"Billy..." Peter said, when they had walked only a short while.

"Hmm?"

"Where did all the grass go?"

"What grass?"

There was no grass at all to be seen. Not anymore. What before had been a lush and endless field of flowing green grass, was now a clearing in the middle of a forest, where a single hut stood as the sole evidence of culture within the grasps of nature.

"What do you mean, 'what grass'? Where did field full of grass go? Where's the bloody road, for pete's sake?"

The little man twisted his head, disturbingly turning a full circle, then said, "I told you, the road is random. Where you go doesn't matter. The road will take you where you need to be; unless you tarry, of course, then the road just might throw you into a pit of... something nasty."

"What's the point then? If the road is going to take me wherever I need to be, why should I walk it at all?"

The little man gasped, putting both his hands up before his mouth. After a moment of silence, Billy removed one hand and said conspiratorially, "You know, I've never thought of that."

Throwing his hands up in the air, Peter gave up on his useless companion, and instead walked into the little hut. Perhaps there would be someone with a bit more sense in there.

It was a primitive thing; put together by several unfitting - and probably rotten - trees, the construction was roofed by interconnected branches and insulated by a combination of soil and leaves. All in all, it looked like it might fall apart at any moment.

Stepping into the hut, a stench of decay ripped through Peter's nostrils. It was so overwhelming he had to back away from the opening and breathe hard to regain his senses. Billy, on the other hand, walked up to the opening and sniffed in deeply, saying, "Goodness me, you are in luck! There might actually be a transmogrifier here! Hurry, hurry, and get in there! You need to get rid of that ugly mug of yours."

"A what?" Peter asked, having not quite caught the little man's outburst. Billy growled something about no-name idiots, then took Peter's hand and dragged him into the hut.

Inside, once Peter had overcome his overwhelming gagging reflex, a dim light could only just reveal what was inside. Within a deepened hollow, raised slightly above a churning fireplace, hung a a black kettle with its contents simmering.

Billy laughed and clapped his hands, circling the little kettle like a kid who had just got a new toy for his birthday.

"What's the deal?" Asked Peter, still trying to overcome the stench within the room.

"Why, it's a transmogrifier, of course! Quick, take down the kettle and pour its contents into one of those cups! Hurry, No-name!"

"My name is Peter," he said, although his very own name had begun to take on the strange quality of words repeated one too many times; a meaninglessness brought on by existential dread.

"Whatever, just hurry!"

Seeing the little man so angsty, Peter finally did as he was bad, taking down the kettle and pouring its contents into one of the cups sitting beside the hollow in the center. There were a few cups, and whoever owned this hut would just have to deal with his intrusion. All of his socially mandated politeness had begun to shave off in this peculiar place.

Gingerly, he picked up the cup and looked down into its contents. The waft of decay was clearly originating from the concoction, now tickling his gag reflex. The liquid within looked no more appetizing, with its brown color and consistency of heated wax. "What is this stuff?" Peter asked, spitting the bad taste out of his mouth.

"Maybe you need something to clean up your ears with.. IT'S A TRANSMOGRIFIER!" Billy yelled, right by Peter's ear. The loud noise startled Peter, and he lost a bit of the liquid onto the ground. It fell upon the dirt-floor, and immediately started smoking. With eyes wide open, Peter watched as a patch of dirt transformed from inanimate to very-much-animate, as it bulged out and took on the contours of a small creature. Indeed, it took the shape of a big frog, quacking joyfully and jumping towards the hut's exit.

"Are you crazy?!" Billy hissed, hands on his head and eyes wide.

"Are you?!" Billy screamed, nearly dropping the cup in his hands, "I'm not drinking that stuff! I'm not gonna be turned into a frog!"

"Oh, you won't be... I think. Maybe.. You see, the effect is random, so... You never know."

With his heart up his throat, Peter put the cup back down before backing away very slowly. Only, he was currently heading for the rotten walls of the little hut.

Meanwhile, the little, earthen frog was happily jumping towards the hut's exit; on its way to enjoy the many fruits of animation. That is, until its short life was violently and suddenly cut to an abrupt end by the heel of a boot.

A shadow invaded the lighted entrance to the hut, stepping mercilessly upon the sacred little life. A miserable 'Queeek' was all the deathroes the little creature managed, and all the warning Peter had.

"Oh, a transmogrifier. I suppose that's good enough," a voice, angelic in its normality, said out loud, "And already served. I mean, of course it is; it's only proper after all."

Peter watched, spellbound, as the shadow contorted into the shape of a woman. She was the very picture of normality, as she approached the kettle and cup, with brown hair cut shoulder-length, a thin mouth turned downwards, and a pair of extra sharp glasses fastened onto her nose.

She went right ahead and picked up the cup which Peter had just vacated. Only when she stood back up did she notice there were others in the hut with her. "Oh, is that you, Newt?"

Billy gave half a salute and grinned."Billy, at your service... I think," the potato head had to look down on his name tag to be sure.

"Very well, 'Billy'. Will you be coming with me, then?"

"No... I'm stuck with him," Billy pointed in Peter's direction. The woman finally turned her gaze upon Peter, and he gasped. Although everything about her seemed normal, the one thing that was anything but normal were her eyes; sizzling with fire, they looked like molten orbs of lava floating within her sockets.