Both scene and table were set for what was surely to be a meteoric clash of the intellects. Separated from his opponent by a barricade of piping-hot teapots, wonderful muffins, cakes swollen with fresh cream, and glazed pastries gleaming like tropical seas shells under a midday sun, on one side of the table sat the villain: straight backed, debonair, his masterful muffin of a mind glowing with pumpkin-spice readiness.

  And on the opposing side of the table... Splosh! Trying in vain to fish another broken biscuit out of his teacup with a second biscuit: Crumpet-Hands Man. So far he'd gotten through half a packet of digestives, two-dozen smashed teacups, and a whole tube of Savlon.

  Eager to begin their contest, Muffin Mind took a sip from his teacup, set it down upon a gilded coaster. He pressed his be-gloved fingers together in the form of a church, index steeple; our hero's fingers, on the other crumpet-hand, were currently scrunched in the form of a fist having been scolded many times already. The two biscuits had long since drowned.

  “Considering that you and I are polar opposites – good and evil, crumpet and muffin, head and hand, etc.,” the villain initiated proceedings, “you are doubtlessly wondering why I am treating you to such a splendid afternoon tea, Crumpet-Hands Man.”

  “Nah. I just reckoned you wanted to trick me into revealing my hidden identity,” our hero said through a mouth full with cake. Having retched like a kitten gargling a dozen hairballs he threw his biscuit-cemented teacup against the wall before pouring himself another. “Or maybe,” he chewed, swallowed, retched some more, “maybe you want to know why my hands are just so damn doughy and magnificent?”

  The villain chuckled manically into his teacup. Crumpet-Hands Man attempted to mimic him; the bubbles went up his nose and out the other end.

  “Come now,” Muffin Mind tittered, handing his nemesis a tissue – said nemesis threw it at the wall and poured himself another. “If I had wished to learn the origin of your freakish extremities I would have long gotten to the bottom of it.”

  “I'll have you know, sir, that my hands have nothing to do with my bottom! And you will never get to the bottom of that bottom, that's for sure!” our hero insisted. “I wear my underpants over the top of my onesie for that very reason. See for yourself!”

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  “Indeed,” the villain exhaled, the bent-over and undignified splay inches from his nose less than appreciated. “Regardless,” he said, sinking down into his chair and away from our hero's bottom, “I have a proposition for you. Allow me to lay my cards upon the table–”

  “Snap!” our hero cheered. “Do I win?”

  “You misunderstand me. I wish to–”

  “Bingo!”

  “I wish to–”

  *Pang*

  “I wish,” the villain yelled, “to make you a proposal!”

  “That's very sweet of you,” our hero slurped from his wall-embedded frying pan, “but you're not my type.”

  Less he dive across the table and *pang* our hero to death, the villain managed to remain cordial. Just. “Crumpet-Hands Man, my proposition is this... I wish us to join forces.”

  “Join forces?” our hero gasped. “But you're a baddie! A villain! A no-good anti-do-gooder! Your muffin head is head brimming with the very fruits of wickedness!”

  “Indeed,” Muffin Mind swooned, caressing his evil ruby cranberries. “But I was not always this way. You see, many years ago,” he said, rising from his chair, clutching his jacket's lapels while looking off into the great beyond. “Once,” he warbled, a song coming on, “I used to be a–”

  “Is this going to be another of those long-winded backstories you villains are so fond of reciting?” Crumpet-Hands Man whined. “If so, I need go do tinkle first.” The villain explained, at length, that since their make-believe interaction was all taking place inside his crumpet-subconscious, our hero had no use for the lavatory. “Tell that to my bladder!” our hero said. The villain did; the bladder was just as ignorant, and therefore beyond reasoning.

  “I'll only be quick. Honest,” our hero hopped around the table. “I just have to–”

  “No!”

  “Sorry,” Crumpet-Hands Man apologised, having trod on the table's right leg. “I mean...yes?..

  “But seriously folks, I really do need to go tinkle,” our hero again pleaded, already on his way out having unzipped his onesie. “Just write your backstory down on a napkin and I'll read it when I get back, 'kay Muff?”

  Dismayed, the villain took a seat at the table, waited. The disant sound of someone tinkling up a wall did little to mollify his temper.