Earle’s wondrous dreams of equestrians had abruptly ended, leaving him groggy, with a foul taste in the mouth. As he gathered his senses, he noticed a sharp pain in his side. This was quite odd, seeing as he had fallen asleep in his rather comfortable king-sized mattress. Earle quickly attributed this discomfort to the skin-cutting ruggedness of concrete he found himself on. Yet, Earle’s bedroom floor was made out of mahogany. This ruled out simply having fallen out of bed. He first hypothesised that his home had been set ablaze. His skin did not have any second degree burns though, disproving such a theory.

Earle, quite alarmed, sat up, and he took some quick sensory notations. He found himself in a concrete room, with an air vent, a cheap toilet, some pipes, and two motionless bodies. Earle's tongue flapped about and said the words “What the fabulously fabricated fable is this jabberwocky of a hodgepodge!”

Earle had a way with words. That’s how he got into Middlebury. He had dropped out in his second year to pursue his true passion in life, quilting. Earle was a master quilter. He quickly earned notability in the quilting community for what is widely considered his masterwork, known only as “Thirteen Triangles and a Few Squares for Good Measure.” Earle then suddenly realized, looking about his concrete cell, that quilting here would be nearly impossible. A single tear fell from his left eye. Three more tears followed from his right. His loss of his one true love in life sent him into a frenzied fit of anger. He exclaimed “Why, if I can’t quilt my way through the day, then these fine, well formed folks laid upon the ground seem as though they would be enjoyably pleasurable to kick.” As the motionless body just so happened to be alive, Earle soon found himself impacted in the groin.

Upon settling their differences, Earle had learned that the fellow he had kicked was named Wilipurt Shantson. Wilipurt hailed from Manchester, where he worked at an ice cream dispensary. He made a decent enough living, and his passion for jigsaw puzzles got him through any potholes in life. They exchanged their sorrows on each other for the loss of these hobbies, and both admitted to being glad that they could have a partner for this absurd part of their lives. 

Well, there goes the more fun part of this whole ordeal. Oh well. Apparently, animals need to eat food, and since concrete is not food, this left Earle and Wilipurt to acknowledge that a slow death was upon them. They initially agreed that fate will be fate. The third man stayed unconscious, napping away his day, blissfully ignorant of his imprisonment. Wilipurt soon had an idea that flashed before his mind quicker than a zebra on Tuesday. Quickly sharing it with Earle, he asked with a melancholy tone “You ever get a man to bleed out with their own jigsaw pieces?”
The two spent some time plotting. This was to be Wilipurt’s second murder, Earle’s first. They were both virgins to cannibalism, other than that one time Earle nearly ordered a long pork dumpling while on holiday in Shanghai. Nevertheless, they determined that a strangling was to be the best way to boost their food supply. Earle didn’t have the stomach of a throat grasper, so he held the meat down. It took a few minutes. The worst was when the eyes opened, staring at the two, right in their faces. Eventually, it was finished. Wilipurt and Earle had gained about an extra week’s worth of life, right there. Before a celebration could occur, Earle murmured “It’s raw and uncooked.”