Wait. Isn't this supposed to be Waffle's mailbox . . . ?

You splash back across the syrup river and reach the land - this was the way you had come. A waffle gun fires somewhere to your left. You do NOT want to be hit by a projectile breakfast food, so you run. Your foot hits a lever shaped like . . . was that bacon? Then an old, rustic mailbox rises up from the ground. It opens on its own, revealing an abyss of cloudy blackness that stretched on forever.


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