"Those damned kids...always making fun of me, always trampling over my crops, stomping out my flowers...I'll show them...I'll get them...I'll grab them, and squish them and cut them and break them...then I'll sacrifice them to my dark master. I'll smile as I'll watch their limp cold bodies get dragged up into the sky and their souls be used to power my master...then they'll see, then they'll regret coming onto my farm...ruining my way of life. Oh, how sweet it'll be when I sup the marrow out of the tiniest bones, the reward my master will spew forth from his dimension, his divine leftovers...all for me," Plague of Gripes thought to himself as he looked out of his farm house window.