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The streets ran white with milk and the skyscrapers were made of cheese. The trees lining the sidewalks were made of bread. And the sky stretched overhead, stars twinkling like peppermint drops.

It was, thought Sir Reynold, the best day ever to be alive.

Sir Reynold led his horse through the streets of Sacramento, marveling at how the creature’s hooves did not disturb the white liquid, and how the cats that attended him left the buildings of cheese unmolested. They had never been known to pass up a bit of cheese before, so this was quite unusual.

One of the cats, a bold ginger that Sir Reynold had named Reddy, dashed up to him and jumped onto the back of the horse’s neck, facing Sir Reynold.

“There’s a problem here,” said Reddy.

“And what’s that?” asked Sir Reynold.

“It’s this town. I don’t like it. And neither do the others.”

Sir Reynold scoffed. “And why not? Sacramento is a fine metropolis, with great character and a notable history. And such wealth! See how the streets run white with milk!”

“Well, that’s just it.” Reddy licked his paw and brushed it across his ear. “Where else have you been where the streets run with milk like that?”

“Houston,” Sir Reynold said without hesitation.

“The streets of Houston ran yellow with butter. Remember?”

Sir Reynold nodded. He did remember. Butter was similar to milk, but not close enough, he supposed. “Well, what about New Orleans?”

“Brown with root beer.”

“New York?”

“Orange with… orange juice.”

“Portland, then.”

“Beige with buttermilk.”

“There you are! The streets of Portland ran beige with buttermilk, which is much like both milk and butter.”

“The point is, there’s something wrong with this town. The other cats and I were thinking we ought to get our of here while we can.”

“What’s the matter with you? I thought all cats liked milk and cheese. And buttermilk, for that matter.”

Reddy sighed and switched his tail dramatically. “Why am I even bothering? You wouldn’t know danger if it came up to you and threatened to cut off your head with a paring knife.”

“Ah, just like the ogre caper of 1972, in downtown San Jose.” He nodded, his head awash in memories. “Do you remember that, Reddy? The early seventies were noble times indeed.”

“Pfft,” Reddy replied. He settled down on the horse’s mane, facing forward, leaving his considerable rear end in Sir Reynold’s view.

Sir Reynold ignored the cat’s posterior and looked around at the cheddar skyscrapers and the mozzarella shopfronts. It was indeed turning out to be a grand day.

“ROAR!” roared a voice from around the corner.

Sir Reynold jumped in his saddle. Reddy sat up straight, looked around, and then bolted off to the side and ran away. The other cats scattered as well, and Sir Reynold was left alone to deal with whatever new terror the world felt like throwing at him right now.

He clambered down from his horse, wincing at the pain in his knees and hips, and stood proudly, drawing his sword from the scabbard on his back. “Who dares?” he shouted.

From behind one of the buildings — a particularly unstable looking one made of Swiss cheese — stepped an ogre. It was of a variety that Sir Reynold had never seen before: at least twelve feet tall, lumpy and sprouting hair from every visible orifice, lumpy with pustules, and wearing a tweed suit and carrying a leather briefcase. “SIR REYNOLD OF LIVERMORE!” the troll bellowed. “I HAVE COME TO CHALLENGE THEE IN THINE OWN DOMAIN!”

Sir Reynold took a step forward, raising his sword before him. “You shall fail, foul beast, just as dozens before you have done as well!”

“THEN I SHALL INVOKE THE GREATEST SPELLS IN MY GRIMOIRE UPON THEE!”

The ogre opened its briefcase and removed several sheets of ancient parchment. “BEHOLD,” it roared, and it read from the top of its stack of papers. “COTARD DELUSION IS A RARE NEUROPSYCHIATRIC DISORDER IN WHICH A PERSON HOLDS A DELUSIONAL BELIEF THAT HE OR SHE IS DEAD OR DOES NOT EXIST.”

Sir Reynold staggered backward, stunned by the force of the ogre’s invocation. He recovered quickly, though, and ran forward, swinging his sword.

Undaunted, the ogre read the next spell. “THE CAPGRAS DELUSION (OR CAPGRAS SYNDROME) IS A RARE DISORDER IN WHICH A PERSON HOLDS A DELUSIONAL BELIEF THAT AN ACQUAINTANCE, USUALLY A SPOUSE OR OTHER CLOSE FAMILY MEMBER, HAS BEEN REPLACED BY AN IDENTICAL-LOOKING IMPOSTOR.”

This time, Sir Reynold’s feet slid out from underneath him as the entire world shook. He fell upon the ground, splashing in the milk and his armor clanking against the concrete. “Stop it!” he cried. “These are mortal injuries you’re inflicting upon me, and I have not yet taken my first swing!”

The ogre sneered and read from the next sheet of parchment. “SCHIZOPHRENIA, FROM THE GREEK ROOTS SCHIZEIN (”TO SPLIT”) AND PHREN, PHREN- (”MIND”) IS A PSYCHOTIC DIAGNOSIS THAT DESCRIBES A MENTAL DISORDER CHARACTERIZED BY ABNORMALITIES IN THE PERCEPTION OR EXPRESSION OF REALITY.”

This was indeed the worst attack that Sir Reynold had ever experienced. This ogre was certainly the most powerful one he had ever encountered, and he had encountered a few. The boundaries of the world around him wavered and shook. The buildings shimmered. The milk dried up. His horse shrank, transformed, became a thing of chrome, rubber, and steel. The buildings shrank in on themselves, and the cheese became nothing more than concrete and glass.

“NO!” Sir Reynold shouted. The ogre’s spell had done something horrible to the entire world. Where once the streets had been empty and peaceful, now hundreds of people, all of them stinking, and all of them dressed up like the ogre and carrying briefcases, rushed back and forth, their footsteps slowly but surely crushing the fragile surface of the earth into a tiny little sphere.

Sir Reynold looked about for Reddy and the rest of his feline cohorts, but they were nowhere to be found. Instead, small ugly birds, more like rats, ran about, chasing after crumbs and insects. None of them even looked at Sir Reynold.

Even the ogre in front of Sir Reynold was transformed. It no longer stood before him like a rotting pustule of vile filth; it now appeared as a small man, much smaller than Sir Reynold himself, wearing a white coat and carrying a clipboard. For a moment — just a moment — Sir Reynold was fooled. It was nearly as bad as the time he was trapped in the Ogre Dungeon when he was in San Jose last.

But then the ogre before him spoke. “BEHOLD SIR REYNOLD! BEHOLD THE TRUTH OF THE WORLD THAT SURROUNDS YOU!”

Sir Reynold realized, then, that the ogre’s spell had indeed fooled him, even though it was only for a moment. He was crushed by his brief failure of will, but now was not the time for weakness. Worlds depended on his ability to restore his own grip on the truth. If he failed…

He did not want to think of what would happen if he failed.

“This is not the truth of the world!” he cried to the ogre. “The truth is that the streets run white with milk!” A few people stopped to stare at Sir Reynold as they passed him. He was pleased that he had an audience, that they were learning the truth from him. “The truth is that the buildings are made of cheese and that cats run free and unfettered through the streets, serving knights and heroes alike!”

And then, to Sir Reynold’s horror, the audience he had gathered began to laugh at him. The ogre stood before him, smirking at him. “DO YOU SEE THE TRUTH NOW?” it said.

The rage inside of Sir Reynold grew. It grew because of the way the ogre mocked him, and because of the way the innocent people around him had been fooled into thinking that the world they saw was the way the world really was. He swung his sword — which in this illusion looked like a mere broom — above his head and charged at the ogre. The ogre stepped deftly to one side and Sir Reynold’s sword swished through empty air.

“Hey!” one of the people shouted. “He’s attacking that guy!”

“Get him!” shouted someone else.

Sir Reynold ignored the onlookers, and concentrated on the ogre. He spun on his heels and crouched down, ready to take another powerful swipe at the ogre. Again, the ogre stepped to one side, smirking.

“BEHOLD! YOUR DISTRACTION AND YOUR ANGER HAVE WEAKENED YOU AND YOUR ABILITY TO COMBAT THE LIKES OF ME!”

Around him, people were still laughing and pointing at him, while others were approaching, cautiously, obviously with the intent of capturing and disarming him. He knew that if he allowed that to happen, he would be taken to this town’s Ogre Dungeon, and he did not want to suffer that humiliation and torture again.

It was important the he center himself, that he not allow himself to be distracted by the illusions and fantasies that surrounded him. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. He repeated this until he felt the anger and fear inside of him subsiding.

“ATTEND, PEASANTS OF SACRAMENTO,” the ogre bellowed, “AND BEHOLD THE KNIGHT ERRANT, WHO BELIEVES THAT HE CAN WITHSTAND MY MAGIC!”

Sir Reynold did his best to not allow the ogre’s taunts and the peasants’ laughter to distract him from his holy purpose this time.

The ogre chortled in an evil manner, as did the peasants nearby. Then came the wailing of the metal wagons that the constable ogres drove. He didn’t have much time.

Sir Reynold opened his eyes, immediately took in his surroundings, and with one carefully placed step and a perfect swing of his sword, decapitated the troll with a single slice.

The ogre, caught in mid chortle, stood for a few moments without its head. Some ogres, Sir Reynold knew, could live without their heads for several hours, but when they were in the midst of their powerful spells, they usually could not. And indeed this time the ogre’s decapitated body fell down and dissolved.

Triumphant, Sir Reynold reached into his rucksack and removed the scroll that he kept just for situations like this. He unrolled the scroll, and began to read the incantation aloud. He anticipated the return of the normal world, and the shattering of all the illusions that surrounded him; and as he read, he was gratified to see the peasants fading into nothingness, and the metal construct that his horse had become begin to rebuild itself properly.

He read: “The streets ran white with milk and the skyscrapers were made of cheese.”