A dark dank foreboding murk loomed ominously beneath fulminating skies. An oppressive presence pervaded as ever fervent a fever effervesced into convoluted convulsions that consume and confusticate.

Meandering aimlessly amidst a haze of miasma, stumbling like a titubating boob, I chance upon a weather-worn wizened warning, a signpost dire, somewhat daunting.

HE THAT ALARMETH
OF BUSTLING HEDGEROWS
MUST NOT TINKLE
UPON THE MEADOWS

Quite a quaint and curious lore from fabled days of stately yore. Perhaps to warn a wayward wanderer, wearily trudging across the tundra, towards the wilderness westward yonder - where the befuddled dung beetle fling dung across the majestic Serengeti.

Suddenly! What bombastic abomination this way comes? Could it be a mutiny of monks run amok amid the mists betwixt the river Styx and the abbey that abuts the Abyss? Diabolus in fabula! A brewing morass has coalesced into a maelstrom of pandemonium.

Skulduggery and snaring encumbrances beset and assail the foolhardy that traverse this treacherous damnation hellscape, while seducing Sirens beckon, enchant, bewitch and beguile the unwary wretched to their wreck and ruin.

Hobbling haphazardly headlong like a demented whirlwind, buffeted by the barbs of outrageous misdirection, I arrive at Cagney's Pass to be greeted by the Grand Cucumber himself.