Dancing is a wonderful thing—it's the body's opportunity to relinquish itself to the pleasure of the brain. All control is forsaken, whatever limbs you have thrown about and contorted in jubilant, exotic thrills, one's self disposed of and given to the joy of reckless abandon. “Reckless abandon,” there's a funny phrase—you'd think if you abandoned something, you wouldn't get it back, so that's already pretty reckless. So it's just redundant. But I digress.

There were thirteen illegal things throughout the nation of Paltropisburg—a nation, yes, even though burg means “city”—and dancing was number seven. One might wonder why, if one's wholly uneducated. It all goes back to the reign of the Great East Eater, hundreds of years ago. Technically, there's still some east remaining, but, let's let bygones be bygones, all right? Anyway, we all know the story, or should by now. It was in the past, after all.

Now, Paltropisburg's rules aside, dancing was strictly illegal everywhere, no matter what, except where it wasn't, such as international airs and other such realms beyond the reach of the rule of law—and in such places it was as good as mandatory. This worked perfectly for Jum Burie's purposes. Of course, she could dance wherever she needed to, but, can you imagine the hubbub if she just started dancing at a blanket auction, or a three-story display of sodium, or the third-best gas station in the tri-county area? But, that's Jum Burie for you, and that's why Tuberlone's presence was necessary.

Once Jum Burie was recharged fully, on the verge of passing out from fatigue, there was no longer any need for the camouflage, so she and Tuberlone and all the bodyguards decamped to the southern restaurant of the plane, donned their parachutes and propeller beanies, and leapt, freefell an appropriate adrenaline-inducing amount, deployed the chutes, and landed in a neat line next to the phone booth.

“Hey,” said the operator, “I'm trying to operate here!” He was in the midst of sewing up the commissar with some festive Christmas garland.

“Then keep the chutes,” said Jum Burie. “Or else.”

“Or else what?” The operator, as an operator is wont to be, was ever the tough guy.

Jum Burie said, “Find out.”

“Enough,” said Tuberlone, “time has been wasted speaking to the peasants. We must make haste. Let's go to the the office—that's where he was reported last.”

The commissar, anesthesialess, eyed the lot of them and said, “Ye better not be after me butter, too.”

Back on the 747, assorted dancing people were boogieing up to Traycup and Ben Garment, who had declared a pending byejilling, and now they were curious as to what a byejilling was, as displayed by their question: “What's a byejilling?” It was a fair question, of course, since it was a rare enough event that they weren't clear on the details, and, moreover, everyone's shoes were too tight, so they weren't concentrating on unprovoked aircraft ownership changes right at that moment. Someone was bound to invent Velcro soon and solve their entanglement issues.

“Well,” said Traycup, “it's as simple as this! We wish to join you, and meet with your leaders to discuss our being encompassed as one of your own. It's not a thing of hostility at all!”

“What if we like hostility?” said the dancing people.

“It's still not a thing of hostility,” said Traycup, “but a separate thing of that make and model can be found!”

The dancing people formed three rings around Traycup and Ben Garment and began a new jig, so as to mull over the proposal. It was a very long jig, and it took ten hours and twelve seconds, and then finally they said, “Nope. We're full.”

“Hostility it is!” declared Ben Garment.

“It's not to be!” said Traycup. “I'll not budge on the byejilling—it's a mystery best left solved.” He thought for a moment, not about sad bison, and realized he hadn't eaten a vegetable lately. “Mayhap here's a gap we can bridge! I'll to state my goal, and you yours, and let's find a crossing betwixt those two. So here's it: will the plane be as kind as to place us neatly on the ground?”

“The ground?” wailed the dancing people. “Not the ground! No! We won't go back! We won't go back to the old ways! Our bodies have tasted the thrill of the dance, our minds have met with the bliss of long partying! No, we are children of the sky evermore! You shall not have us bound to your Earthly ways!” With that, the dancing people turned into a howling mass, each of them suffused with demoniac pretense, owing in large part to the ample supply of exciting party drugs everyone had indulged in earlier—they'd all had about three aspirins before the flight—and also this was the will of the disco ball, to which all dancers are bound, and which now descended from its place in the ceiling and grew large and overtook the horizon, such as it was.

“You,” said the disco ball, “'ve been enough of a pest! It's time you were gone from here. This place welcomes you not, and we long to watch your obliteration! Now, ahoy!” The disco ball sprinkled some manly sauerkraut onto a hamster, which was appreciative of the shower, since it had just had a helluva workout at the gym, and was headed to the two-ply for a snack next, but snack time wasn't for another four seconds, so they had to find a way to kill the time. This seemed pretty evil, and the time's children would be left without a parent, and Traycup and Ben Garment could brook no orphan, and so they acted quickly, each of them knitting a poncho with the words “Bless This Morass” emblazoned both front and back. The ponchos wouldn't sell at the store, so they gave up on that daydream and donated them to some math teachers.

“Come now,” said Traycup, “I've a lot of dishes to meet tomorrow, and bathing in a cold resin is no good for the cuticles.”

The disco ball laughed, unfazed. “Ho! Daring blitz,” it guffawed. “Can't a worm-shod table have its own vote for more or less? Or are all the instigators tied up in a charnel house? See, I've a tonsil you've never met, and, oh, where to buy insurance at this hour?”

“Not hour,” said Traycup, “but our—our pet-setting lance doesn't know the first thing about a pyramid, and somehow it's going to find the patience to get through it all! Now, you might say 'pie' wrong and be forgiven, because if you run up and down enough, you'll see a turtle's got your number! It's a crown, and hasn't been since the eighties! Now we're at the pause limit!”

Once, the mountains were lower than the sea, but this was when the spotlight was on the cold ham leftover from the cribbage factory fire, so no one noticed, and they righted things right away. Twice, the mounting was louder than the seal, and this was not before, but after the hot white wasp was in a gold pan right over by the cabbage fanciers' field, and everyone saw it, and left what was left nearby.

The dancers howled a howl so loud it was louder than their previous howl. They became partially filled with despair, and watched in misery as the disco ball became something less than its old self, in pieces smaller than it had been, and said nothing, and shone its light no more, but fell into darkness and perished.

By now, the 747 had noticed something awry—feeling such an awful, twisted sensation in its stomach was surely unusual. It wasted no time at all in going to the doctor, who received it at once, and laid it down on the table to listen to its here-and-theres with the icy intimacy of the stethoscope.

“How does it feel?” said the doctor.

“Cold,” said the 747.

“Not the stethoscope, you knucklehead. Your stomach.”

“It feels like I've got a thousand dancing people inside me who just blew up a disco ball.”

“Oh,” said the doctor gravely.

“What? Is it bad?”

“Yeah. Dancing is illegal.”

“I'm not dancing,” said the 747, most defensively.

“But you know it's happening. You're an accomplice.”

“Accomplice?” said the plane. “I'm the victim!”

The doctor reached for the phone, the special teal one to report dancing-related crimes, such as... well, such as dancing. I guess there's just the one.

The 747 leapt to its feet. “I'm not going down like this!” The 7 family was long-schooled in battle, and so with well-practiced moves it drew forth a halberd and leap atop a mighty steed. The mighty steed reared on its hind legs as thunder roared and lightning crashed dramatically in the background.

“Hi,” said the mighty steed. “I'm Phillippo, and I'm going to be playing the mighty steed in this story! If you enjoy my performance, please consider booking me for your own story needs. I also do children's parties, ren faires, and bar and bat mitzvahs. Thanks!”

With that, the mighty steed—

“Phillippo,” said Phillippo.

With that, the mighty steed raced at the doctor, and the 747 twirled the halberd over his head. The doctor ordered his nurse to open fire, but as he had actually opened his practice in a toadstool forest and the nurse was no nurse but a dragonfly, fire was not opened, and so he was as defenseless as bacon bits and the 747 struck him down, and he exploded into fragments of doctor bones.

The 747 admired its handiwork but quickly realized its predicamentary position. “I've got to hide before I get billed for this,” it said, looking about the doctor's office and weighing its options. Vent? Too obvious. Under the pile of doctor bones? Tempting, but it'd be screwed if an orangutan came by and wanted to eat a large enough portion so as to expose any hiders. Inside the sharps container? That was the first place they'd look!

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door.

“The jig is literally up,” groaned the 747, and, without any other option, it leapt into the battery compartment of the wall clock that'd been stopped for two years.

The door opened, and the fishmonger came in.

“Carl?” said the fishmonger. “You in here? Carl?”

There was no answer. The fishmonger held up a—what do you call them things that tick when there's radiation? It's like a box and then there's a rod on a wire? That thing, he held up one of those. It ticked like crazy, right in time with the clock.

“Son of a bitch,” said the fishmonger, turning and leaving at once. “All right, I give up! Ollie ollie oxen free!” The fishmonger went down the hall, saying more silly words, boarding a passing surfboard, and leaving the story entirely.

Phillippo said, “Was I supposed to go in the clock, too?”

“Horses don't talk,” said the 747, climbing out and dusting itself off. It still had bits of doctor bones in its chain mail. “Now, listen. I'm gettin' out of here before the gettin' gets good! And if you say anything to anyone, so help me, I'm going to buy your whole family a pu pu platter!”

With that the plane took off, leaving Phillippo alone in the doctor's office.

“Well,” said Phillippo, “we seem to have shaken them. Good job.”

Then, Phillippo split in half, and it was seen that Phillippo was no horse, but a horse costume, encasing within itself Traycup Lopkit and Ben Garment. They climbed out and carefully set the costume aside.

“Say,” said Phillippo the horse costume, “if you guys still need a hand—”

“You've been an expert friend!” said Traycup. “It'll not go amiss.”

“I'll get you set up,” said Ben Garment. “I need to rebuild my blimp and its crew, after all.”

Ben Garment helped Phillippo sign the paperwork for his 401(k) while Traycup stared longingly at a thumbtack. There were some walls that accepted thumbtacks so easily, they just go right in. It makes you wonder, is this a safe building material? What'll it do when it meets a bit of fire or wind or water? Or, for that matter, the Earth—like, okay, there's a stud frame, right? And then drywall is nailed to that? But, what, is that just sitting on the ground? How do they keep the whole thing in place? And what about the roof—that's a complex angle with eaves and whatnot. How do rafters fit into the picture? Or the foundation? These are all mysteries now, but once upon a time people would just go yea far and then their horse would die and they'd say, “Well, I guess we'll put a house here.”

“What's up?” said Phillippo.

“The 747,” said Traycup, “and usn't.”

“The byejilling went as planned,” said Ben Garment, “but that leaves us with a new challenge! Time stands as our opponent, if we're bound for Oopertreepia. We'll need to accrue some new options for the route of our travel. We nearly have our pick, but none are good—via Nesodi Iveent if you still like, else there's Vefgellia or Mormander Prede.”

Traycup said, “Such stylish name-dropping! Well, I'll participate with a one myself, for our party wants for one. Roby is lacking in hereness. I've pledged a joined journey with her, and 'twould be rude to abscond without.”

Ben Garment shook his head sadly. “A dilly we can't afford to dally! But, if that's the way that must be for us, says you, then point the way and we'll go to her spot!”

“Then, let's jostle!” said Traycup.

So, a couple times, some people tried to figure out how many songs there were. Not how many songs had been made, but how many could be made. See, the thinking is that there's a finite amount of notes, each being at a certain frequency, right? So if you play a certain number of notes in a certain order, there's a song. If you play them in a different order, there's another song. So, you can calculate the permutations of that. But, what if you play some notes for longer? Whole notes, half notes, quarter notes—if you play the same melody but vary that, does it count? Oh, but—you can't just play some random notes and call it a song. Songs have rhythm, verse, chorus, bridge—that sort of structure. Well—how structured does it have to be to be a “song?” Songs are art, and art thrives in breaking structures as well as working within them. If you repeat a hundred random notes twice, is that now two verses? Is that a song? How can we determine how many songs there are if we can't even determine what counts as a song?

So—how many dances are there?