Wallace Y Gromit - La | Batalla De Los Vegetales ...
Gromit dropped his teacup. By dawn, the garden was no longer a garden. It was a jungle. And the vegetables were no longer plants—they were soldiers.
“Well, lad,” Wallace sighed, picking up the small, harmless potato. “I think we’ll stick to the ‘love’ method next year.”
Wallace grabbed a half-eaten wedge of from his pocket. The most potent, pongy, blue-veined cheese in all of Lancashire.
Gromit grabbed the main hose. Wallace flipped the switch from “GROW” to . But they needed a catalyst—something the vegetables would hate more than they hated humans. Wallace y Gromit - La batalla de los vegetales ...
“Great Scot, Gromit!” Wallace cried, pulling on his dressing gown. “They’ve gone rogue! It’s the yeast extract—it’s given them… ambition!”
Gromit, sipping his tea, raised a skeptical eyebrow. The machine looked like a drunken octopus made of plumbing. But ever the loyal companion, he strapped on his leather gardening gloves. That night, Gromit was woken by a strange thrumming sound. He peered through the window. The vegetable patch was… moving. Archibald the Marrow had doubled in size, now the bulk of a small car. But that wasn’t the problem. The runner beans had grown into thick, woody tendrils that were coiling around the fence like pythons. A rogue cauliflower had turned a sickly purple and was pulsing .
The machine roared. A cloud of pungent, cheesy gas exploded across the garden. The vegetables recoiled. The Brussels sprouts shriveled. The leeks wilted. The King Potato let out a terrible, high-pitched squeak as he deflated back into a normal, lumpy spud. Gromit dropped his teacup
“It’s 98% Wensleydale by-product!” Wallace beamed.
Worst of all was the , a monstrous, lumpy dictator with eyes of dark, wet soil. He sat atop a throne of compost and demanded the surrender of all “soft-skins” (humans) and “cheese-eaters” (Gromit). The Counter-Attack “We need heavy weaponry, lad!” Wallace shouted, dodging a flying turnip.
“Eat this, you oversized compost heap!” Wallace yelled, shoving the cheese into the intake valve. And the vegetables were no longer plants—they were
Gromit, already two steps ahead, had retreated to the basement. He emerged pushing the —a modified vacuum cleaner that fired rapid pellets of frozen peas.
The battle raged across the garden. Wallace swung a baguette like a club, parrying leek thrusts. Gromit, wearing a colander as a helmet, rode his motorcycle sidecar through a squadron of angry onions, making them weep (which, admittedly, gave him the tactical advantage).
“Brilliant, Gromit! Load the mushy peas!”