Bab strolled through the Norwegian countryside, contemplating the rejection of his latest Scandinavian Folk-Dubstep album. He wanted revenge. He wanted to crush the people who couldn’t see art when it stared them in the face. Lo and behold, the opportunity arose, for before him stood an amaranth pink deer.
“Hey Honey Bunches,” said the deer, “have a toffee.”
Bab snatched the toffee and was about to take a chomp when he felt a heartbeat and a warm breath on his finger. He inspected the toffee closer. He squinted at his cervidae benefactor.
“May I ask why this toffee seems to be alive?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Cream Puff” The amaranth being scoffed “even if sentient toffee was running around somewhere, what makes you think that I, a lowly deer, could catch it? Just eat up, Sweetie Pie, and stop complaining.”
Bab was swayed by the deer’s logic. It was like no other toffee he had ever seen before (for one thing it seemed to be breathing), but he slipped it into his mouth anyway and its flavour flooded his tongue. Suddenly, he felt light headed. His whole body tingled and the world went a deep shade of fandango. When it abruptly stopped, he looked up to see the deer staring at him expectantly.
“Oh dear” he moaned “my peptic ulcers seem to be acting up.”
“The name’s Hairould, Meringue Tart” he heard the mammal say in a deep voice “You are now under the power of Slynis.”
A baffled Bab opened his mouth to protest, but before he could say a word he felt something clawing up his throat. After several minutes (which felt like years) of making unattractive choking noises and clutching his neck in agony, he felt something small and furry jump out of his mouth. It bowed to Hairould.
“SLYYYYYNIIS” Hairould boomed, turning a bright shade of Persian rose.
“WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS? I SENT YOU TO POSSES THIS ANTHROPOID, NOT TO GIVE HIM INDIGESTION. NOW HE KNOWS ABOUT US, NOW WE’RE RUINED”
Slynis’ thulian shade wavered as he beheld the man before him.
“No, we are not ruined, my orchid overlord. He is the one. He is meant to rule us.”
Hairould stepped back cautiously.
Bab was aghast as the forest around him dissolved into thousands of brilliant honeysuckle toffees, promenading around his feet. They bowed, and awaited word from their leader. An electronic tribal beat erupted from his toffee subjects as Bab began to descant his latest single. They chanted his song as an anthem as they told him of his destiny: To rule the world, to create a pink toffee utopia, and to gain acceptance for these incongruous beings.
“Lead us to victory!” chanted the sugary fiends.
Bab took an oath then and there.
“My music shall be heard. My people shall be accepted. The revolution has begun.”