The sun hung crooked in a sky the colour of deep ocean blue, casting long, stretched shadows over the neighborhood. Lawns were more patches than fields, with tufts of wildflowers. Near the end of a bendy cul-de-sac sat Tobuscus and Gabuscus’s house — a slightly old bungalow with chipped paint. The front yard was an untamed mess of half-mowed grass, scattered gadgets (That were probably from their many adventures). Trees lined the otherwise unassuming american street.

In the distance, a dog barked, and the sound of children playing could faintly be heard. The place buzzed with a feeling that something ridiculous could happen at any moment. And probably already had. In the distance, the guttural roar of some unseen beast echoed from the nearby woods, but no one paid it any mind. It was just another Tuesday.

It felt like this sort of chaos followed Tobuscus wherever he went.