Traycup went to a quietish little town out past the hills, where it was sunny and dustful and they had a lot of cemetaries—for shoot-out-having—and said, “Well! Here's a fine little place to take it from th' top!” But already problems were made, for his voice was, to the town, akin to the AMBER alert signal, and they would be untrucked when it came to doing the right thing on a Saturday as dishandled as this—and also because they were in a library where it's not customarily allowed to make a statement using an exclamation point, even ironically, especially sardonically, and never, ever, without written permission from a mermaid—so the town shushed him. However, it was equally ill-advised to verb onomatopoeia, and so both were at fault, and would have to pay half a gas apiece. The town only had singles, and Traycup have no value to hisself, so the town grudgmentally paid both their shares and vowed to never cross paths again, and so Traycup took the vantage of the library and went upstairs to the picture-book section, to see if they had a book with pictures of firetrucks, and they did, so he was relieved.

The librarian, the peak of a mighty mountain perched on a hundred squeaky wheels, came over to him and whispered, “So, you're a feller—that's good, that's good. We could use one.”

“That's not my way, but mine's any!” cheered Traycup, to the further consternation of the quietish little town, which felt they didn't deserve this kind of disrespect, but they kinda had it coming at this point, since they were supposed to never cross paths again. “I've an ear and a moment, but don't call it a pledge! Lead'n for the sec, if you'd.”

Now, the librarian was named Vincent Massive, and he'd never eaten a bug or a three-foot strip of tree bark, and he relocated their conversation to a square-dancing competition by the highway—suspending issues with the town's sensitive hearage—and said, “So, listen, if you want—we've need of a man in need, the reason being: since yore there's been quite a stink coming from out back, and we remember no king, so we're as an ape without a locker!”

“It's a plight,” said Traycup thoughtfully, and plight indeed it was, but not the one stated. “Alas, I'm for everywhere else! My friends are both needful—so's t'be 'sumed—and as every elsewhere as it gets! And the getting is good, if you get me!” Traycup had enough of a plateful already—he was for Nesodi Iveent, where the left-behind Roby assuredly remained T-posed and wearing the swapped coat, letter still enpocketed and awaiting sendment. This was an important ordeal. This was his job! And a job's for doing, that's for sure.

Nearby, a palm tree grew up, but kept living with its parents. The palm's parents enfumed and stood up at the palm, chanting curses and unhappy spells, waving dissimilar banners, and engulfing whole oats, one at a time—but the palm could see the factory where they bought gold, could see the big cooling towers ordering french fries—or, “frenched fries”—and could see the big truck with no wheels completely shirking their work in the shade of a broken vending machine. The palm had patience in spades, courage at heart, but it left its diamonds at the club, sorry. And so while its parents made too many sounds, it countered with none, and waited.

Noting this, Traycup said to Vincent Massive, “Good wheely one, the palm's got the schedule—I've the need of an expert! A sender true—one with a paper brain and no staleness 'pon its head, to get me enrailed with more properness!”

“Here?” said Vincent Massive. “We've nothing of the sort! For such a thing you'd want for the post office.”

“I'm beyond that,” said Traycup, “and besides it, with myself, but too alone!”

“Then concoct a plan!” said Vincent Massive, growing with such anger that he threatened to pop his top. The shutterbugs flocked and groaned and pretended not to see.

And so Traycup concocted a plan. He clumb atop a certain number of inattentive barrels and shouted about the chemical composement of a lemon—not lemons in general, but a specific lemon in particular. This lemon was misusual sort, and while it had the normal amounts of selenium, germanium, and astatine, it hid a secret, third heart, one made entirely of despoken wishes, and as Traycup announced this, and seven basketballers figured out how to cook an egg decently, the lemon stepped forth from the crowd. It begged and pleaded with Traycup to keep its secret secret, and Traycup reassured the slovenly beast that the secret was safe, and moreover, he hired the lemon to operate a skywriting business for its birthday. It took seven months for them to get their first customer, and then another seven years to get their first plane, but finally they clomb skyward to write the message: “WIGMAN FREE.” It was supposed to say “wingman,” but, oh well. Only the second letter was important, as you well know. The message was clear, and within ten centuries, the bell on the door chimed for the first time.

The lemon lazily looked up from its newspaper. “Trake,” it said. “Someone's at the here!”

“It's known,” said Traycup, who was already igniting a microscope.

It was Markerel Squarte who came in. She was malice and wrath. She was hate and pain. She was hidden blades—and obvious ones. Of course, Traycup had no idea who she was, beyond a customer, which she wasn't, but he missed every point. She stood in the left-open door and went, “Seems I'm at the right place. Ain't it so?”

“It's a place,” said Traycup, “that's right, or so.” He abandoned his pottery wheel and took to the helm, so as to general-managerially greet the customer, and in passing, saying, “Now, lemon, see how the plan's unfolded! By the aerial lettering we've summoned a sender—a real professional is my bet! We'll soon be looking at the bottom!” Then he served smiles to Markerel, which she presumably received.

“If it's a sender, I'm a lender!” said the lemon with some degree of unlikelihood. “Though I've never known either, so who's to judge but the Reaper? I is who! So, there'll be an examination!”

“A test?” went Markerel. “Oh, I do hate such games. Do you want me, or not? I can just as well leave. Perhaps I've got the wrong place, after all.” She gazed about without interest or haste, which was just as well, for there was little interesting in the barn—except for the particle accelerator—and little hasty, as well—except, again, the particle accelerator. No, she surely had the right place. She did not make mistakes.

“Dispense with the test!” said Traycup. “She's a true sender, for sure. Now, good gal, let's be delayless. What's the first lesson in sendage? Ah—I'ven't the sample message, alas. Perhaps demonstrate with this bison hide?”

Markerel went, “You're Traycup Lopkit, aren't you?”

“Ah!” said Traycup. “I ruded. Gal, forgive me. I'm. You're?”

“You don't need to know my name,” went Markerel. She was not looking at Traycup. He posed no threat. Only the lemon was around, and it, too, posed no threat.

“Now, now,” chuckled Traycup, “it's a good friend-starter to share some names! Don't be shy, though I can say that. I hastened to the teaching!” Now he lit the lights. “So! A teacher's 'Teacher,' how's that for enough? I'll call it.” He glanced at the lemon.

“Sending's for you,” said the lemon. “I'm just waiting for the propeller guy to call back with his estimate.”

Markerel stepped forward and went, “You're coming with me.”

Traycup said, “Well, that's too soon! I'ven't eaten a thing.”

Markerel smiled, which was not nice.

Traycup smiled nicely.

The phone began to ring.

Then Markerel screamed the sound of ships colliding, too loud and too long, and threw apart her clothing and covers, and drew forth ninety-nine knives, and came over Traycup with the knives, a threat, and in one hand she held a chain, and lashed the chain about Traycup and bore him to the floor with the might of her weight, and stuck the knives all over everywhere so that Traycup could hardly move, but he was not hurt, because wouldn't Ausdrom be so upset if his precious guest was harmed? No, Traycup wasn't hurt. No, not yet.

“Now, this is more tricky than sticky!” said Traycup.

“Shut up,” went Markerel.

“A snug chain, a little pain—what an interesting game!” said Traycup. “Ah—I Robied.”

“I said shut up,” went Markerel.

Now, the chain wrapped around Traycup grew three percent more bored than a Turing test and turned into suspenders and fell apart, because they were quite cheaply made, and came five for a dollar—or at least those were the prices you could get in the fifties, but things were different nowadays, so they say—but they always say that, and who's seen suspenders sold or used much in the last month or so? Only Bladed Jackpammer, and he was still busy at the movie theater, trying to implement the world's first halibut-based projection system. Now, he would be at it for another year or two, but we can spoil the ending for you now: he never does figure it out, but it's okay, because it was just a coping mechanism for getting over a bad, heart-busting breakup, and by the time he's given up on the halibut thing, he's forgotten all about the man, and moved quite on. Later he sees a viceroy, so things turn out okay for good ol' Bladey Jack.

“You want to fight back?” went Markerel. “Fine. But you're coming with me, in pieces if I have to!”

“A more daring course,” said Traycup, “than expected! Now, let's try again with that quill!”

“Shut! Up!” went Markerel.

Now Markerel shrieked a howling wind and cast off her restraints and took out ten guns and fired them all instantly, aiming true at Traycup, all the bullets firing with bangs and booms, and she had no tinge of joy on her face, for this was an impersonal and unvisceral method of murder, unsatisfying, and infuriatingly necessary.

“Say!” Traycup sayed. “What is the blue thing?”

Traycup bent down and peered at floor-based objects while the bullets whizzed over his head, and, confused by their inability to strike their target, scheduled a meeting for first thing tomorrow morning, and when morning came only half the bullets were on time, two came late with coffee, three called out—they had to take their kids to school—and one got the wrong address. No one brought donuts, but they were all looking forward to donuts. A morning meeting without donuts? The copier starting spewing resumes.

Now, as for Traycup, there on the floor he found an arena where they still catered to the silent film industry, and Pill Width was working on a piano—the work was unfathomable, but it involved more than three barnacles, a tightrope act, and five brand new smells introduced by the food stamp industry. Pill invote Traycup to get involved, cheerful and more than happy to introduce a novice to the art. Traycup, for his part, was far to unrude to refuse, and so partook in the pianoing, and while he did not find it a very joyful hobby, the glee was plain on Pill's face, and Traycup counted it unthinkable to smear that. They parted after a week of camaraderie and exchanged PO boxes so pen-palling could begin—yet another reason Traycup would have to learn sending someday sooner than later.

“Alas, my tale compounds,” said Traycup sadly.

Markerel said nothing.

“Say—this's some sort of fun, but,” said Traycup, “it's not quite attached to sending, is't?”

Markerel said nothing. Her eyes darkened.

“I'm—” said Traycup.

Markerel moaned with the sound of old mountains, the endless depth of the Earth, and came to become a thing of bitterness and thorns, and she took her ten guns, and she took her hundred knives, and she took the lemon, plucking it from its seat and leaving its newspaper behind, and degraded it with all her weapons, and on her face was a shadow, and she put twelve chains around Traycup, and bound him tightly, and threw him to the floor at last.

“Do nothing,” went Markerel in the lowest voice, “or suffer forever.”

And the walls of the barn fell down, and clouds spun about the whole farm, and darkness fell and the land rose, and the whole farm was lifted as well, and lightning came, and the storm came, and there would be fire soon. Markerel found one thousand spears and stabbed them in every direction, and they became cursed spears, and became made of blood, and sought their own, and Markerel took them and trained them on Traycup.

So Traycup said, “Seer's sweet treat, comic's prop from the time of two colors, desiring snake-eyed spitters! A good lady—good indeed!—weaves like so, likely joyous! Zero surely—ivy coils up the clock tower, O educator!”

Suddenly, while whales were beginning a fresh cribbage match, someone—not naming names this time—invented a transparent steak and locked it outside in the rain—obviously a pretty careless mistake, but this was always happening to the stenographer. Often enough that it was starting to seem suspicious. Was this just his way to let the air out of the crockpot? No one'd notice if it were painted blue—red was a shoe-in, though, and no one wanted to go down that path again. The stenographer's wife had had enough. She called the taxidermist. It was the end of the armchair, and there was no going back.

Meanwhile, the pot pies were—ah! My mistake. No, they weren't. Well, that's what they said at the trivium, but could you believe those guys, just like that? Maybe the real question is, why would you doubt them? There have always been sinners, and it's not up to you to tell them apart. Oh! Wait—this is my favorite song for now. It's too bad it's untellable; it'd be nice to find it again later, but music only happens once, as the bus passes, all the caricatures pasted to the outside like smoke signals, or—more likely—mashed potatoes. Real ones, I mean. And then the twelve chains turned into snakes—unemployed snakes, at that. They went to the soup kitchen, but the soup kitchen only distributed signed first edition copies of Love in the Time of the Copacabana, and so the snakes were out of luck in their job hunt.

“Job hunt?” said the snakes. “Again? Screw that! We were born to sing! And a one, and a two—”

The snakes began to sing a holy hymn, and thirty-eight angels showed up to listen, sunglassed so no one'd know who they were, but their flaming swords and flaming halos burned hot and bright, and the whole farm burst into flame—told you—and also song, because everyone was moved by the snakes' grand performance, but the fire consumed everything—the barn, the farm, the snakes, and the risen land. The angels snuck off before anyone noticed, Traycup had taken cover under the pencil remover, and Markerel wasn't afraid of fire.

“Some game!” said Traycup. “I make it a draw. How's for a rematch?”

“No,” went Markerel. She was teeth and fangs and claws.

“Ah,” said Traycup sadly. “That's a shame.”

Then Markerel cut off Traycup's head with a chainsaw, put it in a jar, and left with it.

And then everything finally got quiet.

Long afterwards, when the quiet was old enough to run for office, the lemon climbed from its hiding place, answered the phone at last, and said, “Hello?”