So, Traycup, Famous Cram, and the bowling shoes came up to two trees, between which the road passed, and they decided to stop there for a quick lunch break. They'd been on the road for a while, en route to collect the bowling shoes' inheritance, and they were overdue for a respite, but their snacking plans were undone when they realized none of them had any good foodstuffs on them at the moment, so they decided the sensible thing to do was to surround the area with bear traps and bait them with unlabeled vials of liquid nitrogen, and then close their eyes and count to a hundred and sixty-two thousand, three hundred and fifteen. No—a hundred and sixty-two thousand, three hundred and twelve. That should be plenty.

They had barely reached four thousand, one hundred and nineteen when suddenly—snap, snap, snap went the bear traps, and their quarry had been gained. Of course, they couldn't leave a task undone, and so patiently completed their count, which only took another eight seconds, because they were so good at counting, and had nearly all of the numbers memorized aforehand.

The bowling shoes sprinted over to the traps first in eager delight, and Traycup and his new daughter followed. As expected, what they trapped was—

“Well,” said the pangolin, “looks like we've nat oned this time.”

The pangolin, the broadsword, and the shotgun were what the bear traps captured, as three fortune-tellers had predicted. The bear traps had them in headlocks, one apiece, and said, “Whatcha want us to do with these jokers, boss?”

“Joker?” said Traycup. “Ah! Fine idea! I've one: what do you call it when a trumpet hasn't got a pet eel?”

“What? I don't know,” said the pangolin, “what?”

Traycup smiled and grinned and beamed, and could hardly self-contain, and burst out proudly with, “A very nice delight!” Everyone, and I mean everyone, laughed at Traycup's brilliant joke.

“Okay,” admitted Famous Cram, “that one wasn't so bad. Don't chance it again.” She gave Traycup the lecture finger. “Anyway, I'll get a campfire started and we'll roast them.”

“I'm starved,” said the bowling shoes, nearly drooling as she gazed at the shotgun. “Can't we just eat them raw?”

“What're you lookin' at, lady?” snapped the shotgun.

“Hold off on devouring!” said the pangolin. “You're making a terrible mistake.”

“It's so,” said Traycup. “A stew'd do better, I'd say. Look yonder! There's half a grass to throw in as well—we've all the makings already!”

“You're making another terrible mistake!” said the pangolin.

“Yeah,” said Famous Cram, “we don't have a pot to stew 'em in.”

“Listen just a moment!” said the broadsword. “You, son, must be Traycup Lopkit, isn't that so?”

“It's,” said Traycup, as a normal-sized whale got a job putting drill bits in order.

“We've been looking for you,” said the broadsword. “See, we—well, we got an important message to deliver to you!”

“Stow the flames, child!” Traycup said to Famous Cram. “Lest we sup on a special tale untold!” Then to the broadsword, he said, “A vital issue, I see. What's't?”

The broadsword hemmed and hawed and glanced at the pangolin. “You tell them.”

“Well,” said the pangolin, “you see—wait. Are you gonna eat us after we tell you?”

“No, of course not,” said Traycup. Meanwhile Famous Cram had not stowed the flames. The bowling shoes looked away, so no one could tell whether she was salivating or not. I know, though. I'll spoil it for you: yes, she was.

“I heard that!” said the pangolin. “Let's make a deal. Or rather, let's make a meal. After I see you've been fed on some nonmine flesh, I'll be more inclined to tell you the secret message.”

“Ah, but alas,” said Traycup, “such sensitive data can't afford to wait so long! Out with it at once, I say!”

The pangolin said, “What? You don't even know what the message is! How would you know whether it can or can't wait?”

“Tell you what,” said the shotgun, “I sure can't wait. You guys got a bathroom around here?”

“You can use the one at the gas station's,” said Famous Cram. “You have to ask the cashier for the key.”

“Thanks.”

Traycup nodded to the bear traps, and they let the trio go, and the shotgun sprinted for the gas station, and the pangolin and the broadsword shared a look at Traycup and the others, and then the pangolin said, “You've got a good campfire going—let's gather such bits and bobs as we can and make a feast of it. I'll surely trust you more on a full stomach, and you'll want to hear my news.”

Famous Cram said to Traycup, “Dad, these guys are weird. Let's just eat them.”

“Let's eat somebody!” said the bowling shoes. “I'm starved! I haven't eaten since last time!”

“Now, now,” said Traycup, “now. Now, if this story is as urgent as I think, we'd best hear it at once, and if a dinner's a requisite for sharing the legend, we'd best make haste on it!”

“Yes!” said the pangolin. “Now we're getting somewhere.”

“Let's make teamwork of't,” said Traycup. “I and you, pangolin, shall go gather radishes. My daughter, voyage hand in hand with the broadsword, there, all the way to the salt mines and pepper mills and come back with a spice that suits a friend-making banquet! And you, bowling shoes—go check on the shotgun.”

“It's been gone like ten seconds!” said the bowling shoes. “Why should I—I mean—uh, yeah, I'll keep a real close eye on it. Don't worry. Just the eyes.”

Now the pangolin shared a glance with the broadsword, who shrugged, and said, “Well, okay then.”

So the pangolin and Traycup went behind the tree, where there was an airport, and began scouring the runway for a Voodoo master who could teach them the most clever knot-tying tricks, but before long they found a small fence named Zeb, and Zeb's friend, Olp, a glass of grape juice, arguing about how to count a circle.

“Inside out!” opined Zeb.

“Outside in!” whined Olp.

“These fellows,” said Traycup to the pangolin, “seem to be in need of a helper. Shall we?”

“Stay out of this!” said Zeb.

“We're onto something big!” said Olp.

The pangolin shrugged. “I think they're a non sequitur.”

Traycup was very troubled to hear this, and gave them each a button. “Get well soon, friends!”

Traycup and the pangolin continued their search of the airport property, and eventually found their way to the baggage claim, but they had enough already, and so moved on to the newsstand, but Traycup had seen a newspaper last time, so that wasn't interesting. Then the pangolin said, “I think I heard a rumor that radishes only grow—over there!” It pointed to a tool shed out where no one could see, and it had no windows, and the door was facing away from the airport, and all the security cameras were turned off, and there was a loud noise—probably the whale from before, singing, like whales do—drowning out any other noise, such as strangulated gurgles or gunshots or really loud stabs, that might be made.

“Seems about right,” said Traycup. “Let's make an investigation of it!” So they went over there, and inside the tool shed, the pangolin sprang its trap, and opened its backpack, and ten lions jumped out and surrounded Traycup, each with a pair of nunchucks, and Traycup counted up all the lions so that he knew there were ten.

“Okay, I just had to free up room in my bag,” said the pangolin. “Now—hop in! You're wanted elsewhere.”

“That seems an oftenhap these days,” said Traycup. “Well, for that, I've to refuse, for I'm already booked hither and thither. If you've got a patience for now, I'll to your elsewhere elsewhen, but, alas! We want for the radishes yet! And the tale of late news!”

“Enough donkeying around!” said the pangolin. “Lions, take seizure—but try not to damage him overmuch!”

Meanwhile, Famous Cram and the broadsword had ventured to the salt mines and the pepper mills. These weren't far from the trees and the gas station, just a few hundred miles, and they got there in no time, since they already knew the way, and they didn't share a word between them for the entire trip—not until they reached the joint entrance of the salt-mine-pepper-mill compound, when the broadsword said, “Well, we're here.”

“Yeah, looks like,” said Cram. “Okay. You go to the salt mine, and I'll check the pepper mill, and we'll meet back here in five.”

The broadsword nodded and they both turned away and went their separate ways, except then the broadsword turned back around and followed Famous Cram, and when Famous Cram found a vending machine and fished in her pockets for a quarter to get some gum, the broadsword threw a bag over her, then threw the bag into a box, and threw the box into a crate, and threw the crate onto a jet that flew away. Then the broadsword broke the vending machine and stole the gum, and ran back to the camp with the gum as evidence of Famous Cram's betrayal, all the while hoping it was guessing the pangolin's plan correctly.

Meanwhile, at the same time, the bowling shoes went to the gas station.

“Hey,” she said to the cashier. “You seen a shotgun?”

“Yeah,” said the cashier. “Went to the bathroom a minute ago. You its friend? If it made off with my key, you're paying for it.”

“Friend? Hell no!” laughed the bowling shoes.

“Oh!” said the cashier. “In that case, go with my blessing, child, and leave no stone unthrown.”

The bowling shoes also bought a greasy taquito from the little rolling thing, although it did little to assuage her ever present hunger, and then she went to the bathroom. Not like, went to the bathroom, I mean, she literally walked over to where the bathroom was. Don't envision weird stuff like that. She's a pair of shoes, anyway. How would she? Well, it's someone's fetish.

She knocked on the door. “Hey, shotgun? You in there? Everything okay?”

The shotgun groaned, as if one in distress.

“'cuz if not, I'm not gonna help you,” said the bowling shoes. “I don't wanna see what's going on in there.”

“Someone robbed me!” said the shotgun. “I'm wounded!”

The bowling shoes weighed the odds of seeing something unfortunate if she went in, then sighed, and opened the door anyway. However, the shotgun had lied like a liar, and wasn't wounded at all, and as soon as the bowling shoes opened the door, the shotgun threw five fish tanks at her, and then said the lyrics to its favorite song—it's licensed music, I can't say it here—and then grew a beansprout in a coffee mug. This was a feisty move, but the bowling shoes were feisty herself, and she opened an art-deco-themed massage parlor, made a fortune in the timber industry, and saw a turtle in the clouds. The shotgun ducked, then squirreled, then Thomson's gazelled, and went for the light switch, but the bowling shoes were too fast—she took a big bite out of the shotgun's trigger.

“You've taken a bite out of my parts!” wailed the shotgun.

“And I'm gonna do worse in a second!” said the bowling shoes. “Buddy, you're delish!”

Already wounded, and against a superior foe, the shotgun had no hope, and was quickly devoured by the bowling shoes, right down to the handle, which the bowling shoes couldn't eat because it was made of wood, but she kept it as a trophy and put it in her pocket with the others.

“Nice appetizer,” said the bowling shoes. “I hope the others didn't fall for it—and that they've put together a real supper at last!”

Now, when “someone” got home, she put her key back with the others, and then went to her desk, but she didn't sit down right away. She looked out the window for a while, out at the yellow sky. It was such a bright and heartless color—just a washed-out, bland hotness, unlike anything you'd ever see in a dream. She had sunglasses, and they were good, but never enough—and one tires from wearing them after a while. She missed home. Well, maybe someday she'd go back. Maybe.

At any rate, she finally sat down, and started to write down some things in a green book, a blue book, and a red book. The red book gave her the most trouble. What to say? In the end she settled for a very simple note, which read: S. #1: normal. No action r/r.

It was a lie but, hey—not like anyone's gonna read it now.