Once upon a time there was a little group of people known as the Larians who spent their days and nights tinkering and imagining all kind of wonderful things. They were a merry little bunch and before you knew it they had created a wonderful little box that contained all the joy in the world. Word about their creation traveled far and wide through the lands. And thus it reached the wicked old witch of the west who was really just sore, because she couldn't get a ticket back to kansas - the Flying-Monkeys union was on strike, but that is a tale for another time. And because she was the ultimate stereotype - known as poor writing - of a wicked witch from the west she made plans to steal the wonderful little box. "None shall have joy if I cannot leave!", she said to herself in her little gingerbread house on Elm Street. She had moved in with an odd fellow who never seemed to cut his fingernails, it was odd, she thought, but then again she was green and they both got along fine so it didnt bother her that he slept through the day and worked at night. That's the way evil business changed over the years, she thought, but then she shrucked it off to continue her plans.
Of course it was night time and the little people of Larian Land cooled jam, they always did so on hot summer nights. And just at that moment the wicked witch struck! She came flying on a rental-broom, sweeping through the air and snatched the little box of joy which had been placed on a little pedestal for all the world to enjoy.
The thrill shot through her veins, what a deed, I did it, it is mine to hold and to keep forever, she thought. She was overcome with excitement to experience what all the Larian Lands had talked about. She sat the box down on her old desk, wooden, sturdy, but clearly older than time itself. In one motion she slowly pulled up her chair, sat down and ever came closer to the box. Her elbows high, her fingers slowly moving towards the box. But than she noticed it. It can't be, the thought kept echoing. But it was not there! None of it was to be found. She turned the box, inspecting each side, her anxiety rose while her cries became louder and louder."It is not there, none of it is there! What cruel mockery is this?".
And with one huge sweep from both of her arms she swept the box to the ground where it tumbled, as if guided by an invisible hand, under an old wooden cupboard never to be seen again. The witch collapsed into her chair ... and on hot summer nights you can still hear her woeful cries.
If only they had included a documentation.
