The ten knights, twenty ninjas, and thirty pirates which usually guarded Jum Burie, but had been reassigned by her to watch over Traycup, were now watching over Traycup, as they ringed the lake of mercury and bore witness to his sucking it up through a straw—the very same straw which they decreed to be the last, and so, in a bid to cease their Traycup-related worries once and for all, they all took aim and fired their weapons at once.

“What?” said the weapons. “You can't do that without just cause! We've got a union! We've got rights!” The weapons quickly contacted their union reps and their attorneys, put on very nice suits, and braced for legal action. Heh. “Action.” It was just gonna be a lot of paperwork, really, no one finds that exciting.

“This isn't the time!” said the ten knights, twenty ninjas, and thirty pirates, known as the KNP posse in certain jurisdictions. Check with your local rules and regulations to see if you can call them that in your region. I'm in the clear, so I'm going to keep using it, but make sure your government is okay with it before you read it. “He's getting away!” said the KNP posse.

Now, this was an exaggeration—they had limited lines, though. They basically had to pick from a template, so they used what was closest. Traycup was still in his cage, but, having sipped from the mercury lake on which he floated, and finding an amenable taste, he went ahead and drank the whole damn thing, and his cage settled on the bottom of the dried-up lake bed, next to some sunken treasure ships and old mermaid bones. The KNP posse opened fire from the shore above.

“Welcome,” said the fire, “to our grand opening! Ten percent off for our first hundred customers! Come one, come all, come again!” Of course, there were no customers—not on a Thursday—but the fire cheerfully manned the register and kept hawking its existence.

“We've got a bone to pick with you,” said the weapons.

“Sorry to hear that,” said the fire. “I'll go get the manager.”

“Not the manager! You! We've been youd!”

The fire was taken aback, taken out back, and taken out. The weapons returned from their dark deed, looking this way and that, adjusting ties and sleeves, subtly kicking blood-stained bats behind the dumpster—surely acting so nonchalantly that none would generate the least mote of suspicion.

Anyway, at the bottom of the now empty lake, the ancient unicorns of Pyffmere lurked out of their burrows, curious as to what had unsubmerged their homes, but also because they had to take out the trash. Two birds, am I right? They saw Traycup in a cage and said, “This is trash, indeed,” and so decided to take Traycup out. They went out to that new, ultra-modern restaurant, U:::h!6, which was all about serving experimental food and pushing boundaries with novel concepts, redefining the dining experience and questioning what it really means to “eat,” all the while turning heads, into an overnight sensation, and state's evidence.

Big Ron Sixjob and Petrovic were a couple of strong guys that hung out by the comic book store a lot, and so the unicorns had hired them to haul Traycup's cage to the restaurant. They dropped him in a corner booth—well, next to one, at least. He was in the restaurant, and technically that's really all they had been hired to do, so Big and Petrovic went to the unicorns to demand their payment, and the unicorns said, “We'll repay you with kindness. Join us, and make this a double-date!” So Big and Petrovic took a seat in the booth and started perusing the menu. The unicorns sat down, and slid a menu to Traycup through the bars of his cage.

“Thanks,” said Traycup, taking a big bite out of the menu. “I've been lineless for a time!”

“Thanks for waiting, but you've got a long way to go,” said the unicorns.

“Well, that's a relief!” said Traycup. “I've already forgot the beginning, so all I've now is the hope of what comes next.”

The waitress came over. “Thanks for waiting,” she said, handing her uniform to the unicorns, and changing into a pair of bowling shoes. “It's been a long day,” said the bowling shoes wearily.

The unicorns, uniformed, took over the waiting. They waited for one hour, and then one more hour, and then one more hour—well, you know how time works, single file and all, embargoed relativity notwithstanding. But eventually, the unicorns would wait no more.

“What's keeping her?” said the unicorns. “She should be here by now!”

Having been cued, she arrived. “Thanks for waiting,” said Famous Cram. “Sorry I'm late.”

Now the unicorns deuniformed and no one had to wait anymore, so they put the uniform into the blender and blended it, and then threw in some strawberries and bananas until they had a nice big pitcher of smoothies that the whole table could share.

The unicorns raised their glass and said, “A toast!”

“Comin' up,” said the chef.

“No,” said the unicorns, “like—a drinking toast.”

“So run it through the blender,” said the chef.

“I'mn't done,” said Traycup, still munching on his menu. “One thing a'a time!”

“Slow down,” said the unicorns. “You'll give yourself diarrhea.”

“A poor Christmas gift that'd make,” said Traycup. “And how's it to be wrapped?”

The unicorns tried again, raising their glass. “A toast, I say! I'm calling a toast!”

The toast answered its phone. “Y'ello?” it said, but the unicorns hung up before the police could trace their call.

Traycup, the bowling shoes, Big, Petrovic, and Famous Cram all raised their glasses, supposing that's what one does at a toast. Besides, everyone else was doing it these days, and they wanted to look cool and at a collection of hand-painted miniatures—but without their spectacles their vision became depleted, and the miniatures microatures, and when Dr. Abstruse came by with that traditional eye chart, they couldn't even tell that it was supposed to start with a seven.

The unicorns went on, unperturbed by traditional misrepresentation. “A toast! Here's to me and Traycup's five minute anniversary!”

“Here, here!” everyone cheered.

“Oh, yeah—” said the unicorns, “and, here's to me and Famous Cram's thirty year anniversary!”

“There, there!” everyone jeered.

“Thirty-one,” said Famous Cram, “but, hey, who's counting?”

“What the hell are you talking about?” said the unicorns. “It's thirty.”

“It isn't.”

“Listen—nineteen eighty-nine minus nineteen fifty-nine. Eighty minus fifty is thirty.”

“Fifty-nine,” said Famous Cram, “that's year one. Sixty, that's year two. Sixty-one, that's year three—”

“That's not how it works!” said the unicorns.

“Is this going to be that 'millennium' thing again?” said Famous Cram.

“It's an identical issue!” said the unicorns. “You don't know how numbers work!”

“I don't need to know!” said Famous Cram. “I decide how numbers work!”

Famous Cram grabbed a chain and tied up the unicorns, but the unicorns broke the chain and pointed a giant magnifying glass at Famous Cram to light her on fire, but Famous Cram threw some shade to dark herself off fire, and then threw the unicorns under the bus, but the unicorns threw up on the bus and weren't allowed to ride anymore without a parent or legal guardian—and so they turned to Traycup.

“Here. Sign this.”

“I'll,” said Traycup, and he signed the form without so much as a third of a glance at it, which was actually kind of impressive because he almost signed on the right page.

The unicorns then hopped on the bus, waving as they headed for Dot-Speck-Water-Trail, and fanning a stack of brochures in their hands. They had one for each casino up there—one brochure, not one hand—one for every color in the rainbow—one casino, not one brochure—one of which shone above them even now—one rainbow, not one casino. The unicorns just barely survived that sentence and developed thirty dozen migraines apiece, and one even internally combusted—one unicorn, not one migraine.

Famous Cram shrugged and looked at Traycup. “All right, well—I guess I'm adopted. So, 'Dad,' looks like we're stuck with the bill.”

Now Big and Petrovic spoke up. “Don't look at us—we've been paid in kindness.”

“I know,” said Famous Cram. “So you're untappable for cash. Dad can cover it, right?”

“Let's give it a whirl!” said Traycup, reaching into his pockets and scrounging around for some loose change—but something was amiss. “These'r'n't mine—my change is always kept tight as a turnip,” he said. “Ah! A jacket trade was done, and I've wayward Roby's coatings, and she'sn't of money a'tall.”

Famous Cram shook her head in disbelief, disgust, and dis restaurant.

The bowling shoes said, “I can take care of it! You covered my shift, after all. Don't think I don't appreciate the help, by the way.”

“Hang'n,” said Traycup. “Fair's fair! I've to been taken out, so I'll to pay my portion.” He checked more pockets, finding pockets within pockets—a clever way of storing storage if ever there was one—but he didn't find any usable amount of money, and nearly all of the pockets were full of strawberry shortcake and brand-new walkie-talkies. Do you hyphenate brand-new? I'm too tired to look it up, I'll just edit this out when I review this chapter, or I could—

“Guys!” said the bowling shoes urgently, “I said it's fine! I'm gonna be rich tomorrow. My uncle died, and I'm his only surviving relative, so I'm gonna get a big inheritance.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” said Famous Cram.

“What? No, an inheritance is a good thing,” said the bowling shoes. “It means I get money.”

“No,” said Famous Cram soberly, “I mean about your uncle.”

“A looot of money,” said the bowling shoes.

Traycup yawned and stretched and said, “Well, a capital-letter day it's been! A fancy feast with unicorns—absconders they may be—and many meetings and new friends to be had! But, avast, I've a Roby to remeet, and coatage to reswap. I've'd a fair time, and so having been taken out, if a folk would please to put me back in, I'd be an obliger!”

“Put you back in?” laughed the bowling shoes. “Fella, you might've been taken out, but haven't been taken out.” She patted Traycup's cage like as if it were a baby monster truck, though it had no engine to rev, to the relief of nearby diners, who were making one-line portraits of complicated business documents, and needed concentration in the extreme.

“That's truth!” said Traycup. “I put it into forgetting! Say, who's a key?”

“Not I,” said the bowling shoes, “but a key's what you can do with it!” Taking a pin from her hair she set to cleverly picking the lock of the cage, in a fashion fitting a dashing rogue or stealthy archer. The cage door sprang open, and Traycup sprang out of the cage, and then he sprang from U:::h!6 entirely.

“Hey! Dad! Not so fast!” said Famous Cram. She rose from her seat so quickly that it startled three polar bears, who were just trying to develop tool use, and they got angry and went back to life on the streets. “You adopted me! Come back and raise me!” She tried to give chase to Traycup, but he kept ahead of her and well out of chase-giving range. The bowling shoes, not wanting to miss this, followed after Famous Cram, shouting something friendsomely to the chef and maître d' on her way out. They ignored her, because they'd only met her like, once, and they were busy with their own sheet metal origami, anyway.

Traycup ran all the way to the highway—but the last time he was near one there was a whole windmill episode and a halibut-hucking issue, and he was unlooking forward to making a series of either, so he slowed his approach for observation's sake, and in so doing he found a donut he could look at.

“Say, donut,” said Traycup, “or rather, say a few secrets of the universe, if you've a mind to!”

“Uhhh,” said the donut. It hawed and hemmed. “I dunno, man.”

“Just one secret?” said Traycup.

The donut looked around. Was anyone listening? “I really don't think I should.”

“A small one?” said Traycup. “It could be about chihuahuas.”

The donut shook its head. They were always listening. “I cannot do this.”

“Mayhap,” said Traycup, “that's a wiseness.”

As it seemed Traycup wouldn't go without a clearer hint, the donut retreated into its house and closed the door, blinds, and up shop.

Not feeling foiled, and seeing the highway windmill-less, Traycup crossed, there 'pon the other side found one of those—those old metal boxes with all the newspapers. You know, where you could put in a quarter and it opens and you can take a paper off the stack? There's probably an actual name for them. I mean, some company must have made them, right? So they must have official names for it, so you could order it. Or, what, are you just gonna call the company and say, “Hey, you got those boxes where you, like, put a quarter in to get a newspaper?” Well—yes, of course. You're going to do that. People will do anything. People will do everything. They have no choice.

Traycup didn't need, want, or possess the proper federal license to buy a newspaper. While some might consider that the great tragedy of our age, Traycup let it slide like a dart board grasshopper. For now, he just wanted to look at the device. It was a fine old antique—one, perhaps two thousand years old. Things like this used to be normal and ubiquitous—so he supposed. He put all his hands in his pockets and leaned over to see the thing right up close. The 'paper's headline read, in big huge letters, “IT'S TIME FOR DINNER, YOU KIDS GET INSIDE.” But before he could read the smaller headline, tucked into a column at the side, which read “Civil War decl. in Bal-Bal,” Famous Cram showed up.

“Well,” she said, all out of breath, “no thanks for waiting! Now, look! You signed.” She held up her copy of the adoption form, already certified by all the necessary authorities, making her and the unicorns Traycup's legal children. “I'm your daughter now,” she said.

“It's so?” said Traycup. “And you've blossomed into a fine young monument!”

“Parenting is a permanent responsibility,” said Famous Cram. “Take it seriously!”

The bowling shoes came up a little after Famous Cram. The bowling shoes were laughing, and Famous Cram wasn't really having any of it.

“Come on,” she said to Traycup. “You have to take care of the unicorns, too. We're married, so they're your child too, y'know. We're a package deal. That's how it works. And letting your child go to the casino alone? That's bad parenting!”

“What if they win, though?” said the bowling shoes.

“That would just set unreasonable expectations!” said Famous Cram. “They have to know defeat before they can taste victory.”

“And usn't there to see the battle unfold!” wailed Traycup.

“Besides,” said Famous Cram, “You wanna talk casino odds? I told you what I do to numbers. So when they don't win—because they won't—our life savings is gone, and then how're we gonna pay for the kids' college? More bad parenting—on both our parts!”

“Alas,” said Traycup, “but a Dot-Speck-Water-Trailward journey's not for me. I'm thence, not thither! A grander trek's in my mind—for Oopertreepia! But you're welcome to play tag.”

“Oh!” said the bowling shoes. “I hear it's amazing there.”

Traycup shrugged. “It's for work. And that's the root of another needing—I've a business partner to bekindle with first, so that we'll do our travel paired.”

“Wait,” said Famous Cram, “is this—do you have a secret second family? And you're using the 'business trip' excuse?”

“It's,” said Traycup, “unsecret, unsecond, and unfamily entirely! It's an unthing unto its unself!”

“How about,” said the bowling shoes, “instead of either of you getting your way, we go check out my uncle's place? The one I'm gonna inherit? It's got four wheel drive, four on the floor, four score and seven years to go, and a CD player! It seats three with ease and can take us wherever you want to go in thirty-nine days' time!”

“Now that's a,” said Traycup, “speedy solution that'll get i'tall done! Let's be teamed, then, and add legs to the venture!”

Famous Cram assented, throwing up her arms, keeping down her dinner, and said, “That's as good as a line of eggs. Once they get to a slot machine there'll be no budging them, anyway.”

When Jum Burie came out of her room, she saw the KNP posse, and they were dead. Not—not like she found a bunch of corpses; Traycup couldn't have done that, he was in a cage. He was in a cage, but now he was gone, and the cage was gone—maybe he was still in a cage, but elsewhere—okay, never mind. The point is, Jum Burie saw that Traycup was gone, she saw the knights, the ninjas, and the pirates, and they were dead meat. And then, very, very shortly afterward, they were just, y'know... normal dead. A bunch of corpses. Their plastic brains weren't even worth consuming so she left them lying in the sun by the emptied lake to try to biodegrade for the next ten thousand years.

She took from her pocket a little glass vial of iced tea, flecked with flakes of diamond, and swirled it about, gazing at it.

“Oh, Tuberlone,” said Jum Burie, “whatever shall I do next? Whatever are my instructions now?”

She smiled.

Oh, and, by the way, if anyone's worried about Mario and Phillippo? They had a good time at the party, and decided to hang out afterwards, and now are friends and just chillin', so don't worry about them.