you kids are going to have to kill your own breakfast this morning. wednesday opens a cigar box. inside the box are assorted human and animal teeth, fangs and dentures, along with a collection of glass eyes. wednesday drops her tooth in the box.
lousy bucket of bolts! the fog machine, straight out of a jules verne nightmare, is malfunctioning this morning, struggling to churn out its patches of fog.
then who'll take the swamp? thing tugs at the cuff of gomez's pants. gomez nods.
wednesday! wednesday!
i like it. her mother pats her consolingly.
kill the hare. skin it. boil it.
because we like it!
here kitty, kitty, kitty.
dinner's going to be late. she slams the door. we hear her whistling.
here, boy. here, boy.
well, it's their loss. i even made finger sandwiches. perched on fester's shoulder, thing shakes in fear.
thank god for that lightning. knocked some sense into you.
did you bring a shovel?