Gingerly tooting on the whistle causes nothing immediately horrible to happen. Continuing on your path you muse that perhaps the real power of the whistle was to teleport the imagination, offering as it did the memory of a simpler, happier time in life when a childish frog with a penny recorder or little tin drum could while away the hours in joyful absorption temporarily undimmed by the omnipresent terror of a brutal death far from all light. Three days later, you awake with a painful gum inflammation. |