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And so it had begun. Aghast though they were at the strength of the powers of what they now christened the Mank, our heroic friends battled on, attacking the Mank with every weapon in their inventory, including salt, bleach, polish, washing up liquid, ketchup, kitchen cleaner, pepper, cooking oil, and every other substance with which the kitchen presses provided them with, but despite this, and several more bouts in the microwave, the three gradually realised that their efforts had only succeeded in creating something so revolting, so hideous, and yet so strangely compelling, that to leave it in the kitchen was no longer an option. The fumes made even entering the kitchen a traumatic experience, with the Mank now acting in a similar fashion to tear gas.
Crisis loomed.
Our heroes, however, when lesser men would have given up and gone to the pub, struck one final, desperate blow for decency. Nominating the strongest of their number, they sent forth one man, with a towel wrapped tightly around his head to offer some small protection from the disgusting and festering aura that the Mank had filled the kichen with. Despite the stinging in his eyes and the pain involved in breathing, he grabbed the bowl and quickly carried it to the front window, where be threw it out into the street below. The Mank was free.
