It was too late for Oopertreepia, gone to the other side of the world by now, for if there was one constant of embargoed relativity, it was that after a birthday party Oopertreepia would simply up and vanish, taking everything from its water mains to its blimpports with it—and since Old Missus Lopkit's gone and had one such a party, that was that. There's no fighting embargoed relativity. Oopertreepia was gone, and now lived on only in dreams, which no one'd ever had in a nightless and sleepless world. None could say what it was like, for none alive had ever visited the place, or known someone who had, or overheard someone in a ye olde tavern spinning yarns about it, even. You'd have to make some stuff up, like, mile-high walls made out of diamond and gold, or defensive fortifications of lasers and cannons and a moat full of crocodiles named Greg with two G's, and also there can be spikes. What did they do there? Who was in charge? Did they drive on the left or the right? Well, if it ever came back, we could check.

In the meantime, when the post officers made their way to Oopertreepia—or where it had been—or where they thought it had been—they did their best, bless their little hearts.

Well, enough rambling.

Traycup and Famous Cram went back to the two trees to come to the aid of the bowling shoes, and found it an unnecessary trip, except to be reunote with a friend—for there she was lounging grandly on a griddle of fine cork, picking her teeth with the hilt of the broadsword and the handle of the shotgun, which I just realized is called a stock. I still feel the fool for calling it a “handle” like five chapters ago, but what's done is done.

The bowling shoes belched profusely in greeting. “You guys ready?” she said.

Traycup and Famous Cram nodded and depleted some uranium, and soon they were back on the road, en route to Hoglistwune to find out about the bowling shoes' inheritance. As unvehicled as they were, it would be a sure boon to gain the bucks of the forefathers and make some hasty purchases, probably a lot of necklaces, and hopefully there'd be enough left over for enough onions to cry about. Traycup remembered that he wanted to wonder about where all the fingernails went, but the opportunity had passed them by.

Before the bowling shoes could begin to ask whether they were there yet—so, basically immediately, since she intended to start with that right away—Famous Cram preemptively said, “Be patient—it's still a long way.”

“Long way, you say?” said F. Calvin Hogshead, driving his brand new Studebaker Subsonic Carmobile Mk. IV, as he pulled up to a stop just next to them. The car was tackily made of solid gold, and the wheels were filled with whipped cream and staples, and it had no steering wheel, but was guided by positive emotions to go right, and negative emotions to go left. Also the glove box wouldn't stay closed. “Why don't you kids hop aboard, and I'll take you halfway there?” said F.

The bowling shoes were already aboard the car. “You won't catch me nappin' on the teal!” she chirped.

“Then, it'll be,” said Traycup, climbing into a bowl of oatmeal on the hood.

Famous Cram smirked as she said, “Didn't you ever go to school?” and hopped into the trunk.

F. filled his heart with neutrality and floored it, and they took to the highway, making record time.

Six minutes later, F. shouted, “We're still making record time!” Shouting was necessary due to the volume of the radio—not the loudness, but the physical space it took up, which warped the waveforms of sonic emissions, curving them into sonic omissions, and breaking down the barrier between reality and carpet stores.

Then beside them in an adjacent lane pulled up a parking garage, flying down the highway and kicking gravel into their faces, and the parking garage's movements were easily read as maliceful, and it veered close to the Carmobile, and loomed over them, and it seemed piratical boarding was akin to the horizon. Famous Cram put away her crosswords and grabbed some toothpaste.

“Ho there!” said Broadcast Cream, pilot of the parking garage. “Relinquish your faith, or face cohesion!” Broadcast brandished a half-full water bottle. Meanwhile, in each of the parking garage's many parking spaces was parked a set of scuba gear, and from under each climbed an eel-wielding stenographer.

“Take to the outside,” said Traycup, “and let's not let the song end!” He climbed on top of the Carmobile and chafed at the parking garage, feeling the wind in his elbows.

“Dad!” said Famous Cram. “They're a bunch of punks! Ignore them, they're just looking for attention!” She tied up her toothpaste with a regular-length string, seeing that it wouldn't be necessary.

Broadcast spun the wheel and won a free spin, then spun the steering wheel and the parking garage careened into the Carmobile. It skidded and its tires made a noise like a drowned bat, but F. thought of rainbows and kept them alongside the buccaneers. The parking garage grated against them, the entrance ramp nearby and champing at the bit. They were close enough to trigger the automatic gate—the kiosk spat out a ticket.

F. said, “We can't park here—it's twelve bucks an hour! We're not even going to be here that long!”

“We can cover the costs when I get my money!” said the bowling shoes. “But that's not to be if we let these pinnacles of finance drive us into a semisolid tree!”

“There's an away game playing this afternoon,” said Traycup.

“I said to ignore them,” said Famous Cram, and then she pointed at the off-ramp on the left. “There's a getaway, so get it!”

F. thought about microwavable precooked bacon where it never comes out right if you follow the time suggested on the package, but if you put it in for ten seconds more then the middle of the bacon burns but the edges are still soft fat. This was too much—his woe put the Carmobile into left gear, and it took a hard turn straight off the highway and over the moat. They went into the woods, where bears shit—but the parking garage followed them still.

The bowling shoes climbed to the crow's nest and made fifteen obscene gestures—the kind that don't seem obscene, but TV shows will cleverly censor them by having them happen behind a tree in the foreground, and then you say, “That has to be censored?” and wonder about the growing prudishness of modern society—and then she said “Guess where you can stick your drip! Just wait until tomorrow—it's not a holiday!” She wasn't much use but for goading both sides.

“Failing slight or flight, we're left with fight,” said Famous Cram. She manned the harpoon gun, and fired a hundred harpoons at the parking garage—just the harpoons, not with ropes attached to reel them in, for she wasn't trying to catch them, after all, she just wanted to inflict damage. Wouldn't anyone? But, unfortunately, the stenographers caught and ate all the harpoons, and before long Cram was out of ammo—Crammo, some might call it, but they'd be wrong.

“Oh! Well,” said Traycup, “it's no turtle, but if you come up for air, you wouldn't even know it! Now, what's all this gas made of?”

He hit the deck, and took the bowling shoes and Famous Cram with him, and then F.'s Carmobile crashed into an unseen art installation sponsored by the Tri-city Regional Nursing Association—whose members struggled daily with whether to make their acronym TCRNA or TRNA—and the Carmobile went flying through the air, spinning end over end, spewing parts and cargo with every semi-graceful twirl—but it wasn't all bad news: the parking garage hit the very same art installation, but didn't have the luxury of weighing less than a building, so it had no recourse but to either explode into a million fragments of concrete and scuba equipment, or to take its father-in-law's offer and accept the job at the office, which should prove secure enough, but daily living and working under the ceaseless scrutiny of that jaded old man would wear thin fast and drive the parking garage to carnal acts of violence. It opted for the former. And so as the Carmobile pirouetted—right?—through the air, it was also pelted with a thousand bits of concrete and rebar, but, being solid gold, the Carmobile actually didn't get very good distance, and landed in the mud a little further up.

F., Traycup, the bowling shoes, and Famous Cram all crawled out from under the wreck. They were unwounded, embarrassed, and had gained muddiment. So much muddiment.

“Oh,” said F., “the president's going to be mad.”

“That's half, as foretold,” said Famous Cram. “Well done.”

“We can take the bus from here!” said bowling shoes.

“Rather under than over,” said Traycup, “for there's a light less trouble downstairs!”

As Traycup said, right over there was the entrance to the subway, and it went straight into the heart of Hoglistwune—a perfect solution. They soon boarded and were again off, and each quietly kept themselves amused 'long the ride. The bowling shoes built some pepperoni while thinking about novel puns on the word magi, while Famous Cram read every single ad. F. went with them, because why not? He knew about lemons. In the meantime, Traycup didn't listen to music, but nearby sat three old men welding pottery into a gazebo, softly singing a song about robins.

“H'llo, elders,” said Traycup politely. “How fares th'ride?”

The old men didn't look up at him, but tried to wave him away, but they were all going the same way, what with being on the same subway and all, and when they saw that Traycup wouldn't depart anon, they turned into dreadfully uninteresting books about accounting. This was illegal, and it got them all kicked off, the old men and Traycup and his friends as well, but fortunately they were already at their stop, and it was downtown now.

Hoglistwune was a big city, with a lot of skyscrapers and a byzantine spaghetti network of streets, and half the place was cultural heritage sites, but no one wanted to come be a tourist here because the city smelled like work and caffeine, and overall was too heavy. A confetti-based mountaineer came by to sell them some hats.

“Hats?” said the confetti-based mountaineer. “Hats.”

“They certainly are,” said F. He took note of the pricing chart: twelve bucks an hour, once more. He glanced at Famous Cram.

“What?” said Famous Cram. “I don't want to be more involved than necessary.”

Traycup laughed and clapped her on the ham hock. “Strong words from a strong pourer!”

F. shooed the confetti-based mountaineer, and they set about the final leg of their journey. First they went and found a phone booth so the bowling shoes could call her lawyer and schedule the whole inheritance thing. Second—well, at the same time, but, mentioned second—Traycup and Famous Cram looked at a parade of sham rug-makers, who rode by on magnetic weasels while plying their wares, ignorant of the signs of the times, and while Famous Cram was one-third mesmerized by the weasels' day planners, Traycup looked to and fro and saw a big sugar cube that someone had left in the middle of the street, and some local harpies had come by and dug caves into the sides and laid eggs there, and covered the eggs with bronze shields so no one would sing out of tune, and also he noticed a mailbox.

“Oh, that's new,” said Traycup.

Famous Cram broke her spell and followed his gaze and said, “Everything's new someday.”

“As good as a post office!” Traycup snapped his fingers and kicked his heels, but that's a normal reaction when getting bit by a maintenance beetle. “I'm to've been looking for one! What'll be thought of next?”

“Steak trees,” said F., who thought about steak trees. Far away, its servos still connected to the universal unconscious, the Carmobile's wheels turned to the right.

Traycup went over to the mailbox, and checked in his pockets, because he had that letter to mail for his work, and it had to go all the way to Oopertreepia, and if it could go in the hands of a post officer rather than himself after all, it'd sure free up some of his time and deguilt him as he assisted his daughter's cares. But his pockets were Roby's pockets, because he wore Roby's coat, and as he checked them he found only alluring prizes. Roby's coat had so, so many pockets, so he was there checking them for a long time, and while Famous Cram and F. went over to console the bowling shoes, Traycup checked ninety-nine pockets, and each one had teddy bears, walkie-talkies, strawberry shortcake, and materials akin, and so he was sure of what was in all ninety-nine pockets, but there was one more pocket, the hundredth pocket, which he did not know what it contained, which could only mean one thing—and when he reached into the pocket it opened up and drew him in, and he fell into the pocket bodily, and the pocket fell into the pocket, so there was nothing there and no one knew where he was.

Anyway, I was saying something about Oopertreepia—the place beyond imagination. That seems like a cheat—“It was so indescribable that it was indescribable.” Consider it literally—which means, you can't. Oopertreepia's role is solid, unfortunately. It can't come back.

Mile high walls? No—they were a hundred miles high. Gold, diamonds? Gold is for plebeians. Diamonds are pebbles. Gross trite trinkets overloved. Better used for tools and computers. No—the city's walls were of palladium and painite, they were crystallized neon and raw iolite. It had no gates and it brooked no visitors—surely to the chagrin of the post officers. In the tall palace that faced every direction were the nine warlocks who ruled Oopertreepia now, and gazed always at the sun, and were constantly dancing. Dancing. Everyone was and would always be dancing in Oopertreepia. They danced forever, and never grew tired, but their dances were impoverished, and they moved like they were underwater, with heavy limbs, struggling to breathe, their eyes wide open and staring, their eyes—well, perhaps that's too much. This is Jum Burie's dream, after all.

She didn't know how much she tossed and turned in her sleep but she would wake up soon and wonder what had happened to the pillows and blankets, suspecting some foul play, and never know the truth.