I have an idea. It’s risky, and Max will kill us when she finds out.” Iggy raised his head. “Sounds like my kind of idea.

Gazzy sniffed the air. "That's explosives. It smells like Christmas!" Okay, so we've had somewhat untraditional Christmases. With explosives.

WARNING If you dare to read this story, you become part of the Experiment

Unfortunately, every time someone said “debriefing,” the entire flock had one image: someone’s tighty-whities disappearing in a flash. We were smothering our giggles, but it was getting harder. Coupled with the whole “naval this, and naval that,” with its undeniable belly-button connotations, we were essentially turning into a sugar-jacked, sleep-deprived flock of incoherent, silly, recombinant-DNA goofballs. This was not going to end well.

I hate this guy,” Ari muttered, keeping his head down “There’s a club,” I told him. “The Haters of ter Borcht Club. Have you gotten your badge yet?

Does anything on you work properly?" Asked ter Borcht. "Well, I do have a highly developed sense of irony." Replied Iggy.

Men suck, even imaginary ones