Amidst the putrid fumes emanating from the crude and industrial Central Pennsylvania landscape, a booming incantation can be heard. A familiar, yet twisted incantation. Summoning a power greater than any Dutch magic known regionally.

But what is that? That odor? It smells like sauce, cheese, and flat pasta? Peculiar.
You check the calendar and see what day of the week it is: Monday. You feel a sense of dread, of loathing.

An orange spectre appears over the Route 30 sky. You pass out.