So, the pangolin unpromptedly knocked on the door to Shady's Seedy Bar and Grill, looking around suspiciously, looking suspicious, and all nerves—well, also a lot of bones and muscles, skin, those weird scales pangolins have. Organs. Honestly, nerves made up only a small part of its physical being, but a disproportionate portion of its mental state, which was as unfair as unfair gets, but as there is no justice in any world but this one, this fate and this feeling were inescapable. It was dark today—though, here, the gloom was never-ending, since this town, whatever it was, was situated under a series of giant umbrellas—or maybe mushrooms—I don't know. You'd have to get a ladder to go up there and check. I'm not craning my neck for that.

The pangolin knocked on the door again, growing impatient and older by the second, and soon the time came to put voice to concern to double the entrance-pleading effect. “Hey!” it said. “Anybody home?”

“I'm not,” said a nearby car salesman. “I can't speak for everyone else, though.”

“If you can't,” said the pangolin, “then you're as useful as a flock of fleas in a gourmand's gazebo!” Before anyone else could spot it, the pangolin put the car salesman in a laundry basket and kicked him across the street to a hockey rink, where Johnny Trombonny was trying to reinvent ice welding. Many had tried, few had failed, and Mr. Trombonny was set to become the first to do so without even knowing what a fugue was—but the car salesman would put an end to that. The pangolin watched for too long moments—no, this was hardly the time for reminiscence. It came back and went to the door for another knock just as it opened, or was opened, and Grittle Midge—once one of the world's premier stamplickers, but now fallen on harder times than any gemcutter would ever comply with—was standing there.

“Well, here's a new fiend!” said Midge. “Belittling the everyman, I see! You've come to cross blades, I reckon?”

“Lemme in,” said the pangolin. “I wanna talk to Shady.”

Midge looked one way, then the other, then every other direction. “What's a password?” he said sheepfully. I mean, sheepishly. Sorry.

“Spare me your heuristic ideology!” said the pangolin, and it would've shoved its way inside, but Midge got out of the way so as to prevent any nuanced shoving incidents—he wasn't getting paid enough for this or for anything else.

So this is what Shady's looked like inside now: the main floor was the peak of a frozen mountaintop where there stood a number of igloos, and in each was a family—probably celebrating Junior's graduating from prom or whatever, no one goes to a joint like this on a Tuesday for no reason—and a team of hawks was using precision trebuchets to huck everyone's orders to their tables. An establishment like any other, and equally forgettable. As for the bar area, it was pretty normal—y'know, just a series of jet engines aimed directly at a tire fire, and a bucket of free war paint by the register.

The pangolin weighed its options and went to the bar, and when the 'tender came over to take its order and see if it was made of lead, the pangolin leaned in and sneakily said, “I'm here for—the special.”

In reply, the 'tender leaned in and sneakily said, “And I'm here for—the tips.”

The pangolin nodded knowling—which is like nodding knowingly, expect spelled wrong and I didn't fix—and then slid the 'tender a twenty. Not a particularly good bill, for it was very worn, and torn a little bit, as the pangolin had found it in the laundry basket when it was prepping the basket for the car salesman from earlier—but twenty bucks is twenty bucks, and so the 'tender snagged the bill and disappeared into a back room, emerging seconds earlier with a fine plate of even finer fish 'n' chips.

“Today's special,” said the 'tender. “Only available Fridays. Limited edition, very rare. Os pomme dents!”

“I believe,” said the pangolin, poking sadly at the fish, wondering where it had gone wrong with its life and then, remembering, trying to forget said whereness, “there's been a mistake.”

The 'tender glanced up at a nearby sign. The sign, taking note of the glancement, suddenly stood at attention and cleared its throat. “Ahem!” said the sign. “Attention, ladies and gentlemen! I would like to declare the following: today's special is fish 'n' chips! Please have enjoyed this indisputable factoid!” The sign bowed as the audience cheered and threw roses out the window.

“I mean, I thought it was Tuesday,” said the pangolin. In frustration it cast off the cloying vestiges of the road equally-often taken. “Listen—we're off on the wrong feet. Forget that diatribe—I'm here to talk to Shady. Where is he?”

“Uh,” said the 'tender slowly, “Shady's a corporate mascot. There's no... real to him.”

“That's what you think!” said the pangolin. “He and I go way back—we went through the first draft together! So, I'll say it again, before I come unbalanced—where is he?”

“Sir,” said the 'tender, bending with the wind, “this is a family restaurant—thought the igloos'd be a dead giveaway. I don't know what you're looking for—”

“Fresh henchmen,” said the pangolin. “I've got some bounties to hunt and I'm not planning on going it alone! Nothing more or less will do, and it's my head on a stick if I don't!”

“Oh! Well, we haven't got henches, men, or sticks,” said the 'tender, “so I wouldn't worry about that.” It was time to grab a rag and start wiping down the counter. A little to the side, to show disinterest.

“Not even breadsticks?”

“Breadsticks?” said the 'tender. “Yeah, I can do that.”

“All right,” said the pangolin. The wheels began turning, a plan began forming, and a seagull's cry could be heard over the radio. “One order of breadsticks, then.” The pangolin wrung its hands and grinned, possibly mischievously. Actually—yes, that was definitely a mischievous grin. “I can work with this...”

Now, Famous Cram and F. were hovering around the bowling shoes, who was on the phone in a phone booth in the middle of Hoglistwune—not the exact middle, I mean. Well, “middle” isn't even an exact term, technically speaking. Center is, sure—you don't have to say “exact center,” it's a given that “center” means the precise centerpoint, but “middle?” That just means, y'know, anywhere that's not the edges. It's an area, not a point. That's why mathematics uses “center” and not “middle,” and that even holds true in embargoed relativity. Anyway, this is where they were the last time we saw them, but it's important to reestablish their position, because you know I have no problem jumping around a lot. Or maybe jumping around a lot is the problem, but whatever.

So, at the moment, the bowling shoes were nearly becoming bawling shoes because she had received some upsetting news regarding her inheritance—or rather, potential inheritance, if that's not too much of a giveaway.

“Say that again!?” she exclaimed. She clutched the phone with all of her hands so she could shout directly into it, as necessary.

On the other end of the phone were a team of cloned lawyers. They shuffled their index cards and prepared to say the whole thing again. “Very well!” they said. “For your forgetting, we'll take it from the top! You see, the will, my dear—your dear uncle's legacy—my goodness me! How exciting and exemplary! How fascinating, indeed!”

“Not the whole thing!” said the bowling shoes. “I know he wrote it on the skin of an alive mammoth! We can take that to the museum later—or the butcher's! So just cut to the chase!”

Now, while the bowling shoes chatted, Famous Cram and F. had nothing to do but lean on things and look cool, which they—well... I mean, at least they tried. At least we can say that. But while they were suffering from style, the city folk suddenly decided they all needed to call their stock brokers at once, and since this was the only phone booth in the entire city that wasn't taking the day off to go to the season opener, everyone crowded around it, and when they saw how the bowling shoes was hogging it all to herself, they began chugging impatience juice until they were full of it, donned their stingers, and squared up to square off.

“Uh,” said Famous Cram. “Shoes? You might want to speed this up.”

“I'm trying,” said the bowling shoes.

“So!” said the lawyers, “Now, your uncle—dear, late uncle, well, late as in dead, for his timeliness was adequate on all counts—now, said uncle, childless, poor thing, but wise—his passing would turn the children into orphans, sadly, and then we'd have to call an exterminator—and that's a steep fee!”

“I know what to do with orphans!” said the bowling shoes. “Scene-missing yourselves to the climax!”

In the background, things began to heat up in this fashion: fifty-four of the city folk went and stole a bulldozer, and drove it to the bakery to fill up the scoopy part with danishes, but the bakery just opened, like, half an hour ago, so they'd barely gotten anything made, and couldn't fill the bulldozer all the way up. Should we have to bear this kind of treatment? No, no one should—so, enraged, the fifty-four city folk went to the aquarium, and asked the beluga whale for advice.

“Repent your sins and go forth in misery,” said the beluga whale in Spanish.

Famous Cram eyed the city folk with an intensity normally reserved for judges of canned pecans. “You got any spare Carmobiles?” she said to F.

F. sighed. “Yes, but find me with the critics when it comes to relying on them overmuch,” he said, semaphoring his order to the distro center.

Tensions mounted amongst the city folk as some of them realized some other of them have been pronouncing “nuclear” differently. Not wrong, per se—there's no such thing as wrong when there's no such thing as right. But different was enough, and someone launched some fireworks in celebration of the coming conflict. That was enough to get a lot of roundhouse kicks underway.

“Anyway,” said the lawyers, “your uncle did have a bro—you know who? Why, your very own father! Well, you might not remember him, what with him dying in the war or whatever—but, here's where it gets interesting—your father had but one child! Can you guess who? I'll give you one guess—one guess for one child! That's fairer than some maidens!”

“Skip this chapter, already!” said the bowling shoes.

Ninety-nine of the city folk now went and stole a swing set, and then put it on top of a hill overlooking the phone booth, and they got some cannonballs and prepared to launch them—but it turned out that that didn't work at all, because they confused swing set with slingshot and launchment was impossiblized. There began a heated debate amongst the city folk, and they marched to the possum store to demand a dictionaryist to set things right.

“We just covered whether right and wrong exist,” said the dictionaryist, who disagreed with the result but enjoyed the process.

“It's,” said the lawyers, “and you'd've never guessed this—it's you! Did you know you were born? Why, you were! Why you were remains a mystery, though.” The lawyers went off-mic for a sec and laughed amongst themselves—I think someone brought a dog into the studio? “Well, so, right, therefore, as made plain in the will, the estate should be all yours. House yours, land yours—whatever noble perks come along with it, free parking, cool hat, I don't know. You could probably hunt swans on the king's land, even!”

“I already do!” said the bowling shoes.

“However, there's a—what do you call it—a problem,” said the lawyers.

“Yes, that!” said bowling shoes. “That's what I wanted to talk about! Elaborate on that!”

“I am the problem!” came the voice of Odorless Beige. He shoved the lawyers aside and took over the phone. “Shirechester has already been inherited! It's me, and not you, who is master of that estate!” Odorless cackled in glee and new trousers, and sent away for a triple-bacon burger.

“Like a flamed-up parakeet you are!” said the bowling shoes. “That's my inheritance you're swiping, buddy! I should be a marquess by now!”

Meanwhile, the city folk had numerous factions, and now two were making ready to storm the phone booth. There was the Brotherhood of the Green Square, which thought it was fine to go barefoot outside, fearlessly embracing nature, ringworm and all; and the Handlebar Order, a bunch of ex-baboons that thought hot dogs counted as sandwiches. They formed their platoons in nice, neat rows and eyed one another—not in the way you're thinking—and then dug trenches across Thayer Street and built up all sorts of fortifications, such as pointy sticks, barbed wire, and the wayward feeling of being nostalgic for a time before you were even born. It was shaping up to be an amateur-shorted siege; Famous Cram and F. took the opportunity to polish their brass knuckles.

“You see,” said Odorless, enpiped, “it was the master's dying decree for the will to be skipped, and it was Roby who was made Lady Shirechester at his command, and then it was I who was made co-master by Lady Roby's command, and I, who, after a bloody prison riot, emerged victorious as the sole remaining master of the title! I bested Gandlemas the Boss Butler, I bested Yumpton the Head Housekeeper, and many other unnamed characters!”

“All fair's in love and war!” said the lawyers. “So, you see, my dear—our dears—well, your cookie's somewhat crumbled, we're tragically compelled to say!”

“Are you done yet?” said Famous Cram. She and F. were backed up fully into the booth with the shoes, for the pressing city folk had grown close, and battle was a heartbeat away.

“Hang on,” said the bowling shoes. “Fighting's an option?”

“Welcome to life,” said Odorless.

“Name the time and place!” said the bowling shoes. “I'll be there first and last!”

The lawyers nodded, then, realizing they were on the phone, said, “Dear me! Dear you! Well, I knew we could come to an understanding! So, that's settled. You'll get our bill.”

“I'll give you that,” said Odorless Beige, as he languished in opulence, but not in so many words. “We'll keep it simple, so you can keep up—the time is now. The place is everywhere. I'd wish you good luck, but the fairies that grant wishes are on strike!”

“I don't need luck,” said the bowling shoes. “I'm a living contradiction!” She laughed and threw the phone onto the hook, and then laughed six more times. “Okay,” she said to Famous Cram, “we can go now.”

It was too late, however—the city folk were bent on their battle. One of them had a sword and was named Fortissimo, and he lead the charge just as F.'s replacement Carmobile was airdropped by a pigeon god, landing right in front of Fortissimo with the loudest crash an outgoing leper had ever heard. But, since the Carmobile was made of solid silver, unlike the last one that was made of solid gold, it camouflaged perfectly with the surrounding interpretive art installation, and neither F. nor Famous Cram nor certainly not the bowling shoes ever saw it before five beans stole it, sliced it into thin sheets, and slid them in between their mattresses for—well, it must have been for good luck, since they didn't have that other thing. We could all use a little more luck, but there was none to be had, for a secret technical issue was discovered with their lease which gave them all heart disease, and when the doctor gave them all one year to live, they gave it right back, so the doctor became immortal, without even needing to drink anyone's blood.

“Well, I tried,” said F. “Sorta.”

Fortissimo resumed his charge. The bowling shoes had not completed the transformation into bawling shoes after all—she wouldn't've, anyway, she's not the sort. But instead she turned into brawling shoes, and threw a series of coins in increasing denominations towards Fortissimo, but he dodged them, which is exactly what the brawling shoes wanted, because he dodged right into a tornado that she pulled out of her pocket, and then the tornado whipped Fortissimo into the air, and continued into the trench on Thayer Street, sucking up the trench entirely, restoring the default street, and leaving nothing to prevent the factions of city folk from engaging in face-to-face, head-to-head, toe-to-toe battle with one another, armed mainly with bags of kidneys and unused wire cutters. It would've been a bloody battle if the brawling shoes, Famous Cram, and F. had sticked around—stuck around, sorry... Geez, this chapter has a lot of those—if they had stuck around, but they escampered quickly, for the brawling shoes had to conserve her strength for her coming duel and also begin rigorously training.

It was also around this time that Famous Cram said, “Hey, where'd Dad go?”

Elsewhere but at approximately the same when, Yonilicus, the agate mayor of Hoglistwune, stood upon the emerald dais of mayoral authority—no caps, it's not named that, that's just what it is. It's a dais made of emerald, and it's used authoritatively by the mayor. You'd have one too if you were the mayor, but you're not, now, are you? ...are you? ...well, anyway, Yonilicus also had one made of sapphire and one made of ruby, just because the colors went well together, but never used them. They rented out the sapphire one to three albatrosses who were working on their robot impressions, and the ruby one was just where they kept leftovers.

Yonilicus dwelt at the top of a curve, and knew a secret—that there was a secret to know. But it's frustrating to know when a door's locked. It would've been better to have never learned about doors.

Ultrasymbolic Unitasker strolled in easily just then, and knew a secret or two himself, and he said, “You'll never guess—” and then didn't say anything else, because Yonilicus interrupted him.

“That's right—I won't. And I won't try.” Yonilicus came down from the emerald dais and went over to the ruby one and grabbed some bread and butter. There was no metaphorical meaning to it, they just wanted a snack. “Now—you begin to listen, for something's up, and that's never a good place for something to be.”

“There's news?” said Ultrasymbolic Unitasker.

“There's olds,” said Yonilicus. “Or rather, a new thing that's an old thing! Something stirs in Oopertreepia!”

“Well, that's a funny old place,” said Unitasker. “I'm not surprised.”

“There's a digit missing,” said Yonilicus, as if with grit. “There was a birthday party—this ought to spell the dispersal of Oopertreepia. We should call it gone forever, but guess again! It's returned already—the traffic report's confirmed it. Do you know what this means?”

“No, what?” said Unitasker.

“No 'what!' Know what!” said Yonilicus. “It's a too-strange place, with its wide streets, with its right-handed pastries, with its harpsichordian topiary gardens—if it's got those! No one even knows three things about the place!”

“This is meetingworthy,” said Unitasker. “What are your orders, then? I suppose there's some?”

Now, Unitasker was lying, which is tricky to do when asking a question, but he was a clever detective—still is, in fact, he survives this story—so it was no problem for him to fib without claim. He knew what Yonilicus wanted him to do—and he weighed the value of seeing it done.

“Find out!” said Yonilicus. “Why the city's back so soon!” they continued. I guess that should've been all one sentence, oh well. “It should be out of the question, but instead it is the question.”

“Well,” said Unitasker, “I've got an idea or three—bear with me. So, in your name book—”

These were poorly chosen words. There was thunder and lightning—maybe real, maybe from the projector, but the effect was equally dramatic in either case—and then Yonilicus drew up, all their might and strength rose up at once, and all the clouds gathered so that it became dark as the storm built itself and came into recognition, and Yonilicus's cape began to blow in the wind, and they were cast in profile, and they said, “You need to become illiterate! Names aren't to be known! Those are for the hamburgerians, and not a moment before! Direct your conversation elsewhere!”

Unitasker was moderately flapped, which was a fair price to pay to learn where there be dragons. “All names are already known, so fear that regard not—all names are known to one another, what's more. What shall I do when the time comes for all the written names to be erased?”

Yonilicus carefully packed up the storm and put it on a shelf in the closet—can't have that wearing out, they don't even make parts for it anymore. “Concern for that time occurs when that time occurs. Now's the time for Oopertreepia's secrets to be spilled—and I'll be the saucer to catch the dripping!”

“Well,” said Unitasker, “I see my path clear enough now.” He did not sigh.

“Then begin,” said Yonilicus, “and bring the end to me.”

With that, Unitasker left bodily, and now concocted a new idea. It was a little at odds with the mayor's, but if the mayor was wrong, then Unitasker was disinclined to go down the same path and join them in disaster. This was a part-time gig, after all.

And so, later, alone, he went to make a phone call to a number that wasn't written down anywhere, a number he hadn't called in a long time—but no one picked up. He let it ring and ring—and ring and ring—and nothing further happened.

“A little more interesting than I'd like,” Unitasker muttered to himself. “That number's usually manned—or rather, foxed.”