Okay, so maybe I should've not insisted so much on letting the furry guardians rewrite Cool World for me.

But then again, the last time I wrote fiction, it was in high school, and, well, my teacher and classmates basically implied that I shouldn't quit my day job, so to speak. My characters were too flat, there wasn't enough conflict, and there wasn't enough of a `hook' to draw people into the first paragraph, let alone the first chapter.

So maybe I figured, in this fictional universe, I should rely on people (or beings) who knew the craft better than me.

I suppose, if I had gotten my way, Cool World would have become sort of a hamboned, wholly uninspired environment, like the one in Neverending Story 3 (Direct to Video) or The Pagemaster (Direct to Trash Can), but life would have been a lot easier.

Instead, well, I found myself with a new boyfriend.

Sure, he'd grown, hopefully gotten potty trained...but yuck.

Plus, I'm a guy. Sure, I tended to turn into a female rat quite a bit, but I still was male the rest of the time. Double yuck.

And then there were those strange yet oddly familiar buildings. It was almost like they could read the cartoon part of my brain and pull stuff out of it.

When I first came up with the idea of buying the car, I thought I could just slap down the cartoon money, and maybe find some kind of job in Cool World that would pay for the rest, whether it be counting the number of times Wiley Coyote blew himself up for the insurance company, or using a file to shave down a yeti's callouses and corns (I would have done it).

Now, it seemed, I would be reliving my past to earn the money. Provided they were an EOE, that is.

And then there were the babies. Were weird babies part of my curse? Or was this the result of what I saw on Dane's drawing? Either way, it didn't look good.

Sneezer batted his eyes at me. "Drew..."

As a rat, I said, "It doesn't bother you at all that I was originally a male, human, and don't like men?"

Sneezer shook his head.

I supposed if you were such a loser that you still wore diapers and lived your sex life vicariously through other people, it wouldn't.

He lost the mood for me when I turned into Bufo frog in a clown costume. I could tell because his lovesick expression dropped with a sound like characters on Ren and Stimpy make when looking down on something in disgust. Sort of a squishy balloon sound.

"And you want to date me for two months."

"Maybe there's a pattern to what you're doing right now," he said, indicating my new look. "And if I can figure it out..."

I rolled my eyes. "Then you'll know what day of the week to go out."

Sneezer grinned. "You got it!"

I sighed. "Right. Well. I guess I have slave duty."

I knocked on the Ford. "You can come out now! The floating guys are gone!"

Leroy shakily opened the door, staggering out.

"So..." I said. "Uh...I hear you know something about slave costumes."

My sister was pretty much the only reason why I troubled myself with this. Maybe, if I had been more honest, I would have just admitted that maybe I still liked my sister in ways that weren't appropriate, and I wanted to impress her. Plus, I hadn't met any other female that quite compared to her.

"I might," he said. "What, did you gamble against him too?"

He could tell by the look on my face that my answer was yes.

"How long did he get you for?"

"A year," I said.

Leroy chuckled. "Sounds like you got off lucky. Mine was closer to ten."

"I'm guessing that didn't happen while your show was on," I said.

He looked astonished. "There was a show?"

I just shook my head. "So what did they have you do all that time?"

"Well," he said. "I had to look a lot dumber than I actually am, and let them get away with things I normally wouldn't. A couple times, I did the whole bit with fanning him with a leaf and what have you..."

"That explains a lot," I muttered.

Leroy narrowed his eyes. "What's that supposed to mean?"

I told him about the cartoon and the DVD's.

"Wow. That's kind of...creepy."

I shrugged. "If it's any consolation, it didn't last more than a couple seasons."

"Thank God for that!" he laughed, slapping me on the back. "Since you'll be working here for a year, you'll have plenty of time to tell me what you've been spying on."

"To tell you the truth, sir," I said. "My recollection is very foggy. I haven't watched Heathcliff since I was a kid. I probably have all the details wrong. Oh. They did put it on cable once, but I can't even remember the funny joke they had on it."

"Well, maybe something will jog your memory. If you know something about me, you'd know that me and those cats have always had an uneasy relationship, to put it mildly."

Glancing around, I suddenly noticed that there were strange ceremonial artifacts scattered here and there among the junk piles. A skull on a pike, a ceremonial candle holder, Skeletor's Havok Staff.

I pointed to one of them, but Leroy only said, "Your guess is as good as mine. This place probably would have been better off if you never bought that car."

He led me across the junkyard to the trunk of a beat up 1976 El Dorado, flipping it open. "After you."

When I looked inside, I saw literally nothing, just a white blank space where something should have been.

"I don't understand," I said.

"It's Hammer Space," Leroy said. "You're not supposed to understand. Jump in."

"What if that...erases me?"

"It won't." He waved me on.

"I'm a noid! How do you know it won't hurt me?"

He had no answer for that.

I stuck my leg through the open trunk, watching with relief as my foot continued to be my foot as it made contact with the white thing.

"It's okay. It's safe," he said. "Lord knows I've been down there enough."

I climbed lower and found myself dangling in what felt like zero gravity, or maybe a swimming pool. There was no bottom, nor anything I could grab or set my feet down upon.

"Just let go!" Leroy said. "It doesn't hurt."

"How will we get back out?" I asked.

"Just find a hole. They're everywhere."

Reluctantly, I did what he said, and found myself floating gently down onto a floor in a white void.

The dog joined me.

"This is great," I said, unenthused. "Where's all the hammers, guns and giant bananas?"

"Just wait a few," he said.

I did, and suddenly I see a gigantic warehouse rushing up around me in the style of that scene in The Matrix (or those countless similarly styled commercials for online discount retailers you see on TV) where the guy, in a white void, calls up a million digital gun racks or what have you.

Hammerspace is filled with metal cages manned by octupi, genies, Cthulhu, primates, little green men, and other highly dexterous creatures. These cages are the size of semi trailers, filled with a ridiculous assortment of objects.

The doodles inside these places would pick up things like a lit stick of dynamite, a puppy, or a puppy with a lit stick of dynamite in its mouth, shoving it through a hole in front of them, or place them in the palm of a reaching hand.

Certain zones were separated out for seriousness, you know, guns and other weaponry for army guys and such. I couldn't quite tell which cage belonged to the heroine of Playstation's Fear Effect, but I imagined someone had to help her pull machine guns out of her bikini.

Other cages, I supposed, were for the more lighthearted characters, for the cage partner would just grab something at random, like a horse or the magician's colored scarf gimmick, placing it into the hand.

I saw the cross eyed octopus from the Cap'n Crunch commercials giggling as he shoved a stick of broccoli into a gorilla's palm.

Running alongside all these sets of cages, I could see sets of conveyor belts. Groups of horned monkeys jumping from conveyor to conveyor, shoving things into cages, whether it be a set of keys or a huge yacht. A lot of it shouldn't have fit through the doors, but you know how cartoons always squeeze and squish things down to fit any size, all without breaking anything.

Hearing a noise behind me, I looked back and saw Sneezer chomping a piece of cheese he swiped from a conveyor. I pretended he wasn't there.

The cages went up several stories, with elevators and winch systems pulling supplies from the lower floors. I hoped to find the origin of all these bizarre and completely unrelated objects, but, alas, the bottommost conveyors were fed by giant glass tubes, which came out of the fog covered flooring I stood upon.

"I still have no clue," the dog said. "Doodles have fanned the fog and felt around the floor, but the source is unreachable."

"It's probably alligators all the way down," I muttered.

The tube swelled like a python, spitting out a tank. Those do pop out of Hammerspace from time to time.

It seemed the most popular items were roaring lion heads, which a flying monkey puppeted through this hole or that, a demonic version of the stage magician's rabbit, or, most famously, a giant wooden hammer, though I'd personally describe them as mallets.

Speaking of mallets, some items appeared to be so frequently used by characters that they were kept on a special rack, which their `caddy' or a machine would reach into to arm the unit's owner. Guns, whips, and in a couple cases, five kinds of cream pies, a bottle of seltzer water, and a China cup and saucer they probably used for a Harpo Marx routine.

"C'mon," Leroy muttered. "If we hang around too much, we'll either get shoved out of someone's pocket or get roped into a shift change."

"Don't you mean `into someone's pocket'?"

"No." He took a lit cigarette off a conveyor belt and puffed it. "I wouldn't reach into your pockets, if I were you. You'll cause a recursion and mess up the whole system. I ruined a good hat and a pair of pants that way. For a whole week, I'd stick in a pair of mailbox keys and end up pulling out a can of spinach, a piece of Kryptonite, Aquaman's shark whistle, or a makeup kit."

We walked down the rows of cages, watching, with growing disinterest, as many of the same items got recycled and shoved into various reaching hands.

The dog led me through an Egyptian style arch to sort of department store full of nothing but various kinds of slave apparel.

One section held rather raggedy things, to give the wearer that "I just got kidnapped by an evil overlord and abused for ten years" look. Ripped X-Men costumes, `distressed' jeans and shirts, worn out Planet of the Apes outfits.

Another section held skimpy leather things, for those kind of slaves.

A whole wall contained nothing but dog collars, manacles and chains. The instruments of abuse, such as whips and billy clubs, were all locked in a big glass cabinet, which you apparently only could access by flashing a slave master badge.

They had togas, medieval serf outfits, woolly mammoth skins, Hebrew slave costumes (Egyptian outfits), and a section for scifi slaves (right behind the skimpy leather things, for some of them are in both categories).

"So where's your little bird friend?" Sneezer asked.

My shirt rustled for a moment, and I heard a voice singing, "I hear you knocking, but you can't come in..."

"I think he's just scared because-"

Suddenly Extra exploded from my clothes, batting my face with his wings, singing, "Don't speak, I know what you're thinking..."

Instead of singing the rest, he dove back into my shirt.

"Sorry, Extra," I muttered.

"So what did they tell you to wear?" Leroy asked.

Not wanting to even say what it was, I lied and said, "A Roman toga."

Leroy stared at me. "Really? Sounds like they let you off easy."

"I only played baseball," I said.

Sneezer grinned. "He's lying! They said French maid!"

Leroy chuckled, but didn't seem surprised.

I glared at Sneezer in annoyance. I guess, though, I should have been grateful that he didn't say `Skimpy leather thing.'

The dog led me over to a rack full of French maid outfits, handing one roughly my size.

I frowned at the dress, the stockings, then glanced around at the walls covered in shackles, feather dusters and cleaning equipment. No bathrooms.

"I can't believe I'm saying this," I said as Scouter Drew. "But where's the changing rooms?"

"Just pull it down over your clothes," said Sneezer. "Unless you're the rat. Then you can just take off whatever you want. I won't mind." He batted his eyes at me.

"I, uh, frequently change shape and turn human," I stammered. "What will happen if I change while wearing it?"

"I don't know," said Leroy. "What happens to your clothing normally?"

"It stays on whatever form I dress it with."

As if to contradict me, my Scouter Drew form now wore a Def Leppard shirt in khakis.

Being animated, the dress had no real zippers or buttons. It was just sort of a stretchy thing you pulled over your head. Once I had it on, it snapped to my body shape, concealing my t-shirt, making my jeans disappear. I probably looked like Webelos Woody raiding his sister's closet or something.

"If you want your old clothes back," Leroy said. "Just step into a phone booth or a bathroom. Either that, or do a Sailor Moon type transformation montage, if you know how those work."

I didn't laugh, or even stare at him. I didn't doubt it any more than I would doubt that the government charged you money for not having health insurance.

"Ugh," I groaned as Leroy handed me heels and stockings. "No thanks. This is gay enough."

"You might change your mind when you look in the mirror," Leroy said.

"So I actually look that gay?"

"No. Go check the mirror. You'll see what I'm talking about."

I frowned. "What's in the mirror?"

He led me to one adjacent to a rack full of slave melody songbooks, showing me my reflection.

I had transformed into Tinkerbell's black haired wingless cousin.

Petite, freckled pixie's face, frizzy hair tied up in a ponytail. I couldn't place who it was, but, minus the freckles, I resembled an actress I had seen in an old 1970's movie.

Not a bad look, I dare to say even a bit sexy.

I changed my mind about the heels and stockings.

A second after I had cinched up the garters, a rat's tail burs out of the back of my skirt, my face elongating into a muzzle.

My skin changed color (I guess I was too dainty for hairy pen lines), and I became French Maid Rat.

Still kind of sexy.

In fact, Sneezer was doing that shtick cartoons do when they get kissed by a supermodel, panting and melting into a puddle on the floor. I pretended like he wasn't there.

Extra even popped out my top to whistle at me.

I rolled my eyes. "Oh please, Extra. It's just me."

"Yes, master, but still..."

He caught his faux pas a little too late. "Oh shit."

A second later, a woman's hand whipped out of my bodice, clamping its witch-like fingers around the little bird's body.

"Master, help!" he screamed as the hand pulled him into my dress. "Help!"

"Oh no you don't!" I yelled, grabbing hold of the wrist.

That's when things got really weird.

When the hand pulled Extra into my bodice, it pulled me in along with it.

But wait. I was wearing the bodice!

Such things, it seems, are not important to cartoons, for suddenly my arm turns taffy and goes all the way into my own dress.

Then my hand defies all rules of anatomy and physiology by twisting my shoulder around, sucking it into a part of the dress that probably should be at least a little bit occupied by the same shoulder, and then my spine, which definitely should have been wearing the dress it was being pulled into.

My legs disappeared into the bodice, then my arms and finally my head, my entire body whirling around and around like I were on an amusement park ride.

Following this, I heard a loud pop, which, I believe, was me winking out of existence.

For a moment, I felt sick, my body racked with agonizing pain, perhaps due to the fact I had turned real for a moment, but then I started thinking about that Bugs Bunny cartoon where the magician smacks him with a blackberry pie and Bugs sings that song about an "angel in disguise", and I start singing it, wondering what moldy 1920's artist came up with that number, which made me into a doodle again. My guess is that I would have been dead otherwise.

I saw nothing but brilliant light for a few seconds, making me think I had died, but then I found myself slamming down on a stretch of pavement on a darkened street.

An industrial district. On either side of me, I saw row upon row of shadowy factories, which puffed balls of exhaust out their smokestacks like snakes regurgitating bowling balls. Acme, it would appear, held a monopoly over the place. Sure there were a few other fictional product factories scattered here and there, but Acme dominated the landscape, and maybe even ran the other companies behind the scenes.

The buildings were not just belching smoke balls, they were also routinely pumping hundreds of objects through sets of massive glass tubes. This place, it would appear, was the source of all the stuff in Hammerspace.

Strangely, though, I also saw trucks moving around, perhaps to fill orders for Wiley Coyote.

I lay sprawled on the painted concrete as a real human in cartoon drag, groaning got to my feet.

I no longer held the witch hand, or the bird. I was afraid I'd lost Extra forever.

I glanced up the street just in time to see a familiar looking figure in a cape stomping away from me in her noisy high heels.

"Master!" I heard Extra yelling.

"Extra!" I cried, running after him.

I wasn't animated all the way, so I got winded.

To make matters worse, I heard beeping behind me.

Meep meep!

At first, I thought it was the Roadrunner, because it made the same exact noise he always made on the cartoons.

No.

When I looked back, I saw a big delivery truck barreling straight towards me, the flat, undetailed, generic sort of truck they always show on cartoons. No identifiable make or model.

I didn't have time to get away.