inside a clock, we find, to our surprise, a little toy singer. *ssuring us that he is not a figment of our imagination, he boasts of his ability to prophesy, indulging in a lighthearted wordplay. apparently unaware that the eighties are a closed book, he predicts a decade of joy. looking more closely, we see a microcosm of akron, ohio, correct to the finest detail.
however, there is a sinister element: unnamed evil ent*ties, with the power to influence purchasing descisions. we recoil. we urge the singer to reseal the clock; to put an end to the nightmare. to our chagrin, the plea has come too late. we must watch helplessly as the seeds of our destruction leap from the clock to work acts of unspeakable mischief. the singer, exhausted, exhibiting signs of an impending mental breakdown, demands payment — which we can ill afford — for his services.
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