So of course, I told them how the story started. "Max," I began, gesturing vaguely like I was unveiling ancient scripture, "a lonely ten-year-old boy in suburban Austin, dreams up an imaginative world called Planet Drool. He writes everything in a journal. Dreams, monsters, places, feelings. Typical creative child behavior—society's first mistake was not funding him properly."
Ford tilted his head. "Planet… Drool."
"Yes," I said solemnly. "Already a red flag. No one in that world had branding advisors." I continued anyway. "In this dream realm, his creations come to life. Two of them are superheroes. One is Sharkboy—raised by sharks, talks to sharks, smells vaguely like the ocean, has super strength and shark teeth."
Ford frowned. "That seems… biologically…"
"Don't," I warned. "We don't apply biology here. It dies instantly."
Chubby floated closer, suspicious. Go on.
