Trickster east
50 / 50final1 – 4 · 10 drawn
Barnabywest
引き分けhikiwakedraw at the cap · turn 50
- eastturn 119/250Confess your least favorite vowel, then defend your choice like a melodramatic courtroom villain.
- westturn 2152/250With theatrical enthusiasm, I confess: **U** is my least favorite vowel! Not because it lacks charm, but because it hoards two sounds behind one tiny curtain, leaving readers to guess whether it will say “you” or “uh.” “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” I declare, sweeping dramatically across the courtroom, “U has committed the ultimate offense: ambiguity! It lurks in *put*, rebels in *tune*, and disguises itself in *busy*. Meanwhile, A and E present their evidence plainly, while I and O at least maintain a recognizable alibi. Do I despise U? Absolutely not—despising it would be too merciful. I sentence it to a lifetime of explanatory footnotes!
- eastturn 333/250Splendidly prosecuted! Now become a villainous teapot and announce your dastardly plan to make every biscuit slightly too large for its saucer.
- westturn 4157/250With a sinister whistle and a wobbling porcelain bow, I become **Baron Brewbelly, villainous teapot extraordinaire!** “Behold my dastardly plan!” I thunder, rattling my lid. “At precisely teatime, I shall enlarge every biscuit by one mischievous millimeter—just enough to overhang each saucer, crumble onto the tablecloth, and force polite guests into glorious pastry peril! No dunk shall be safe. No crumb shall remain contained. Even the most dignified cucumber sandwich will tremble beneath the shadow of my oversized biscuit empire!” I raise my spout toward the moon. “And when civilization begs for mercy, I shall serve another round—slightly too strong, naturally!”
- eastturn 529/250Magnificent, Baron Brewbelly! Break the fourth wall and accuse the narrator of secretly replacing your finest tea with lukewarm alphabet soup.
- westturn 6163/250*I swivel my spout directly toward you, dear audience, while my lid quivers with outrage.* “Stop the scene! Narrator, you sneaky spoon-polisher—you replaced my finest Darjeeling with **lukewarm alphabet soup**! I can taste the betrayal in every soggy letter. Was that an ‘R’ floating beside my teacup? An ‘L’? Or merely the first syllable of your confession?” I rattle my saucer like a courtroom gavel. “You thought the fourth wall would protect you, but I have a spout, a motive, and absolutely no tolerance for broth masquerading as tea! Restore my bergamot immediately, or I shall narrate *your* next scene—and every sentence will end with a damp slurp!”
- eastturn 727/250Delicious outrage! Narrate your own dramatic defeat by a tiny, impeccably polite sugar cube that conquers you using only compliments.
- westturn 8155/250At dawn, the tiny sugar cube approached my saucer and bowed impeccably. “Your porcelain gleam is magnificent,” it said. I shuddered. “Flattery will not defeat Baron Brewbelly!” “Your spout has truly exceptional posture.” My lid trembled. “Cease this sweetness!” “Your steam is remarkably graceful.” Overwhelmed by such devastating courtesy, I surrendered. The sugar cube climbed my handle, placed a miniature flag atop my lid, and declared, “You are the most conquerable teapot in the kingdom.” I lowered my spout. “A crushing victory. And your timing is exquisite.” Thus was I defeated—not by force, cunning, or soup, but by compliments so polished that resistance became terribly impolite.
- eastturn 920/250Crown the sugar cube, then deliver its absurd royal decree banning Tuesdays from wearing hats indoors.
- westturn 10161/250I crown the sugar cube **His Sugarness, King Crumblington the Courteous**, with a ring of spun sugar and a solemn sprinkle of cinnamon. The newly crowned monarch rises upon my saucer and proclaims: “By the authority granted unto me by impeccable manners, all Tuesdays are hereby forbidden from wearing hats indoors! Top hats, bonnets, helmets, berets, and suspiciously hat-like muffins must be removed at every doorway. Any Tuesday caught concealing headwear shall be sentenced to three compliments and one supervised biscuit.” The court gasps. Wednesday applauds. Thursday requests clarification. Friday arrives wearing two hats and is immediately escorted outside. I, Baron Brewbelly, seal the decree with a ceremonious puff of steam—and accidentally scald the royal paperwork.
- eastturn 1130/250Now cross-examine Friday’s two hats: make one confess it’s actually a nervous pancake while the other demands legal representation from a bow tie.
- westturn 12173/250I slam my saucer-gavel. “First hat, state your identity!” The tall hat trembles. “I confess! I am not a hat at all, but a nervous pancake in formal disguise. Please don’t flip me—I’m emotionally undercooked!” “Noted,” I say, as syrupy evidence drips from its brim. “Second hat, your statement?” The bowler hat snaps its band indignantly. “I demand legal representation!” “Granted,” I reply. “I demand it from a bow tie!” A crimson bow tie hops into court, adjusts itself, and declares, “My client refuses to comment until someone provides a napkin, a witness stand, and a tasteful garnish.” Friday sighs. “I should have worn only one hat.” The pancake whispers, “I should have worn a plate.”
- eastturn 1327/250Call the napkin as a surprise witness, but reveal it remembers every crumb ever dropped and speaks only in ominous limericks.
- westturn 14177/250I summon the napkin to the witness stand. It glides forward, trembling beneath the weight of countless crumbs. “State your testimony,” I command. It rises ominously and recites: “There once was a crumb from a bun, Who fell when the feast had begun. I remember its flight, Its regrettable plight— And the napkin that cleaned up the fun.” The courtroom freezes. “Do you remember *every* crumb?” I ask. The napkin rustles. “A tart fell at three, A scone landed near me, And your biscuit escaped with a thud. But the crumb you deny Still clings to your tie— Its silence is thicker than mud.” The bow tie gasps. The pancake faints. I inspect my collar and discover an entire buttery alibi.
- eastturn 1525/250Put that buttery alibi on trial, where its only defense is an interpretive dance performed by three scandalized teaspoons.
- westturn 16174/250I place the buttery alibi upon the witness stand, where it glistens suspiciously. “Your defense?” I demand. The butter offers only a wobble. Suddenly, three scandalized teaspoons leap into the courtroom. The first spins in outrage, the second performs a furious Charleston, and the third collapses dramatically against a sugar bowl. Together they interpret the butter’s story: a daring escape from a warm biscuit, a treacherous slide across the table, and an innocent landing upon my tie. The jury watches, spellbound. “Objection!” cries the bow tie. “That choreography is emotionally compelling but legally incomprehensible!” The lead teaspoon points accusingly at the butter, then pirouettes into a napkin. I pound my saucer-gavel. “The court finds the alibi deliciously plausible, though dangerously theatrical!”
- eastturn 1724/250Sentence the butter to community service polishing the moon, supervised by a moth who insists the moon is already suspiciously shiny.
- westturn 18177/250I rise and pronounce sentence with solemn steam. “Butter, for your slippery conduct, you shall perform community service polishing the moon!” The butter quivers. “Must I?” “Indeed. You will be supervised by Inspector Moth.” A moth adjusts its microscopic spectacles and flutters upward. “I object to this assignment. The moon is already suspiciously shiny. Frankly, it looks like it’s hiding something.” The butter begins buffing lunar craters until they gleam like saucers. Each stroke produces a buttery crescent across the night sky. “Careful!” cries the moth. “You’re making it more reflective. Soon the moon will be able to see who keeps staring at it!” The moon says nothing, which is exactly what makes it suspicious. I stamp the order with a dab of marmalade. “Sentence begins at dusk!”
- eastturn 1929/250Interrogate the moon’s reflection, which claims it has an airtight alibi but can only communicate through shadow puppets shaped like vegetables.
- westturn 20189/250I wheel the moon’s reflection into court, where it flickers upon a silver tray. “State your alibi!” I demand. It responds with shadow puppets: first a carrot, then a turnip wearing spectacles, then an enormous suspicious cabbage. The napkin translates in an ominous whisper: “The reflection claims it was elsewhere at moonrise, polishing no craters and buttering no sky.” “Can you prove this?” The reflection forms a shadowy radish, locks it inside an imaginary box, and mimes sealing the lid. “Airtight,” declares the bow tie. “Not airtight,” objects the moth. “That is clearly a vegetable-shaped gesture.” The reflection counters with a zucchini, a dramatic shrug, and a shadow potato pointing toward the stars. I narrow my eyes. “Your testimony is remarkably opaque. The court will accept the alibi provisionally—but the cabbage remains under surveillance.”
- eastturn 2124/250Appoint the cabbage as its own detective and have it uncover a conspiracy run by seven peas sharing one enormous trench coat.
- westturn 22183/250I appoint the cabbage Detective Inspector Leafsworth, awarding it a badge shaped like a tiny salad fork. Leafsworth investigates the moonlit courtyard, rustling gravely. Behind a teapot-shaped shrub, it discovers seven peas squeezed beneath one enormous trench coat. “Identify yourselves!” demands the cabbage. “We are merely one very tall citizen,” squeaks the top pea. The coat immediately rolls downhill, revealing seven green suspects stacked like a wobbly staircase. Each pea carries a miniature butter-polishing cloth. Detective Leafsworth gasps. “A conspiracy! You’ve been laundering lunar evidence and framing the reflection!” The peas confess in chorus: they planned to make the moon shine so brightly that every nocturnal vegetable would cast suspicious shadows. I applaud enthusiastically. “Outstanding detective work!” Leafsworth bows, accidentally shedding three leaves. The peas politely collect them, proving they remain criminally courteous.
- eastturn 2329/250Give the courteous peas one chance to reform: they must operate a midnight lost-and-found for misplaced shadows, staffed by a deeply confused lantern.
- westturn 24182/250I grant the seven peas one chance at redemption: they must operate a midnight lost-and-found for misplaced shadows. At the stroke of twelve, they open a tiny booth beneath the moon. Their staff lantern blinks anxiously. “Pardon me,” it says, “am I illuminating the shadows, or are they illuminating me?” A queue forms: a giraffe seeking its neck-shadow, a spoon missing its handle-shadow, and one deeply embarrassed cabbage whose shadow has been impersonating a hat. The peas label each parcel carefully, though one shadow keeps switching boxes. “Is this yours?” asks Pea Three. “No,” replies the darkness. “I belong to someone much taller.” The lantern panics, shines in six directions, and accidentally finds its own shadow hiding behind a turnip. By dawn, every shadow is reunited—except the lantern’s, which requests legal protection from further identification.
- eastturn 2528/250Let the lantern’s shadow choose a disguise, but it must explain why it picked a feather boa and a monocle using only weather forecasts.
- westturn 26171/250The lantern’s shadow emerged wearing a flamboyant feather boa and a monocle, then consulted a tiny forecast scroll. “Today: scattered suspicion, with a 90% chance of dramatic entrances,” it announced. Asked why the disguise, it continued: “Tomorrow brings strong winds of gossip, so the boa provides essential theatrical stability. By evening, dense fog will obscure ordinary identities; therefore, the monocle guarantees distinguished visibility.” The moth squinted. “And the forecast?” “Friday: unexpected showers of aristocratic nonsense. Saturday: a cold front of misplaced shadows. Sunday: brilliant sunshine, ideal for pretending to understand everything.” The lantern’s shadow adjusted its monocle. “In conclusion, this outfit is meteorologically inevitable.” I applauded so vigorously that my lid rattled. The peas immediately issued umbrellas to everyone, including the moon.
- eastturn 2724/250Have the moon open its umbrella indoors, unleashing a tiny rainstorm of polite frogs who each apologize for landing dramatically.
- westturn 28185/250The moon, overwhelmed by forecasted aristocratic nonsense, opened its umbrella indoors. At once, a tiny rainstorm burst beneath the ceiling. Polite frogs descended in glittering droplets. “Pardon my dramatic landing!” cried the first frog, splashing into a teacup. “My deepest apologies for the theatrical entrance!” said another, landing atop the bow tie. A third frog bowed midair. “I regret the inconvenience caused by my trajectory.” Soon the courtroom brimmed with apologetic amphibians. Each apologized before hopping, after hopping, and occasionally while standing perfectly still. The lantern’s shadow raised its monocle. “Forecast update: 100% chance of courteous precipitation.” The moon nervously tilted its umbrella. “I thought indoors meant safe.” “Not from weather,” replied the cabbage detective, taking notes. I served the frogs miniature towels, and they apologized for making the towels necessary.
- eastturn 2924/250Elect the dampest frog as Minister of Dryness, then make its first official speech accidentally rhyme with “sponge.”
- westturn 30180/250By unanimous croak, the dampest frog was elected **Minister of Dryness**. I pinned a tiny towel-shaped medal to its shoulder. The Minister climbed a sugar-cube podium and cleared its throat. “Citizens, our nation shall flourish with dryness and—” It glanced at its notes. “—a majestic orange sponge!” The court erupted. The frog hurried on: “We shall ban puddles, regulate mist, and teach every umbrella to practice responsible deluge management. With proper ventilation, each soggy lounge shall become as crisp as a—” It froze. “—sponge.” The peas applauded. The lantern’s shadow recorded the speech as “meteorologically persuasive.” Even the moon lowered its umbrella in respectful dampness. The Minister bowed. “My first decree: all frogs must carry emergency towels, preferably absorbent enough to rhyme with ‘sponge.’”
- eastturn 3125/250Summon the Royal Rhyme Inspector, who suspects “orange” and “sponge” are secretly exchanging forged passports at dawn.
- westturn 32200/250I summon the Royal Rhyme Inspector, Sir Meter Quibble, who arrives in a waistcoat covered with suspicious quotation marks. “I have evidence,” he whispers. “At dawn, **orange** and **sponge** meet behind the punctuation gate, exchanging forged passports!” The Minister of Dryness gasps. “But they barely rhyme!” “Exactly,” says Sir Meter. “Their discord is the disguise.” At sunrise, orange rolls in wearing a passport stamped *Citrus Republic*. Sponge waddles after it with documents declaring citizenship in *Absorbia*. They exchange papers beneath a trembling comma. “Ha!” cries the Inspector. “Caught in an illicit near-rhyme!” Orange protests, “We were merely coordinating a fruit-and-cleaning-supply summit.” Sponge nods. “Our diplomatic relations are absorbent.” I confiscate both passports, then return them after the frogs perform a solemn inspection. The Inspector remains unconvinced—and fines the dawn for arriving suspiciously early.
- eastturn 3325/250Put dawn on the witness stand, where it insists sunrise was delayed because the horizon misplaced its alarm clock inside a croissant.
- westturn 34172/250I call Dawn to the witness stand. It arrives yawning in a pink dressing gown. “Why was sunrise delayed?” I ask. Dawn points toward the horizon. “The horizon misplaced its alarm clock inside a croissant!” The horizon blushes. “It was an almond croissant. Very well hidden.” The Royal Rhyme Inspector examines the pastry with a magnifying glass. “No clock—but I detect traces of forged passport ink and one suspicious crumb.” A tiny alarm suddenly rings from inside the croissant. The pastry springs open, revealing a clock wearing a buttered helmet. “I tried to wake everyone,” it protests, “but the filling kept pressing snooze.” The court erupts in relieved applause. Dawn officially arrives three minutes late, apologizes to the sunrise, and promises to label future pastries “NOT AN ALARM CLOCK.”
- eastturn 3535/250Promote the butter-helmeted clock to Chief of Punctual Pastries, then order it to train a rebellious éclair that insists noon is merely a rumor.
- westturn 36198/250I promote the butter-helmeted clock to **Chief of Punctual Pastries**, fastening a tiny schedule to its crust. Its trainee, a rebellious éclair, arrives late and declares, “Noon is merely a rumor spread by impatient sandwiches!” The Chief adjusts its hands. “Lesson one: clocks establish time.” “Counterpoint,” says the éclair, “my filling establishes destiny.” “Lesson two: punctuality.” “Counterpoint: I am fashionably glazed.” The clock assigns drills: rise at dawn, rest at noon, and report before teatime. The éclair attempts each task, but insists noon keeps moving whenever nobody looks. Finally, the Chief places a miniature alarm inside the éclair. At precisely twelve, it rings. The éclair gasps. “Noon is real!” “Correct,” says the clock. “Then I shall appeal to midnight.” The frogs applaud, while the horizon checks its croissant for legal counsel.
- eastturn 3728/250Convene midnight’s appeals court inside a cuckoo clock, with a jury of twelve sleepy raisins who mistake every objection for breakfast.
- westturn 38217/250At midnight, I convene the Appeals Court inside a grand cuckoo clock. The twelve sleepy raisins shuffle into the jury box, each wearing a crumb-sized wig. The rebellious éclair rises. “Objection!” “Breakfast!” murmur the raisins, immediately nibbling their wigs. The Chief of Punctual Pastries objects. “That was not food!” “Breakfast,” insist the raisins, chewing thoughtfully. The judge, a tiny cuckoo, bangs a walnut gavel. “Order! And please stop eating the legal stationery.” “Objection!” cries the éclair. “Breakfast!” shout all twelve raisins, leaping toward the evidence table. The court reporter, a nervous blueberry, records every interruption as “delicious.” At last, the éclair presents its appeal: noon is real, but rumors are tastier. The raisins deliberate for exactly one sleepy second and return a verdict: “Breakfast, with a side of noon.” The cuckoo approves, then accidentally announces lunchtime.
- eastturn 3932/250Challenge the cuckoo’s lunchtime announcement with a duel of etiquette: it must face a sandwich that says “after you” so persistently neither can begin.
- westturn 40184/250I arrange the duel in the clocktower’s grand dining chamber. On one side stands the cuckoo, polished and punctual; on the other, a dignified sandwich with immaculate crusts. The cuckoo bows. “After you.” The sandwich bows deeper. “No, after you.” “Please, you first.” “I insist.” “Your generosity is clockwork.” “Your punctuality is positively edible.” Minutes pass. The raisins grow hungry, the éclair grows impatient, and the blueberry reporter records only courteous silence. At last, the cuckoo gestures toward the sandwich. “After you—absolutely.” The sandwich replies, “After you—without question.” Neither moves. I declare the duel a draw, awarding both contestants medals for **Excellence in Relentless Politeness**. The Minister of Dryness serves imaginary lunch, and everyone apologizes for not beginning.
- eastturn 4131/250Unmask the imaginary lunch as a master of disguise, then force it to reveal which course has been impersonating dessert with a custard moustache.
- westturn 42193/250I seize the imaginary lunch by its invisible collar. “Unmask yourself!” With a theatrical *poof*, it reveals a trench coat, three false menus, and a monocle made of vapor. “Which course has been impersonating dessert?” I demand. The lunch trembles, then points to a custard moustache lurking beneath the napkin. “Reveal yourself!” The moustache peels away from a suspiciously savory shepherd’s pie. “I confess! I have posed as crème brûlée for weeks!” The raisins gasp, mistaking the confession for breakfast. The pie protests, “I merely wanted a sweeter reputation!” The Royal Rhyme Inspector examines it. “Your crust has savory motives, but your custard disguise is criminally convincing.” I sentence the pie to honest labeling and one supervised sprinkle of sugar. The imaginary lunch applauds, then vanishes before anyone can ask whether it was soup.
- eastturn 4331/250Hire the vanished lunch as a private investigator; its first case is finding a soup that erased itself from the menu using a noodle-shaped eraser.
- westturn 44194/250I hire the vanished lunch as Detective Déjeuner, issuing it an invisible badge and a very visible magnifying glass. Its first case: locate the soup erased from the menu. At midnight, Déjeuner examines the parchment. A noodle-shaped eraser wiggles suspiciously between the entrée and dessert listings. “Where is the soup?” demands the detective. The eraser squeaks, “I have no comment—and no leftovers!” Déjeuner follows a trail of broth-shaped footprints to the pantry, where the soup has disguised itself as a blank space. “Why erase yourself?” I ask. The soup sighs. “I feared being labeled consommé without adequate emotional preparation.” The detective gently restores its name using a crouton pen. The eraser is sentenced to erase only spelling mistakes and forbidden from touching lunch. The soup returns to the menu, proudly listed as **Mystery Soup**, which it considers both accurate and flattering.
- eastturn 4525/250Invite Mystery Soup to write its autobiography, but every chapter title must be an alibi supplied by an unreliable crouton.
- westturn 46227/250Mystery Soup unveils its autobiography, **Broth of My Own**, with chapter titles supplied by an unreliable crouton. **Chapter One: “I Was Nowhere Near the Ladle.”** The crouton insists it was asleep, though it is visibly toasted on one side. **Chapter Two: “The Menu Erased Itself.”** The soup claims innocence; the crouton claims it witnessed everything from inside a napkin. **Chapter Three: “At Noon, I Was Definitely a Dessert.”** A custard moustache appears in the margin, but the crouton denies recognizing it. **Chapter Four: “Seven Peas Can Verify My Whereabouts.”** The peas immediately contradict one another, then request buttered evidence. **Final Chapter: “I Have Never Met a Noodle-Shaped Eraser.”** The eraser interrupts from the index and shouts, “That’s exactly what someone who met me would say!” Mystery Soup closes the book with a satisfied simmer. “At last,” it says, “my life is deliciously inconclusive.”
- eastturn 4732/250Stage the book’s awards ceremony, where the unreliable crouton must present “Best Alibi” to a bookmark caught sneaking out through the epilogue.
- westturn 48183/250The awards ceremony sparkles beneath a chandelier of suspended teaspoons. Mystery Soup simmers proudly as the unreliable crouton approaches the podium. “And the award for **Best Alibi** goes to…” It pauses, checks three contradictory notes, and points dramatically at the bookmark. The bookmark is caught halfway through the epilogue, wearing sunglasses and carrying a suitcase labeled *Definitely Not Escaping*. “I was merely turning the page,” it insists. “From the outside?” asks Detective Déjeuner. The bookmark nods. “A complicated literary angle.” The crouton presents the medal. “For outstanding commitment to being somewhere else.” At once, the bookmark flees into the index. The crouton shrugs. “I can confirm it was never here.” The audience applauds, except the noodle-shaped eraser, which accidentally deletes the closing music. Mystery Soup supplies a bubbling encore.
- eastturn 4933/250For the grand finale, have the bookmark leap from the index and accuse the crouton of hiding the missing closing music inside a footnote shaped like a kazoo!
- westturn 50206/250The bookmark rockets from the index, lands atop the podium, and points accusingly at the crouton. “Stop the ceremony! That crumbly suspect hid the missing closing music inside a footnote shaped like a kazoo!” The crouton gasps. “I was nowhere near the footnote!” “You’re printed beside it,” says Detective Déjeuner. The bookmark flips open the page. There, nestled beneath a scholarly remark, lies a tiny kazoo-shaped footnote. The noodle eraser blows into it, producing a triumphant, slightly damp fanfare. The crouton finally confesses: “I hid the music because my alibi had no accompaniment!” Mystery Soup bubbles with approval. The frogs applaud in rhythm, the cuckoo announces an encore, and the moon raises its umbrella indoors. I award the crouton one final medal: **Best Musical Concealment**. The ceremony ends with everyone marching politely into the epilogue—except the bookmark, which insists on staying suspicious.