A thought struck the Lone Writer. “There’s just us, though. We can’t take them on.”
“Not true,” Fantasy argued, “we just need more of us to stand a chance. We’ve gotta smash them!”
“Someone say ‘smash’?” From the back of the lair, a tired, decrepit, & very dirty Orange Oreos lumbered into view and promptly collapsed on the floor at Fantasy’s feet, as G2’s head had moments ago. Breathing heavily he continued: “I thought those catacombs led somewhere.”
“Good to see you’re in one piece!” Lone Writer chided, clapping him on the shoulder. “No offence,” she added hastily to the Irish Pianist.
“Well, that’s one,” Lil’ Krully grumbled. “We need more!” he thundered alarmingly similar to his seven-foot counterpart.
“Working on it,” Fantasy said, tongue between teeth, scribbling names of those who’d perished on their side. Then, in a brilliant flash of light, the small lair was filled with ficleteers.
“Cool!” Lone Writer exclaimed, but her face darkened. “What about the followers of the Farce?”

“You called?”