Lo, my tenuous grasp on reality slips ever closer to the brink. Beneath me, the void yawns wide and black, hungry, awaiting my lost purpose. The purple menace floats on, unbound by reason nor consequence. The star atop her lumps— shining in defiance of all that is right and good— points five ways to madness. Lumpy Space Princess has returned.
In Princess Day, the land of Breakfast plays host to a royal coterie, princesses from every corner of the fractured globe. Now is the Breakfast of their discontent, a spider's web of promises unfulfilled give royal sister cause to gripe with royal sister. Tripwires of spite lay everywhere. The purple one grows bored, petulant and rude as a pillow case full of cranky toddlers. She hurls tantrums at her fellows, only to receive spite and abasement, borne on egg-scented lips.
Amused, Marceline the Vampire Queen follows the banished Purple One from the halls. Lumps roiling with contempt, the legless monster debases the halls of Breakfast Princess. The vampire only laughs in the face of this lesser vandalism, and yea, fans the flames of plum-hued destruction.
As LSP feeds her appetite for chaos and pilfered pancake vestments, her nocturnal companion sups on the maple blood of the Syrup Guard, Jerry. They would commit wanton murder and destruction on the syrup folk, as Other Jerry learns to his detriment.
He falls. He falls.
He does not break, for his skin is plastic. He will live to guard another day. At this, unaccosted by effect, our villains steal the Breakfast!Mobile and hie them hence.
On this, I hear the last unblemished facet of my mind cracking. Splintering. Shattering. Is not Marceline a creature of the night? Is she not bound forever to avoid the deadly sun's rays, lest she blister and burn? Nay. She rides shotgun, fleeing the Breakfast Kingdom in broad daylight, unblemished. I hear Pendleton Ward, laughing at my crude attempts to find logic.
Reason has abandoned me. Cause and Effect, once happy companions in a never-ending promenade, have turned on one another. Logic lies bleeding maple syrup on the shoals below the castle's pancake walls. The Lavender Heiress to The Void laughs.
They hit Breakfast Princess with her own car. Unsatisfied with attempted manslaughter, they cart the unwitting princess to the desert, there to dig her own
grave sandcastle. I hang on the brink, perspiration loosening my grip on that which is quantifiable. Her beady, soulless eyes pervade me, seeing all, knowing nothing.
Hence, in what can only be a deliberate homage to Thelma and Louise, do our criminals drive their stolen vehicle off a cliff... only to float to safety, as neither is bound by gravity... nor repercussion.
All is lost. Lost.
Be strong, dear readers, and gaze not on Lumpy Space Princess— at least, not with the foolish hope of discovering reason. You will find only disappointment... and lumps.