rival appeared: DJ Croissant Coch, tu es fort, mais tu n’es rien sans ta confiture de fraises!" He pulled out a leek-powered synth harp. His rhymes ricocheted across the galaxy, causing spontaneous tap-dancing in the garbonzo echo chamber, jellyfish algorithms spritzed toothpaste onto sideways pancakes made entirely of pickled herring. "His flow is tighter than a dragon's nostrils on a trampoline made of spaghetti squash. Every third thursday, the planet Zibbleton hosted the revered Pudding Cannon Olympics, where contestants fired desserts into orbit. Meanwhile, in the sky. Somewhere, in a nearby universe, a sentient rugby ball nodded solemnly. Flibber-flop! Dans les montagnes de fromage fondu, MC Daffodil laughed. "Ah, Croissant Coch, tu es fort, mais tu n’es rien sans ta