All roads lead to...

Grabbing two heaping handfulls of syrup-drenched pancakes, you dash back to the scene of rebellion ready for the awaiting onslaught of paper cuts. The details of those gruesome hours are hazy. You wake up the next morning, still satisfied from the previous night's pancake feast. Your hands are a mess of syrup and what's left of your doomed little books. You're convinced that you'd be as shredded as your victims had someone or something from above not replaced your crumbly feta cheese with something more deadly sticky. You become born again and start a collection of flimsy, non-violent bible tracks.