There was a portion of debris around—well, maybe a little more than a “portion.” Maybe a portion that you felt was reasonable, but the package goes and says the serving size is two cookies, and it's like, c'mon, two? Who's going to eat just two? You can't have a beginning and an end, that's just not how it works. You need a beginning, a middle, and then an end. That's Writing 101—and also Cookies 101, assuming the two are interchangeable. What's written on one hand can be read by the other. This is how poetry—and baking—are supposed to work.

At a rate, the amplity of debris suited the lemon just fine, since it was scrounging and would take what it could get, and the more made all the merrier. The debris was all quantity and little quality, and made for a slimmed picket, but it—the lemon, I mean, not any kind of quaint, rustic chimney—found some wires here and there, and those were the target of its search, for the lemon was attempting to hook up a bike to Traycup's body and try to regenerate it, rejuvenate it, or replicate it—whichever showed up on timest.

In a little clear spot amongst all the wreckage and ruin in what used to be a town or a farm or a library or something—I don't remember, that chapter was pretty confusing—the lemon had wired a bike to four hundred batteries, and the batteries in turn wired to every cell in Traycup's body—except the ones in his head, of course, because Markerel had swiped that crucial segment. The plan was simple: by utilizing the bike as a generator, the lemon would resonate the electrical charge in the batteries and interchange its polarity so that it flowed it into Traycup's cytocyclical A-proteins and—well, this is a pretty common survival technique, I'm sure you're familiar with it. The lemon had been in Scouts, same as us. There was a slight snag, however.

“Ah,” said the bike. “Seems I've a problem of the legless sort. For that matter, I've not arms! How've I gathered all the wires and such in the first place?”

“'Said the bike?'” said the lemon. “Excuse you, that's supposed to be my line.”

“Sorry,” said the bike, “I'm a typo.”

“Well, you're here now,” said the lemon, “so we're stuck with you. But the point remains as you've stated: without arms and legs, I've no means to power your powering of the body-linked batteries!”

“Suits me aplenty,” said the bike. “I'm not eager to have my saddle straddled.”

“Now, hang on,” said the lemon. “You've got a job to do, so let's get it done! Dinner approaches, and we'll want to set places for three.”

“A job?” said the bike. “Well then, where's my 401(k)? Where's my reserved parking? Moreover, this wireman's no friend to me. Where's it in the contract that I'm to do the deed?”

The lemon and the bike were getting off on the wrong foot—or, well... you know what I mean. Anyway, in order to make amends and find out which one should be team lead and which one should play fifty-two pickup, they erected parallel cafes smack in the middle of the downtown lumberjacking district, and decided to hold a contest thusly: whichsoever of them got more customers in the next fifty-five hours and fifty-five minutes would be declared the victor. Though they knew little about mercantile opportunities, less about coffee-making, and exactly where the centipede went, the contest began with tremendous fanfare, and almost one person came to witness the eventives. However, obviously, the way this gag works is that fifty-five hours and fifty-five minutes later, they both had got the same number of customers: none whatsoever. Also, they had not handed out flyers.

“Do you now see,” said the lemon, “that advertisement is the boon of commerce?”

“Nonsense!” said the bike. “Word of mouth will carry the message of my product's value! It just takes time to establish a foothold in the market!”

“With what feet?” cried the lemon. “We've been over this!”

“Additional nonsense!” said the bike. “I won't stoop to the whims of capitalism! Now, peel your peepers at this!”

With that, the bike deployed a fleet of antique trebuchets, each loaded with a trial-sized anvil, and launched them at the lemon, but not one of them hit their mark—three did—and so the lemon was knocked down, knocked out, and knocked up. The bike quickly ordered a pizza and drove the lemon to the hospital to have the baby, and Dr. Three Dog Tussle III delivered it, and named the baby lemon Squeezy, after the country. They took some fine photos of Squeezy's first moments—the lemon by now having recovered fully—however their joy was as short-lived as scissors, for the medical bills for Squeezy's birth were in the high billions, and the lemon and the bike weren't willing to part with their cafe earnings, and so they sold Squeezy to some pool hustlers with questionable taste—wood paneling, in this day and age?—and the hustlers put Squeezy to work in a diamond mine, where Squeezy found so many diamonds that they bought the whole mine themself, then fired the hustlers, closed the mine, and set to reburying all the diamonds so the pumas would have something to do on Christmas.

And so it came to pass that Squeezy was wandering the savanna one day with their diamond-smelling device—an overexperienced dog named Trojan—and Trojan said, “Hey, I smell some diamonds.”

“All the diamonds gotta be buried,” sighed Squeezy. “People don't listen! Christmas is right around the corner, and I want to be ready this time!”

There was a beautiful lady walking around, and Trojan ran up to her. Squeezy followed him. She stopped when Trojan came up to sniff her.

“Pardon his doggishness,” said Squeezy. “They think with their noses. It can't be helped.”

“I'm aware of dogs,” said the beautiful lady, who was Jum Burie.

“It's her,” said Trojan giddily, tail all a-wag.

“Lady,” said Squeezy, “you got some diamonds? They gotta get buried. All the diamonds.”

“I don't have any diamonds,” said Jum Burie.

“She's gotta have a diamond brain,” said Trojan with a wink, knowing nothing. “Them's are clever. You gotta outwit 'em. Leave this to me.”

“You're sure?” said Squeezy.

“Pal, I'm the whole beach,” said Trojan.

Trojan went to work, and set up a table and put three cards on it—the aces of hearts, clubs, and spades. He overturned them and shifted them all about, so fast and so subtly that no one could tell which one was which, the cards here and then there—or were they?—and their order was lost in the haze of shufflage. The fingers of his paws moved like art. No one had enough eyes to watch the whole show. He finished, and held out his hands o'er the three cards as if presenting his masterpiece—which, in fact, he was.

Jum Burie watched the act dully. “And I suppose I'm meant to find a diamond in this puzzle?” she said.

“I think you know what you're looking for,” said Trojan, grinning.

Jum Burie shook her head, for she was not impressed by the game. “If you're aiming to fluster me, you missed the mark,” she said.

“I'm looking right at 'er,” said Trojan. “Check your pockets. The ace? Deuce? You've got diamonds in spades, baby.”

“No,” said Jum Burie. “Just this.” Then from her pocket she took out a flask and tossed it to Trojan, but the flask was empty. Trojan peered inside and then gave it to Squeezy, who also peered inside. There was not a drop of any iced tea, nor a single flake of diamond dust to be found within.

“Told you them's was clever,” said Trojan, snickering.

“Diamonds gotta be in the ground,” said Squeezy, consternated. They put their hands in their pockets and looked at their shoes. “It's for the pumas. It's for Christmas. It's—it's the rules, y'see.”

“Is that a fact?” said Jum Burie. She looked around at things. She wasn't really married to the idea of paying the lemon and the dog any attention. “I'm not concerned about rules anymore,” she said without concentration. “Now, if we're done here.”

Jum Burie went to walk away and she saw in the distance the downtown lumberjacking district, where there were two shoddy-looking cafes across the street from one another, and she decided she was tired and wanted to go rest and have something to drink, and so ignoring Squeezy and Trojan, she went over to the cafes, with half a mind for some tea and another half for some more tea. The bike and the lemon each saw her approach, slapped upon themselves aprons of the finest sort, sort of, and sorted their assortments of blends and roasts.

Jum Burie stood in the street. To her left was the lemon's cafe, to her right was the bike's cafe. In accordance with discordance with rules, she at first went to the lemon's cafe, and ordered tea, and the lemon began to prepare her tea—and then declared victory, for she was the first customer, and now, by a score of one to nothing, the lemon had defeated the bike!

“Not so fast!” said the bike. “First, you've over the timer. Second, you haven't even served her! And third—”

The bike guessed her intent right, for before the lemon had her tea ready, Jum Burie had gone to the bike's cafe and ordered tea there as well, since she wasn't doing anything else at the moment except waiting for tea. The bike had a microwave, and so it made her tea faster, as the lemon was still waiting for the tea seeds to sprout. Tea plants grow from seeds, right? They must, all plants do. Right?

In short order—get it?—the faster service of the bike met the earlier order of the lemon, and both cups were served to Jum Burie in the same instant, one on her left and one on her right, and she took both cups simultaneously with some hands and poured them each into a mouth at once, and so drank a tie that left the contest still undecided, even though it had long since concluded, and Jum Burie didn't feel like having any more tea, and so overtime, if it was even allowed, remained even regardless.

“Thank you,” said Jum Burie politely. She paid them both and tipped them equally.

Around now, Squeezy and Trojan came by, too. Squeezy had gotten over the bit about the pumas' Christmas, and they were about to pack the proverbial “it” up and go home. “First parent, second parent,” said Squeezy, addressing their parents formally, “it's late. We'll need three suppers to call it a day. Someone's gotta get started defrosting the Pop-Tarts.”

The lemon and the bike locked eyes.

“Three?” said the lemon. “That's perfect!”

“That's perfect!” said the bike. “It's a number as odd as a stop sign. She can't split the decision on that!”

Jum Burie looked around at everyone and knew where this was going.

“Three paired dinners,” said the lemon. “Judge each match—and make it binary! No ties, no technicalities! Best of three, and it's settled!”

“More games?” said Jum Burie. It must be genetic. Jum Burie knew not the goal of this contest, and still less why she had been crowned the electorate, and said, “What prize are you dueling for, that demands such a drawn-out ordeal?”

“I don't remember, but it doesn't matter,” said the lemon. “Winning matters.”

“To you,” said Jum Burie. “What's in it for me?”

“Free food,” said the bike. “Can't say no to that.”

“I can,” said Jum Burie.

Jum Burie could do anything, and always could have, but never had known the full breadth of this meaning, for only now did she dwell in a life unbound, and was unaccustomed to the dischained freeness that came with being. Choice was still novel. The knowledge of Tuberlone swirled within her mind, lost and alone. Perhaps she'd have an answer someday. Perhaps that day was today. Perhaps she could choose.

Jum Burie could do anything.

“I accept,” said Jum Burie, to the hurrahs of the bike and the lemon. “Show the way.”

When they arrived back home—the massive debris pile with the batteries and wires and newsstands—did I mention the newsstands? Yeah, there were some automatically-updating newsstands in each corner of each room that everyone ignored as much as possible. Anyway, when they got back home, Jum Burie saw the body of Traycup, hooked up to every wire and battery, and she recognized him at once, despite the facial head portion being unattached, and wondered whether this was part of the latest playable game.

“I know him,” said Jum Burie, slightly surprised. Well—surprised a normal amount, but unshowing it very much. You know how she can be with the feelings and all.

“From school?” said the bike.

“No,” said Jum Burie. She narrowed her eyes, examining Traycup carefully. “His head appears to be missing.”

“Some gal took it,” said the lemon. “I'm trying to get the body running.”

“I'm trying to get the body running,” said the bike.

“I'm trying to get you to get the body running,” said the lemon. “But I haven't got the legs to pedal you.”

“You've had all this time to do something about that,” said the bike.

“Well!” said the lemon. “Time! It's well past spent moving mountains getting him back in one piece! After the explosions, cannibal attacks, laser vampires, and late night TV, it's a miracle I was able to get all his limbs back at all, and now look! Crocheted together, almost good as new!”

“How'd you sew without arms?” said the bike.

“I said it was crochet,” said the lemon.

Squeezy glanced at Jum Burie. Jum Burie pretended not to notice.

“For Christmas?” said Squeezy.

Jum Burie rolled all of her eyes. “I'm somewhat disinclined to restore him to health. He was my opponent for a time.” She thought that one over for a moment. “He was my employers' opponent.” She thought that one over for a moment. “My former employers.”

“'The enemy of my enemy,'” said Trojan with a sly grin.

Jum Burie wasn't bound to the Endestallians' orders now—but part of her was beginning to speak up in the voice of something entirely new to her. Amazement? No, subtler. Confusion? No, less weak. Curiosity? Well—that'd do. If she allowed herself questions, she had some for Traycup. Did Traycup ever even realize the significance of what he saw? Did he comprehend it? He wrote it down. She wondered just what he wrote. How his weird marble mind would've explained—that, to itself. And—she wondered if he knew what he could do to her.

Jum Burie didn't sigh, and climbed onto the bike, and put two feet on the pedals, one on each, and began to pedal with all her might, which, needless to say, means the batteries were so fully powered that they all exploded into infinite activity instantly, and all the energy that went into Traycup's body jolted him not only to life but to immortality, and his body rose up, gleaming with immense strength, and began to jump up and down, and clap, and feel around for where its head was supposed to be, but, finding nothing, gave everyone the middle finger, tried to run away, and tripped over a newsstand.

“Ow!” said the newsstand.

“He's incomplete,” said Jum Burie, untangling the headless Traycup from the stuff he'd tripped over and, at the same time, keeping him well in hand, so as to prevent a repeat.

“As previously noted,” said the lemon, “his head got took by a gal.”

“I have some questions for him,” said Jum Burie.

“Well,” said the lemon, “his hearing holes and talking holes were unfortunately attached to the head.”

“Quite the conundrum,” said the bike, who'd never said “conundrum” aloud before.

“Diamond Babe here can get it back,” said Trojan, winking at Jum Burie, as Squeezy petted him.

“What?” said the lemon with angst. “Don't even think it! You don't know this gal! She's a real firebrand. She's too hot to handle. She's as hellish a beast as they come! And no sense of humor.”

“So we have something in common,” said Jum Burie. “Nevertheless, I'll get what I want. Do you know where she went?”

“You really intend to challenge her?” said the lemon.

“It won't be a challenge,” said Jum Burie.

The lemon eyed Jum Burie with care and concern. “Well—if you say so. We can put Trojan on her scent.” Trojan nodded eagerly, already ready to begin the chase.

“Hold on,” said the bike. “I ain't walking for a whole manhunt, and we're fully carless. Anyone know how to hitchhike?”

Her keys jingled in her pockets.

So, her efforts had born fruit, and brought forth Jum Burie and Endestallia, and all at once, she knew everything about them both. Well, almost everything. Everything would be cheating—moreso. But she'd done her job, so fair's fair—and yet, she couldn't bring herself to say that she was done. What roads end but the worst ones? So, she'd dig down to the bedrock, and uncover the next secret. And then maybe through the bedrock, all the way down to—but in the hollow Earth, there was but one bubble of sunned air and living water, and beyond it the infinite solidity of soil and stone. There'd be no end to the digging.

What she was interested in now was what Jum Burie's brain was made out of. Obsidian was the going theory, but it could also be something more obscure, more unusual—or perhaps not, and she was cheating, too. There was certainly something very special about Jum Burie. She had to pat herself on the back for that one.

“She is very beautiful,” she said to herself, and no one else in the entire world, not even a ghost, heard her.