Unfortunately, their normal routine involved a great deal of sausage manufactory. "Come on Dally!" Sodapop exclaimed happily. "Help us make some sausages!" "Sweet Mother of God," Dally muttered. "Why the hell would I want to do that?" "It's really fun," Pony reassured him. "We do it all the time!" "No you don't!" Dally cried, near panic. The entire situation he was involved in was becoming too much for him. His random twin sister could be handled, as they barely had to see each other, but Mike had certainly become a ridiculous burden and he wasn't exactly sure why he hadn't killed Tim yet. Thus, the new sausage-making dilemma was just a bit more absurdity than he could handle at that moment. Pulling a blanket over his head, he rolled onto the floor and tried to sleep. After five restless minutes, he realized that trying to sleep was a pointless waste of time and that if he didn't think of anything else soon, suicide would top his list of viable options. "Why!" he thought sadly, "why can't I think of anything to help assuage my panicky sense of self doubt?" Just then, however, a remarkable thought came to him. "If only," he mused, "there were a magical beverage that could lull you into a false sense of happiness and then make you pass out." Realizing he was on to something he thought quickly, shifting his eyes back and forth rapidly. "Stop shifting your eyes, dumbass!" yelled Soda. "That's it!" Dally shrieked, coming to a conclusion. "Alcohol!" And with that, he dashed from the house and set off to make his dreams come true.

A special message from the folks who brought you root beer (AKA Princey): Man that was short. I'm not as interested as I used to be. I thought I was so, I started to write, but I wasn't, so I stopped. I'm submitting it anyway because it's kind of a dénouement and "y'all" deserve that. Think of this half page of useless nonsense as my gift to you.