"Wrong crocodi-iIIIII–!" The singsong echo was cut short by the tackle, forgotten as the Nightcap scrambled, heels scraping against the door as it worked to keep limbs from falling into that steel trap of a mouth. All that work wound up with the Nightcap practically sitting atop the crocodile, facing the tail rather than the real problem. It twisted, stretching out over its back and grasping and clutching at unyielding neck – nothing to pick or poke at to make headway.

So the Nightcap, having lost three of the four conjured needles in the commotion, firmly grasped the last one in its fist, and jammed it down into the second eye while shrieking and shouting, trying to keep from being wriggled off or somehow a limb or two less a body.