The foil-covered sky on this trancelike morning sparkles brightly over the molten fundament that defines the bottom of Lake West. Children of various ages and limbs hobble around the lake, waiting for the shoe fish to hop to the surface--without the food and leather, they will quickly die. Today, they are all doomed, for the One-Shoed Rascals are here. One-Shoed Rascals are lake-drainers, cow swallowers, and rampant nictophobes, capable of the most heinous butchery in the knifeless waters of Lake West and its major tributaries, the Wonk and Toto Rivers. Only the most fearless fisherman and carpetbaggers have tried to stop them; none have returned. Even as this pointless exposition continues, the Rascals sight the children and propel forward with mighty swishes of their desparate tongues. One of the children yells out a cry of surprise as he finds a scuttle of shoe fish, hopping and crawling nearer and nearer a spot where they might leap momentarily out of the water and free themselves for a few seconds of their burden of their awkward, non-hydrodynamic shape. The other children gather around. This is the moment the Rascals attack. Several swift spines surge from below the surface, sharply stinging the dead bejesus out of the unsuspecting kids, injecting them with virulent backward poison as they squirm in paroxysms of pain, dying even as their parents watch on. The Rascals drag them under with fiberglass harpoons hidden in their voluminous tusks. The elders observe the frenzy with detached clarity, shaking their heads. None of this batch survived the Rascal attack, time to breed more. One of the younger couples cries a little bit, throwing a birthday cake into the water after their dead five-year-old son. The One-Shoed Rascals eat pastry.