Lewis? What do you mean, Lewis? The Monster fiddles nervously with the key to the cupboard, then with a sharp yank, pulls on the handle. The little boy who springs from the wardrobe throws himself into his rescuer’s arms.
“Phew! Thanks! I was about to suffocate!”
“But who locked you in there?”
“My brother.”
“Which brother?”
“Jack! My very bad big brother!”
“Very bad?” the Monster stammers, increasingly uneasy. “What do you mean by very bad?”
“He’s a louse! A rat! He’s the scummiest scumbag in England! Every night he locks me in the wardrobe so he can play with my toys!”
At this point, the Yark realizes his terrible blunder.
“Ye gods! I’ve just eaten a scoundrel!”
“You ate Jack?” Lewis asks, incredulous.
“By mistake!” the Monster yelps. “It was a dreadful misunderstanding! It was you I was meant to eat! Now, I’m going to be sick! I’m allergic to brats and bullies!”
The truth is, the Yark already feels ill. His legs are trembling, his stomach is gurgling, his ears are buzzing, and his buttocks are starting to itch. He coughs, he drools, he suffocates, he breaks out in pimples, pustules, and blisters.
Without warning, he lets out a thunderous, flaming fart.
The fireball blasts through the room and chars Santa Claus’s list into a shower of sparks.
“My list!” yells the Yark.
“Poor Monster!” sobs Lewis. “None of this would have happened if you’d gobbled me up instead!”
The Yark thinks that this child surely has a good heart, and he’d love to have eaten him with a little butter. But there’s no time to daydream. Driven by a natural need, the Monster hurls himself out through the window once more and bounds off like a gazelle.
Propelled by a demonic case of diarrhea, the Yark shoots through the forest like a skyrocket.
At each stride, the poor wretch composes a symphony of farts. As he goes by, animals start up in surprise, afraid that the explosive reports signal the start of hunting season.
A mighty eruption launches him off the ground. Like a space rocket, he takes off straight into the sky. His gas-propelled bottom shoots him through the sound barrier. And like Pegasus, the Yark disappears amongst the stars, at full throttle.
Sick of his life, of himself, and of this loveless world, the Yark wishes for only one thing: to dissolve into space for eternity.
As if to grant his wish, death appears before him. It takes the form of a chasm of light, a cool, glittering sun, a nuclear whiteness. The supersonic Yark hurtles into this fiery bowl with an explosion of shattering glass.
This spectacular shock, however, is by no means fatal. It’s not in the afterlife that the Yark has run aground. He has crashed into the lantern of a lighthouse.
