Mashed potatoes hit the ground with an unprecedented speed, with Corto as the sole individual responsible for such an event. It became apparent to Corto that he had not only caused the untimely demise of the mashed potatoes but indeed had set in motion the next four events to occur: bread rolls steadily increasing their rapid pace of rolling down the aged table, various liquids of various ages decorating the roughly crafted table with their randomized purple and red flow, wax splattering across the not-so-distant horizon, and Mrs. Gabagal being assaulted by an array of poultry. He realized the immediate consequences of his action, and slowly lifted his fist from the dented, wooden table. He surveyed his guests with regret, then immediately excused himself and hurried off to his room.
After lighting the last of his candles, Corto slipped under the covers of his bed, followed by rolling to the side and sliding his body in between the mattress and the wall, a spot cozy only to Corto. His eyes slammed shut with a ferocity, followed by rage exploding within his mind. Why did they have to say those awful things? Why couldn't he just go at his own pace?