Story I.

Nausea - as much like carsickness as anything - washed over Don as his reality stabilized. As it faded away, the gnome's mutterings faded into audibility, then comprehensibility. "…Mufthalp leaving me to fill the gas tank again… no-good, low-life, inconsiderate!… And I'll catch the heat for this substitute fuel…"
Don wondered why the fellow's speech suddenly sounded so much tamer, until he realized he'd absent-mindedly pulled off some of the taffy and started chewing on it a minute ago. "Makes as much sense as anything, I guess," he sighed.

He was too distracted to stop Rumple (as he'd named the gnome) from popping something into his mouth, followed by a swig of a drink he found even more cloying than Mountain Dew to wash it down - bizarrely, it didn't set him coughing, so down the pill went.

"Don't think you're going anywhere far, thief. That'll blink you back once I'm tanked up."
Rumple removed Don's blindfold to reveal strawberry fields stretching nearly out of sight in all directions but one, where the sign above a gate read "FULTON'S FARMS".

"You've got about two hours," Rumple continued. "Well, we've got… Seems there's a festival going on. I'd like to watch a little. You can come with if you hold on to me. Or just sit here."
Just sitting there did not sound attractive at all, so Don grabbed Rumple's shoulder. His senses immediately capriciously leapt from his body to float, then fly towards the river, then into a nearby city, sailing down the levy past banners celebrating the American bicentennial, then slowing down as the crowds thickened and started rudely passing right through him on their ways to the face-painting and cotton-candy stands. Another sign - "TROY STRAWBERRY FESTIVAL" this time. The muggy air left him happy to have left his armpits miles away, while the sharp sun had no such bright side.