Gary’s garage reeked of glue and regret. Stacked paper towers wobbled like drunk skyscrapers, and a half-finished sculpture—his so-called ‘masterpiece’—dangled from the ceiling, held together by 37 tubes of craft glue. Mrs. Pudelki, his neighbor, peered through the window, her nose twitching. ‘You’re gonna need a bigger glue gun,’ she called, squinting at the thing. Gary spun around, paint-smeared goggles askew. ‘This is art, not a hobby! It’s called *The Swooping Spoon of Destiny*!’ He gestured wildly, knocking over a jar of sequins. They sprayed across the floor like confused glitter ants. Mrs. Pudelki crossed her arms. ‘That’s a spoon?’ Gary yanked a sheet of aluminum foil from a pile, crumpling it into a wobbly curve. ‘Wait! The climax!’ He taped it to the sculpture’s underside. The structure groaned, then collapsed with a resounding *squelch*. Glue oozed everywhere. Mrs. Pudelki stepped back as the spoon-shaped mess oozed toward her shoes. ‘You’ve ruined my life,’ she muttered. Gary knelt, inspecting the wreckage. ‘No… this is evolution.’ He dabbed a dot of glue on the spoon’s handle. ‘Next phase: *The Swooping Spoon of Destiny: Part Two*.’ Mrs. Pudelki sighed, eyeing the ceiling. ‘I’m calling the fire department.’
