The chomp felt the ground tremble under him. But this wasn't due to any earthquake. In the distance, he saw a giant dust cloud headed their way, growing larger and larger.

As it came nearer, he realized that it was an army of pies rolling on the ground churning up the dust, arranged in neat ranks of ten pies each. There must have been fifteen to twenty such rows.

The chomp whistled, and heard a toot from Poot that didn't sound like it came from his mouth.

"Ew", said the chomp.

"Just firing up my guns", said Poot.

The pie army rolled to a stop about ten metres away from them. The first rank rose up, suspended a few feet from the ground ready to attack. For a second, all was still. The chomp and Poot faced the pies, and the pie vanguard faced the two chomps, each waiting for the other to attack, wondering if they should make the first move.

Finally, the pies could hold back their bloodlust no longer, and the row of ten pies flew in the direction of the chomps, aiming for the soft parts of their victims, ready to inflict a world of pain.

POOT!

The sound was like a mighty explosion, or like a mighty ship's foghorn. There was an accompanying blast of gas so putrid that the chomp could barely make out its slimy green sheen as it engulfed the pie vanguard. Now, pies usually generate strong baking odors, so it takes a much stronger smell to counteract theirs. Clearly, Poot's gas attack was no match for their sweet fresh-out-of-the-oven scents, for the flying pies froze in mid air as if in shock, and then fell to the ground shuddering from the horror of it all.

"Whew! Need to reload", said Poot.