The moment you become a cartoon fox, you feel a warm fluidity to your bones. You look down at yourself and discover you are wearing a scarlet vest and orange pantaloons, bouncing through some neon green field. You think, “I’ve never looked good in red,” and the thought itself appears above you in a puffy cloud.
You are dimly aware of a change overtaking you. The gnarled complexity of your emotions seems to be unraveling, and the parade of faces in your memory begins to evaporate. You forget your friends, your family, even your own name.
Somewhere inside, you sense the last vestige of your human self throw his hands up in defeat. Above you, a puffy thought cloud appears featuring three plump, rouged hens. Plewds of drool dance from your jagged grin. All you can think is I haven’t eaten in days. The world, with all its newfound elasticity, is yours for the snatching.
“Snack time,” you say, and your voice is like steel.