Sjoerd the biscuit-maker and general all-round nice man shook his head. He was lying face down on a slab, and wherever he was, he couldn't remember getting there.
"Where am I? The last thing I remember was closing the shutters on my stroopwaffel store, when I heard what sounded like an angry mob heading up the street"
Someone walked around the slab. "You're at Castle von Finkelstein. Unfortunately my dear man, you were the target of a lynch mob. But don't worry! Some rummaging from Igor and a jolt or two from me and you're right as rain. By the way, I don't suppose you have any of those biscuits on you? No of course not. Forget I asked."
"And I'm lying face down because...?"
"Well the rope-inflicted injuries were easy enough to sort out, but I'm afraid the pitchfork sticking out from between your shoulder blades is another matter. If I remove it, your arms will fall off. You'll just have to learn to live with it. Or be undead with it. You know what I mean"
Pushing himself stiffly up from the slab, Sjoerd the biscuit-maker threw back his newly bolted-on head and howled like a wounded animal. Outside in the forest, two more howls answered him. Howls that were definitely not made by anything human...
What's up with this glass? Excuse me? Excuse me? This is my glass? I don't think so. My glass was full! And it was a bigger glass!