Disaster Strikes

"Yowza!" Cobb yelped. He frantically dug through the balls, trying to find the culprit, but it was impossible to see anything. Taking a deep breath, Cobb dove head-first into the pit. Down, down down, he thrashed. Down, down, down, down, down....down, down, down.... and down, and down. The pit was bottomless! He was able to breathe, but just barely, and only from the small pockets of air that grew farther and farther apart as he pushed himself deeper and deeper into the pit. Cobb could barely see anything, and was about to give up and head back when the balls beneath him gave way, and he fell into thin air. It was liberating, this experience of free falling. Cobb was momentarily startled, but the cool air whistling past him was soothing, and he opened his mouth to lap it up like a dog sticking it's head out the window of a car.

WHUMP.

And the ground came up to meet him, and he found himself lying face-down on the sticky carpet of Robbie Bobbin's Sumptous Souvenirs Tent. If Cobb was a cartoon, three small birds would have fluttered in circles around his head as he stumbled to his feet. Then he smelled something burning and his animal instincts kicked in. Cobb sprinted out of the tent, and in the chaos that ensued he found himself holding hands with a Mexican. Cobb and the Mexican pushed through the panicked crowd. They were a team, they more than a team, they were One. When Cobb slipped in a puddle of alcohol, the Mexican helped him to his feet; when the Mexican was stomped on by the bearded woman, Cobb clawed her face and carried the Mexican on his back all the way to the front gates.