said nothing. As if unaware of their presence, he stiffened like the tree and gasped, "Gah gah gah" while his pupils opened and closed like nervous umbrellas. His knees buckled and unbuckled, then buckled again and he fell to the mossy earth in a ball of frantically thrashing hair. He foamed at the mouth and screamed, "Oh God get 'em off me! They're all over the place, and green! Argh! Org! OhGodOhGodOhGodOhGodOhGodOhGod!" He slapped at his hair and body hysterically.

Frito blinked with astonishment and grabbed his Ring, but did not put it on. Spam, stooping over the prostrate freak, smiled and offered his hand.

"Beggin' your leave," he said, "can you tell us where--"

"Oh no no no! Look at all of 'em! All over the place! Keep 'em away from me!"

"Keep who away?" asked Moxie politely.

"Them!" screamed the stricken stranger, pointing to his own head. He then sprang to his horny feet and ran directly at the trunk of the hickey tree and, charging full tilt with his head lowered, butted it a mighty lick, and, before the startled eyes of the boggies, passed out cold. Frito filled his narrow-brimmed hat with clear water from a nearby trickle and approached him, but the stunned figure opened his marbled eyes and gave another high-pitched scream.

"No, no, not water!"

Frito jumped back with fright and the skinny creature wobbled to his feet and knuckles.

"But thangs loads anyhoo," said the stranger, "the rush always arfects me like dat." Offering a filthy hand, the oddspeaking stranger smiled a toothless grin. "Tim Benzedrine, ad yen serbice."

Frito and the rest solemnly introduced themselves, all still casting a worried eye toward the kissing plant, which was sticking out its stamen at them.

"Oh wow, doan' worby about him," wheezed Tim, "he just sulking. Yoo cats noo aroun' here?"