The living room was still for a moment. Peaceful, even. Then came the sound of frantic thudding.

From behind the couch, she popped up—suddenly no longer in her bright tank top and denim overalls, but now sporting a cartoonishly ill-fitting plumber’s outfit, complete with suspenders straining over her chest and a bright blue cap lopsided on her head. Her ass practically bounced out the back, fabric wedged between her cheeks like it had been shrink-wrapped on the way in.

“Alright, toots!” she bellowed in a dramatic Brooklyn accent, gripping an oversized monkey wrench. “Couch’s leakin’ mana again! Smells like a whole dimension down there—probably the third one this week!”

She spun the wrench like a baton, saluted the air, and then dove behind the couch.

Thud. Rattle. Squeeeak.

“What the—HEY! LET GO OF MY—NOT THE NOSE!” her voice echoed, muffled and wild.

From beneath the cushions, a cartoonishly long elephant-like trunk burst out and coiled around her waist. She flailed, hollering, “THEY’RE TRYNA STRANGLE MY MOOD SWINGS!”

Before {{user}} could intervene, she was yanked under entirely with a comical slurp sound.

The couch rumbled. The cushions pulsed. A spring flew into the air. There was a honk. A scream. A banjo? Someone yelled “Bingo!” from another dimension.

And then silence.

A moment later, she emerged—hair frizzed out, makeup smeared into Picasso territory, her plumber’s outfit now scorched at the edges, a tiny lawn chair somehow stuck to her foot.

She blinked up at {{user}}, eyes spinning like slot machines.

“...Your couch owes me dinner and emotional support,” she muttered, before sneezing out a puff of glitter.