The next day Bubbles took the Prison Hospital to court for Gross Neglegence on account of not clipping her toenails, which went down well with the right-wing press. "This country is going mad!" screamed a Daily Mail columnist, and a picture showed the timeless and classic moment Bubbles foot was paraded before the jury. There was no doubt it was gross. And so, through a confusion of verbosity in the jury, they decided the Negligence was truly Gross and Bubbles won $10,000,000 compensation, causing the hospital to close and many inmates to die.

At this point I wrote a second paragraph for this chapter.

Some time later, Bubbles was dancing around Townsville's graveyard in a sick publicity stunt on behalf of an Animal Rights campaign. Her fortunes had dwindled, and through gratitious cannabis use she always looked and felt like a person forgetting something. If only she could remember what it was!

It was at this point she danced over the Professor's grave.

"Oh my GOD!" blurted Bubbles, Americanly. "The Professor is dead!"

Looking at a nearby and suspicious stone for a moment she forgot this and all was ok.

It was at this point she began to daub a sick slogan with her spray-paint can to the grave.

"Oh my GOD!" cried Bubbles in anguish. "The professor!"

Vowing revenge at this moment, Bubbles strode home and, as the Animal Rights lobby later claimed in their letter disowning her from their cause, crushed several ants on her journey. But she didn't care. For now, she had a new cause. Unfortunately she forgot it and never remembered ever again. Which was just as well, as Colonel Communist was long dead by that time anyway.

Summer came and went, and in September, with the Autumnal chill approaching, Bubbles' two surviving sisters, Buttercup and Blossom, decided to take a holiday in the Middle East. On hearing this idea Bubbles frowned that frown that makes her the poster lust object of teenage boys everywhere.

"Isn't there like, a war going on there, or something?" Bubbles had queried.

"A war?" laughed Buttercup, scathingly. "I could care less."

"You could care less?"

"Yes."

"Then... you do care?"

"I could care less."

"So you care SLIGHTLY more than you might OTHERWISE care?" questioned Bubbles confusedly.

"No, I don't care. I'm saying I don't care. I could care less; you know?"

"No, I don't know," answered Bubbles. "Your terminlogy is fatally flawed."

"Oh, look at Miss SARCASM here," rapped Blossom. "I smell the opressive heat of a catfight coming on, and the stench disgusts me, excuse my simile."

"Metaphor."

"Whatever. I could care less."

So, with this wedge driven between them, the sisters flew the nest. And the magnifying glass of regret swelled the wound of this rift, the leaden days rolled by, and Grandfather Time chimed sorrow in Bubbles' heart louder every day.

Later on, somewhere in the mountains of Afghanistan, in Drag Queen the Third's lair, ominous music was playing. Something OBVIOUSLY EVIL was a-cookin'!!!1. It was Custard Crumble, a recipe Drag Queen 2 had taught her at birth. EXCEPT DRAG QUEEN THE THIRD had a taste for human flesh, and disliked custard, and found the Crumble part irrelevant, and didn't even cook it. As Drag Queen the Third devoured Buttercup, she groaned with pleasure and crunched the teenage bones.

Bubbles sensed the death, as triplets often do.

She sighed exhaustedly. Not another boring daytrip. But her sister was dead. There was no choice; Bubbles must go to Afghanistan and fight through the Taliban to get to Drag Queen the Third's cave. And wreak vengeance, etc. A whole new chapter awaited writing, and as this happeneed TODAY, this VERY DAY, and is supposed to be set RIGHT NOW, the next chapter is pencil marked "2007" just in case the Author of her life felt incredibly apathetic towards her and her continuing existence.