Malice looked around at Vomit in excitement. Did I say excitement? I did didn't I? Excitement isn't really the correct word. It was more a look of joy, a look that said everything, and more that could possibly be said about someone's demeanour and state of mind than any one look should ever be able to do. Vomit saw the look on Malice's face and cringed inwardly.

He was doing a lot of inward cringing lately, mainly because he'd noticed that any other, more physical type of cringing, tended to make some of his carroty bits fall off. Which, as any walking pile of puke will testify, is a real pain in the butt when it happens. Or at least, would be if he actually had a butt.

I'm rapidly coming to the conclusion, dear reader, that I appear to be cursed by the art of digression, which in and of itself would not be such a major problem, except for times like this when I'm supposed to be coming to the point of my tale and instead appear to be rambling on aimlessly about something completely off-topic.

Anyway, as already stated, I digress, and must endeavour to reach the point for which you are so clearly waiting, so here goes.

Malice was happy, joyful, and excited, which at the best of times is a bad thing. There is a scientific equation somewhere that sums this up, which goes somewhere along the lines of;

Evil inventor minus brain cells plus excitement equals foolproof, cunning plan divided by insanity and idiocy. Or something like that.

Vomit was the only person, although person is probably not really an apt description of him, what with him being three feet tall and made of puke and so on, who truly understood the madness of Malice, which was why plots were afoot in an attempt to procure himself freedom from being the accomplice to all of his madcap ideas, but even Vomit was incredulous, nay, dumfounded even, to hear the latest idea of his evil little master.

"I have a plan, and this one is sure to work. All I need is butter. As much butter as you can possibly procure for me. And I need it now. Oh, and cinnamon as well. I'm going to need cinnamon."

Vomit looked at his Master with something resembling a puzzled frown affecting his visage, and asked what on Earth could he be planning to do with butter. And cinnamon.

At least, he would have asked the afore-stated question, had he possessed anything like a mouth through which to ask such questions, so instead he just shook himself internally in a bemused, head shaky kind of way, before going to the closet and taking out his jacket. It was time to go shopping, which is a trick thing to do when you have no mouth through which to advise shopkeepers of the items you wish to purchase, or money with which to make said purchases.

He'd find a way though. He always did in the end. Butter and cinnamon? What the carrot was going on in that twisted little head?