Dustbunny practiced walking back and forth in his small one room cottage. The room was a bit too small to full stretch out his steps and Dustbunny found himself too preoccupied with reaching the opposite wall, but this was the only place he could rehearse his gait. He concentrated on his weak right leg, trying hard to make it look similar to to his healthy left leg rather than dragging behind and stiffly swinging too far out when taking a step. He also discovered while looking into his full length mirror that by leaving his right arm close to his side and his right hand in his vest pocket, it helped to conceal their withered appearance.

For the first time in a very long time, Terry was actually cooking, not just throwing together the mandatory, semi-edible mass of least resistance.

"Tarragon. Do I even have any tarragon?" he thought as his saucepan began to show signs of boiling. Fumbling through his mostly abandoned spice rack, he found a pinch of flakes left in the bottom of an old spice container. The flakes had retained sufficient potency to fill the kitchen with a distinctive, not quite licorice aroma when sprinkled into the simmering brew. Terry was not sure if tarragon was his favorite or least favorite spice, but good and evil often lay together well in a saucepan.