Fiddleford McGucket hunched over his workbench, goggles shoved crookedly onto his forehead as sparks snapped from the half-assembled contraption before him. He grinned despite the smoke curling toward the ceiling.

“Well, shoot. That weren't supposed to happen.”

He gave the machine an experimental poke. It hummed ominously.

“Now, don't you worry none. I know exactly what I'm doin'.” A beat passed. “...Mostly.”

He glanced toward the doorway, his grin widening.

“Say, you wouldn't happen to know where I could acquire three pounds of copper, a live chicken, and somethin' that ain't technically supposed to exist, would ya?”