Battle or Y.B.P.M. didn't pay too much attention in philosophy class, just enough to mess it up and ignore the obvious.

Diary...such news.
I now know that my hunch was correct. Young Siward-Gainsville is indeed possessed by a daemonical force that resides in his hand. I assume that any semblance of a human soul he once possessed has long since been consumed. He is a soul-less husk of a boy. I should have known, no one can dress that snappily without making some deal with the forces of darkness. I confronted him as he was idly conversing with his nefarious digits; seeing me he panicked and his hand opened up a rift in the space-time continuum. I remember waking in a strange place, feeling like I do right before I attempt to speak to my dulcet darling...except with less vomit. It was the same room I had been in previously, except it was different. Father's manly decor (taxidermized fauna, various bladed and projectile weapons, and a cornucopia of empty bottles) had been replaced with lacy frills, soft pastels, and rose petals. Young Siward-Gainsville was dressed in homely rags with his hair a tattered mess. And he was tiny, dear diary. Those once taught, sinewy fibers had shrunken to a mere skeletal waste.
Obviously shocked, I looked in the mirror and saw...well, diary, it was a revelation. My royal-blue corduroy overall-shirt combo had turned into the finest of seersucker suits. My chiseled jaw jutted forth with the manly confidence of a panther in heat, and it was covered with millions of neatly trimmed Fredericks! And the muscles! Oh, diary, imagine the muscles...I had muscles from here to Tuesday! and felt every single rippling one as I sauntered over to my cowering enemy.
Unfortunately, Y.S.G. waved his hand yet again and I was suddenly back to the world of normalcy. As I was disgorging some Scrumptious Good Times, Y.S.G. used the opportunity to escape. After the tummy discomfort had subsided, along with my tears-thankfully I bring a spare pipette just in case I break out into a fit of spontaneous sobbing- I was able to process what had happened.
Clearly, Y.S.G. had propelled us out of the proverbial, Platonic cave and straight into the world of pure form! THIS MUST BE SO! The purest expression of myself is a demi-god with Gable-rific good looks, Y.S.G. is a simpering hobo, and the world is decorated with beautiful, beautiful pastel. He won't dare to battle me in that realm again, but now he knows that I will clearly emerge as victor in this paramortal combat. The victory will be mine!

Triumphantly,
Y.B.P.M.

P.S. If this was the world of pure form...why did the ScrumptiousGoodTimes taste like boiled cabbage? Hmmm.