Chapter 2 Moving fer a long time, so hold onto yer pants.
It's been like a few somethings. Days? Weeks? Years? I didn't care, I just wanted to get out of this dang old pickle. I lived off the pickle chunks and the nachos that I got from Publix. I tried to call for help but for some reason, there ain't no bars in a pickle!
Pickle shmickle, I bet I could bust outta here like how Sirius did in Harry Potter. I readied-up my fist. I tightened my grip, I made my little karate stance. And I pulled my arm back. I heard it smoosh on the back on the pickle. Then I " HYAHH!"-ed the pickle. Crack. That was my knuckle.
Nothing happened to the pickle, just a little smudge of my dirt-covered hands. I washed them with my spit and dried it on my shirt. Then the pickle rumbled. It must of been my force. No, it wasn't. The pickle rumbled then stopped, then the pickle started moving, with me, riding along inside the pickle.
The pickle moved like a SUV. Gliding along whatever the floor or ground was. Sometimes we'd come across a bump, like a rock or something, but the pickle moved around it. Sometimes I was convinced that I was on the street because I heard honking and the sudden woosh of cars coming by. I was tired, not sleepy head tired, tired of that stinkin' pickle. It's just a pickle I coaxed myself. Pickle Shmickle.