Suddenly, through the dense foliage of the garden, a gong sounded. “TREE!” came a shrill voice. There was a pause and another voice replied “Leaves!” I hurried, following the voices to the central arbor of the garden, the echo of the sound reverberating in my mind. When I arrived there, I found a scene no more unusual than one would find on any given day in the garden: the great Miyamoto-san was painted a deep green colour; twigs and branches had been glued all over his face and body. He was standing on a pedestal with his arms raised majestically above his head, in front of the pedestal knelt a line of quivering serving girls, their heads bowed. Behind them paced another serving girl dressed as Pikachu, she held a sword in her fuzzy hand.
 
“TREE!” Miyamoto-san called out shrilly: quickly the Pikachu-girl stepped behind the next girl in the line and placed the tip of her sword at the base of her bowed neck. The kneeling girl raised her head quickly and replied “Blossom” in a voice no more unusual than a girl with a sword poking the back of her head would.
 
“TREE!” the cry rang out again, and the next girl who felt thel sword-point raised her voice “Roots!” she intoned defiantly. “TREE!” Miyamoto-san screamed. “Bark!” called the next girl; “Fruit” shouted the next; “Squirrels!” the next girl cried out, but Miyamoto-san gave an almost imperceptible nod from behind the foliage covering his face and the Pikachu-girl ran the kneeling girl through the back of the neck with the sword. The great man stepped down from the pedestal, and the kneeling girls let out a barely audible but no more than unusual sigh of relief.
 
“We were looking for things that were native to trees, not things that can be found IN trees. I am a tree, and a tree no more than usual, yet you will find no squirrels in my beautiful branches.” The kneeling girls stood quickly and began to gently tear off the twigs and branches that covered the face of our Great Innovator. He turned to me.
 
“Ah,” he said “I am pleased to see you – but no more than usual.” He linked his hallowed arm with mine and we began walking down the path deeper into the garden. “We must always keep our minds sharp, like our swords. Complacency, indolence, procrastination – these are the enemies of action, the enemies of success. Did I ever tell you about the time I was a soldier?” He asked me, stopping suddenly in the middle of the pathway. I shook my head.
 
“I had been kicked out of the army” he began. “Stripped of my rank, my guns taken from me along with every shred of dignity and my new shiny army boots. But still, I was a fighter. A warrior. A soldier. I signed the document declaring I was no longer and could never again call myself a soldier and left the base in the cloud city, my tail hung between my legs. Which was no more than unusual for me at the time because I had a tail in my youth.” He sighed and rubbed his buttocks sadly.
 
“I was a soldier without a war.” He continued. “But still I craved the fierce thrill of battle, the no more than unusual screams of lasers and bombs, which should always be used wisely, ringing loudly in my ears. I needed the enemies, the robots smashing buildings, the smooth flying… a soldier without a war is just a man with an empty spaceship. He is hollow inside. He needs the excitement. He craves it.” The Great Man sat down on a stone bench and let out a deep breath.
 
“It wasn’t long before I got what I wished for. Indolence is the enemy of victory and we had become indolent. That’s how the flying monkeys found us: off-guard, procrastinating and weak. Soon our cities were full of flying metal butterflies, glittering outer space snakes and the aforementioned giant robots smashing down buildings. It was a war no more unusual than the wars my forefathers had fought in since the dawn of time.”
 
“My squadron, still mourning the loss of my father, scrambled to our jets: there was little time for discussion and the angry shouts of ‘Hey, you’re not a soldier any more, get out of here!’ only steeled my determination to do the best job a soldier like me could do. We fought hard through the worst of it: we barrel-rolled, we used torpedoes because we had plenty, we tried somersaults…and then we were there, in the lion’s den: the giant floating monkey-head, no more unusual than the average giant floating monkey head, was in sight. But then it hit me: my adventures, my exploits… they could be the inspiration for an epic saga of triumph and defeat; the massive armies of evil thundering against the small and hopelessly outgunned…”
 
He paused for an excited breath before continuing. “I tore off my Bermuda shorts and jammed the flight controls onto automatic, firing wildly as I furiously began scribbling. ‘That’s one of ours!’ came the call as I absent-mindedly kicked the fire control. All around me my companions were screaming out for help, but as this was no more than usual, I continued my machinations. ‘Get the guy behind me!’ one of them begged.”
 
“But this would make an awesome game!” I cried out, feverishly transcribing my thoughts and observations on the brown-stained fabric of my shorts. “Many…many good men died that day. But some good came out of it.”
 
“What was that?” I asked, my hoarse voice barely a whisper.
 
“Kirby’s Dreamland”