It was a stark and dormy night. The goblins were gobbling like turkeys, but the banshee wasn't wailing - she'd been banned. My sword snored in the scabbard where it was stored as I stumbled across the peach cobblerstones past a neon sigh that flashed "GHOULS - GHOULS - GHOULS." I'd drunk too much whiskery at the Cat Cub so I wasn't even tempted - I just wanted to find a place to spill my guts. "I can help with that!" cried a gas-hobgoblin, waving his beetle-axe. "Just hold still a moment." I almost let him, but in my head I could hear the voice of the beautious Chlamydia calling me on to glory, which is one letter out from "gory" but often surprisingly similar. I pulled out my sword by the handle and hit the gas-hobgoblin with it, turning him into two half-goblins. One of them headbutted me in the cod-piece. The batter on the cod crunched and I was left with mushy peas. I was in danger of being gobbled up by the half-goblins, so I waved my sword and soared away.
[Continues in this vein for 250 pages.]