It was all over. The battle had been fought and lost. Christophe sighed deeply, standing alone on the beach as the sun set over the western sea… the sea that would part him from his love forever.

He raised the gun to his head.

"Well, God," sputtered the weary French boy, "you've finally bested me. At long last, you have won ze battle against Christophe… But you will torment me no longer, you fucking pussy. Zere is no God where I am going. Goodbye, cruel world. Goodbye, you cock-sucking asshole of a God."

"Wait! Christophe, wait!"

For an instant, the Mole thought he was dreaming. That voice… that angelic voice. It had been months since he last heard it, and it was the only voice in the world that could cause him to lower the pistol from his temple. Christophe opened his eyes, his aching heart scarcely daring to believe it.

"Don't forget to bring a towel!"

There, before him, stood the rectangular frame of Towelie. His blue and white fibers fluttered in the wind, which carried the heavenly aroma of the towel's joint to Christophe's nostrils. For a moment, the two stared breathlessly at one another.

At last, the Mole managed to spit out a sentence. "T-t-towel! Y-you're here! But…"

Towelie cracked a smile and took a puff from his joint. "It's always a good idea to bring a towel."

Christophe, still stunned, stammered, "B-but ze guard dogs! Zay chased you, I… I tried to stop zem!"

Towelie smirked, his fuzzy lips curling into that wry expression Christophe so adored.

"Heh, you think a couple'a faggy dogs can keep me away from you, you irresistible French sex machine?"

"Oh, Towelie," wept Christophe as he held the woven threads limply in his arms.

"Oh, Christophe," sighed the towel in reply, gently stroking his lover's hair.

They made sweet love under the stars that night—Man and Towel blissfully intertwined, as if nature itself intended them to be together. And as they smoked in the afterglow of their throes of passion, they knew that they would never be alone again.