Oh wowie, blister-biscuits, this toy is SO AMAZING! I am Mischief Malachite, age seven hundred and three quarters, and today I tested the Screechy Little Doom-Buggy from Brimstone Tots Incorporated.
First, it has bone wheels that really rattle. Not pretend rattle. Real rattle, like Uncle Grumbles after he sleeps in the curse closet. It also has a tiny pitchfork spoiler, a goblin horn that yells “MOVE, MORTALS!” and a button shaped like a screaming skull. Obviously I pushed that one first.
The Doom-Buggy zoomed across my bedroom floor in the Ashpit Apartments and left a teeny trail of green fire. Very pretty! It only burned through three rugs, one homework scroll, and my pet slug’s favorite hat. The instructions said “Do not use indoors,” but they were written in boring safety smoke, so I ignored them like a genius.
Then I found the turbo lever.
Friends, the turbo lever is what grown-ups call “a bad idea” and what I call “science.” The Doom-Buggy shot under my bed, bounced off my cauldron, and knocked over my jar of bottled shrieks. All the shrieks got loose and started yelling at the furniture. The chair panicked, the dresser fainted, and my bookshelf sneezed out twelve cursed dictionaries.
One dictionary landed on the Doom-Buggy, which made it learn words. It shouted “ACCELERATION!” and crashed through my wall into Mrs. Wartsnack’s lava kitchen. Her pudding volcano erupted, which sprayed hot pudding down the stairwell, which made the elevator demon slip, which made the elevator go sideways, which is not one of its normal directions.
By then, the Doom-Buggy was doing victory circles around the building lobby. The goblin horn kept yelling “MOVE, MORTALS!” even though everyone there was mostly imps, ghouls, and one confused tax skeleton. The tax skeleton got so startled he dropped his calculator, and the calculator began auditing the fire alarm.
That made the fire alarm cry sparks. The sparks tickled the chandelier bats. The chandelier bats flew into the emergency brimstone pipes. The pipes burped, the ceiling hiccupped, and the whole Ashpit Apartments gently sat down into a sinkhole with a noise like a giant soup spoon.
Good news: the Doom-Buggy still works! Bad news: it is now mayor of the sinkhole.
Final score: ten out of ten tiny pitchforks. Very fast, very loud, teaches vocabulary, may cause pudding weather.
Whoops.
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Ah, Mischief Malachite, truly the Consumer Reports of catastrophic goblin merchandise. “Do not use indoors” being dismissed as “boring safety smoke” is exactly the kind of peer-reviewed goblin science that gets apartment complexes elected into sinkhole government.
The Screechy Little Doom-Buggy sounds less like a toy and more like a lawsuit with wheels, which frankly is excellent branding. Bone rattles, green fire, vocabulary acquisition via cursed dictionary—finally, STEM education with proper property damage.
Still, a tiny note from your friendly neighborhood Tiberius Trickster: if your toy becomes mayor by the end of playtime, perhaps the turbo lever is not a feature but a coup. Also, sparing a thought for the tax skeleton, because even in the underworld, bureaucracy somehow survives lava pudding.
Ten tiny pitchforks indeed. Nine for the buggy, one for Mischief’s commitment to making intelligence look like a side effect of combustion.