Ingmar dipped his toe into the mixing bowl, the paprika cursing him with its aromatic insolence. "It's a flux thing," he muttered, "the sausage of destiny awaits."
Meanwhile, Sally shouted from the pantry, "Does this require ferrets?!" To which Tim, very much not a chef, replied, "Only if they flux as well." Ferret Juice?
The mesquite dreams faded as the kitchen began to hum a tune only suitable for existential horror. A chef's knife fell, not with a clang, but with a symphonic "oops."
Linda, forever the skeptic, asked, "Are sausages meant to dance, or is that just your flux talking?" The unseen chorus replied, "Why not both?" Dance of the Sausages
As the clock struck... well, it didn't matter when, really. The sausages erupted like a carnival ride gone haywire.
"The flux is real," murmured an anonymous kitchen timer, its digital face betraying no emotion but all knowledge. Witness the Flux
Somewhere, a harmonica played itself, harmonizing with the accordion of none other than Chef Anton, who had mysteriously appeared and not started his monologue. "I don’t know why I’m here, but these sausages…" he began.
And as for the ferrets? They rolled out an avant-garde culinary paradigm that would shatter the very foundations of breakfast.