A

Hoglistwune, bucking trends as it was always wont to do, named its main street First Street so that the loneliest number could at last get some love, or at least attention—which is nearly as good to one who's got neither—and it was there that the mushrooms started growing—potatoes, mostly—and, though it was in defiance to the local and national aeronautics code, this was widely regarded as a false religion by the expert analysts, and so the mushrooms taught the potatoes long division, how to fly, and a lesson they'd never forget, making for the longest afternoon the stevedores could remember—and they could remember plenty.

“Wait,” said the potatoes, “go back a bit. What was that first one again?”

“Not the one you're meant to not forget,” said the mushrooms, “so forget it!”

Now, neither the mushrooms nor the potatoes knew enough about a duck—and I mean a specific duck, but I don't know much about him either, so never mind, I guess—and so, singing an obscure song that was only in the top forty for ten or fifteen centuries, they wove a pair of socks from an old burlap sack, a new silver platter, and a wireless microphone named Karlo. They placed third, but no one knew where, and never would.

“Hold the phone!” said Coble the Faitted. “The micro-phone, that is! You say it's wireless? Then, how'm I to snag it and sell it as copper scrap for a nickel and a dime bag?” He put all of his hands into some of his pockets and pulled out a tumbleweed, but the laundress saw him, threw some pencils at him, and shouted about half-remembered recipes from the back of unseemly see-through seaweed catalogs. This was her last act. Coble the Faitted moved out of the trailer later that second.

The mushrooms and potatoes exchanged a glance.

“See?” said the matron of the morgue. “It's nice to share.”

Thus did First Street fall.

Now, as for First Avenue—and there is a difference, and people need to start respecting it—that was where Freedo, Alleviated, set up shop distributing used pachinko balls. Not for free, mind. Each cost an arm and a leg, and Horatio J. Buckets and Pindtombs were around to do the sawing, although, sawless, they'd set themselves up for a real struggle—one that, presumably, built character, and so they embraced it gladly. They got few customers until they marked down the mark-up and announced that the, ahem, “reduced” price was only an arm and a leg, and so, unable to pass up a deal—for everyone's ultimately a sucker, what with that highly exploitable human nature we all have—people lined up for miles, only to happy to receive... what was this all about?

“Balls,” said Sildom Late, the last one in line. “We're getting our very own pachinko balls! With luck, it will happen again.” Sildom glanced about, await.

Now, no one could resist such a baited line as that, and Ventrom Nuftem was certainly no one. Turning all the way partly around, he said, “What? What's going to happen again? Again? You're implying time's continuity? That's as unfair as it gets! I'll sit for this! Cops! Cops! Oh, send a cop to kill this scum-themed crim!”

Ventrom broke down into tears and gears while seven police cars drove up, piled into a Stonehenge, and the cops decarred, lying in a row in the shadow of a telephone pole, and waited for blackjack to be reinvented while wondering why songs don't have sequels. “Inadequate funding,” the cops said. “Inadequate funding. Inadequate funding. Inadequate funding . . . ” Tough Bustomer, nearly nearby, wondered allowed whether the cops were answering the song-sequel quandary, or merely crying their old cry again, as they always do twice a day at the stroke of noon—and once more at noon, just for good measure.

Right after the movies were banned, soccer was born, and some penguins came to play, wisely forgetting their snorkels and leaving the living room at large—wood paneling, if you can believe it, disregarded entirely—and though they brought a requisite number of mother-of-pearl easels so as to appease the manticore, their petition was brusquely denied. It was a civilization-ending blow to their sad people. The penguins signed off for the last time, packed their suitcassae, and leapt aboard a lonely radish. This, all because they forgot to dot their tea and cross their eyes. Could there be redemption for penguindom? ...wait, hang on—didn't I use penguins, like, one or two chapters ago? Then, never mind them. They were jellyfish instead. Spineless, spineless jellyfish, and all soon eaten by the assessor.

A duck arrove. He had the wrong address.

Thus did First Avenue fall.

Meanwhile to all of the above, there was a new fancy restaurant opening soon, and ninety-nine people lined up for it. Seeing themselves in a situation of great similarity—to one another, of course, not the heinously byejilled passengers from chapter eight—they named themselves the Ninety-Nine Barons, formed a coalition, and bought thick shag carpeting for the bathroom. Yes, yes, I know—the foolish woes of fashion and style are laughable now, but fear not—time will make mock of us all someday. Our obviously-out-of-touch parents were never cool, but we, we have the right idea—alas that our own children have gone so far off track! And speaking of going off-track, the Ninety-Nine Barons clumb aboard a passing trolley car, picked their noses, and said, “Let go of the mittens, if you don't know how to please! Now, all the copies!”

This was restive to the pianists, who hadn't had a break until January, and, though they still had a lot of green paint to spare, it was nearly time for the fireworks. They pitched their lawn chairs and awaited the first of the booms, and readied their oohs and aahs, but, when the boom burst, it was a bust, and they, unimpressed, wondered whether it was even worth exerting any effort for sonic ejaculations, and, deciding after a six-hour debate that neither ooh nor aah was warranted, decamped homeward, leaving their lawn chairs enplaced, so as to eternally mark the site of their disappointment.

Three divers found the rest of the apples. In a fourteenth-floor office building, Billy M. C. McBilliarson opened his wallet and a sad moth flew out, having been long imprisoned and missing his wife and infant son dearly, but it had been imprisoned for so long that said wife had grown old, died, and remarried—not necessarily in that order, but please note that it hasn't been ruled out. The moth's son, however, went on to host a reality show where he went to struggling businesses and told them what they were doing wrong—then bought them up, thrust the employees into slavery, and reaped the profits, until all the cash in the world was in one big pile, the moth sat atop, ruthless, unloved, ignored, and then later the sun came out and shone its glorious rays upon the world, and the moth, enraptured by the shining wonder, floated up toward the sun, its light growing brighter, its heat growing hotter, climbing ever higher and higher until—

Poof.

Thus did Hoglistwune fall.

And then there was Hoglistwune's mayor, Yonilicus, throwing a suitcase into the gondola carried by the parachuting buffalo. Odorless Beige, not to be outdone, threw two. Ultrasymbolic Unitasker threw no suitcassae. He was enraptured in paying no attention to events, unrushing to depart the city, despite its explicitly stated doom.

“Well?” said Yonilicus, without a trace of patience. “Where's yours?”

“'My?'” said Unitasker.

“Your luggage! Collect it,” said Yonilicus, “for we take flight momentarily!”

Unitasker hesitated, athought. “It's on the way.”

“Well, put it on a faster way!” snapped Yonilicus.

“'tis a woeful thing,” said Odorless at large. “Fair Hoglistwune, seat of my fathers and their fathers before them! How brief my tenure as Lord Shirechester. How sad this footnote in history!”

“Kick it from memory!” said Yonilicus. “Unruleable people are not worth ruling! There's not a whit or mote of glory to be gained in that doing. Look not to the past and its woes, but to the future and its sure promise! We're for Oopertreepia, my scamp!” They handed Odorless's shoulders in a cousinsome fashion, and drew him in to share in the spectacle of the unseeable vista. Odorless oozed from their grip.

“'Sure?' 'Promise?' These are strong words,” Unitasker didn't say—though it was something he surely felt—for he was paying no attention to Yonilicus and Odorless as they prepared their escape; he awaited Markerel still, with her fascinating package, which was hoped would prove informative. Yonilicus and Odorless knew not the significance in Oopertreepia's quick return, and, in truth, nor did Unitasker—but he at least had the good sense for suspicion.

Yonilicus and Odorless made their leavesome gesture of finality, one foot upon the steps, one hand upon the rail, and the wind blew about their fashionable capes and enchanting scarves in a most photogenic style of way, but alas no camera was about. And yet Unitasker remained intransigent even at this ponderous sight.

“Here's the last order!” said Yonilicus. “Come at once!”

“You're bent on going,” said Unitasker, “so go. I have some things yet to do.”

Some cheek on him, eh? Yonilicus descended the steps and approached toward Unitasker, angered with the delay and cagey series of activities.

“Well, you're a creeper!” said Yonilicus. “Let's end that! Unfurl those sleeves at last—what's up them? Play all your cards, or let the game be done!”

Unitasker paused and took a slow breath. He said, “You bade me find answers toward Oopertreepia. That job's not yet done, so give me the space to work—if you can find a way. But I do know this—the Oopertreepia you flee to is unreal—fraudulent, and faked.” As he spoke, he did not look at Yonilicus or Odorless, but instead gazed at here and then there, in case either were the spot from which Markerel would finally appear.

“Oh!” said Odorless, now approaching as well. “You want to make a liar of us? Well, we've a fine enough scope! We've seen its lay.”

“As you've!” said Yonilicus.

“I've seen an impostor,” said Unitasker. “I know not what lies within—so, how is it you're made so sure there's riches and renown to be had?”

“All know the tales of Oopertreepia,” said Yonilicus. “That's: all know there's nothing known! We've seen its tall walls and golden spires. A tantalizing citadel! A pretty fortress! A glorier city there isn't! It's a peerless prize—and no prize so well-guarded would be valueless!”

“Its doors will not open for you,” said Unitasker, “else they do—to an absolute doom.”

“You seem to know much,” said Odorless, “about something you know nothing about.”

“All I know is enough,” said Unitasker. “You've fallen for a ruse.”

“And how do you know that?” said Odorless.

Unitasker said nothing. He said enough.

“Well!” said Yonilicus. “Then, can you say you know the perpetrator of this so-called charade?”

Unitasker turned to them. “Know?” he said. “No. But I know the possibilities. One is being brought to me even now. It may yield answers—the answers you requested, perhaps. Moreso, answers I'm interested in. So, I'm remaining here to wait.” He again looked away.

Odorless made a gesticulation of much consternation, exasperated with the drawn-out dialogue. “We have not time for further conversation!” he said. “Hoglistwune falls about us! Let him stay in the corpse if he should wish it, as we hie destiniward!” With that, he leapt aboard the 'falo's gondola, made for the control room, and engaged the thrusters.

“Only uncertainty is certain now,” said Unitasker glumly.

“Then be there to ascertain it!” said Yonilicus. “I've more uses for you—you're not fired yet!” They grabbed Unitasker and leapt aboard the gondola, and then sealed the hatch.

The 'falo launched.

Odorless Beige and Yonilicus went down into the bunker on the 'falo's back, stuck Unitasker in a corner booth, and put the latest race on the screen, to have background noise to calm their nerves, and something to distract them from the 'falo's penchant for turbulence inducing motion sickness. The race was going well. No & Chovies was ahead by a furlong. Odorless and Yonilicus celebrated with watered-down cornwine and watered-up pear juice.

“Alas!” cried Odorless. “For I shall miss old Hoglistwune, the place of my birth and life and, I had long suspected, my death!”

“Forget it already,” said Yonilicus. “They knew not how to appreciate us. My list had grown too long, as it were. The 'falo will lead us to the gates of Oopertreepia, and in no time our names will ring out and echo off the dome of heaven!”

“Alas that Hoglistwune's fall is the price for my path!” wailed Odorless. “But what a path! For it, I'll call Fate gilded this once!”

“Gilding is only the beginning!” said Yonilicus.

They laughed and clank their glasses in the manner of a toast and drank vociferously.

Now, they had with them all their—what's one down from a baron? Sheriffs? Councilors? Probably both, all doing each other's jobs, so let's combine them as counceriffs, and give them the same badge: a one-pointed star, tattooed on the spleen, so as to be a secret symbol of their eternal allegiance. All the counceriffs had one central hand, and they too drank, the purest and unsullied rainwater culled directly from the heavy and dark clouds that never gathered this time of year, and they poured that holy water into their eyes and ears so they could see and hear the Good Word and know the truth of their lords, and when this was not effective, the waiter brought them straws.

Unitasker stirred unhappily in his seat, peering out a window. He knew Markerel would be unpleased to find him missing from their planned site of meetage, and would equally unpleasantly seek him out. It was another complication that diverted his world from order. He sighed, as unsurprised as he was disappointed, and began to concoct a new set of plans.

It was around then that the 'falo noticed the copy of Blade Punner, just sitting there, out in the open and everything. Its eyes lit up and it gave a great roar. “Blade Punner!” it cried. “There—unguarded entirely! The limited edition copy! Outtakes, retakes, and corn flakes included! Why, they only made two copies, before the ships took flight and the mountain went aloft! I must have it for my own!” So the 'falo veered course, and in doing so overturned the carried gondola, and everyone inside who was drinking this and that fell over, fell under, and fell out: Yonilicus and Odorless, Unitasker and all the counceriffs, and No & Chovies as well somehow, and they fell to the ground, breaking one another's falls and backs and surviving only somewhat scathed. The 'falo grew closer to the copy of Blade Punner, but then, all of the sudden, just before it reached it—nothing special happened and so it triggered the trap and was thrown through time and space and vanished from the universe entirely, and there was a loudless bang as the singularity collapsed on itself, an invisible flash, a perfectly still explosion, and then nothing more.

One of the counceriffs coughed.

B

Now, there was no horizon in the inverted Earth, and so none could sneak up from behind its curve and catch their petitioners unawares, yet the nascent chaos that dwelt in the minds of the denizens of the forsaken frontier had kept wisely watching from occurring to them, and so surprises were manifold—except for Unitasker, who had eyes on the back of his head, and, more importantly, the front.

Nonetheless, suddenly there was Markerel, a countable number of steps away, and as Odorless and Yonilicus made to regather their crumpled-up selves and make an attempt at pose and poise with the counceriffs aflanking them—well, Markerel ignored them all, unctuously cool. No & Chovies had already politely excused itself and departed between chapters.

“You weren't there,” went Markerel at Unitasker.

Unitasker, still dusting himself off from the plummet, said, “I nearly was. It doesn't seem to have been an impediment.”

Markerel shrugged and looked at Yonilicus and Odorless and, to a lesser extent, the counceriffs. “Who're they?” she went.

Unitasker caught and released that comment. He peered at the product under her arm—contained within a pickle jar, Traycup's normal head. Traycup met Unitasker's glance and wunk. Now, as for the pickle jar, at some point Markerel had acquired it for more convenient transport, but fret not—it was a pristine pickle jar, fresh from the pickle jar factory, and had never met brine, and so Traycup's head was as clean and fresh as the day he was born, for better, worse, and mediocrity in between.

“Friends?” went Markerel—though that seemed scoffable.

Unitasker skipped that, too, and looked at Traycup. “You've only brought part of him.”

“The important part,” went Markerel, a bit defensively. “Easier to transport, this way. I didn't fancy you would want to heft him around.”

“Without a lung, he's wordless,” said Unitasker. “I need his words.”

Markerel snorted. “Put a pencil in his teeth,” she went.

Unitasker shrugged. Good enough.

By now, Yonilicus and Odorless had come to stand nearby, upright with peerage, and stared at Unitasker and Markerel, liking not the sight of a secret deal. They opted for the only natural course of action, and jumped to conclusions.

“What's this foul mutiny?” said Yonilicus. “You've kept a secret from me. That's unpleasant—and unsurprising. Say an explanation, with some quickness!”

Unitasker gazed long at Yonilicus, and then said, “I keep a lot of secrets from you—from everyone. That's part of the job.” He motioned toward Traycup's head. “He's tied to Oopertreepia. The real one.”

“Oh!” said Yonilicus and Odorless at once and together. “One of Oopertreepian make? Good, good, good! Pry him with questions! Ply him for answers! Let's come to know the secret at last!”

Unitasker seemed unduly patient, for the mayor's misguided excitement encroached upon his own plans and, moreso, attitude, and was findably tiring. As for Odorless—rather moot, some things considered.

“It's the role you gave to me to find the answer,” said Unitasker shortly, “so be calm and let me do it.”

“Your methods are overly slow!” said Yonilicus. “Sketchful, besides. And, look! A head only. No pockets for keys! How's he a door-opener, then?”

“I don't like you friends,” went Markerel.

“You ask uninteresting questions,” said Unitasker to Yonilicus. “You still know nothing of Oopertreepia. Nothing. I will ask the necessary questions and, in my own time, find the mating answers. You'll receive pertinent facts when there are some. Now, kindly leave me to my work.”

“Stay words for once!” said Odorless. “What's more needed now is transportation—we've lost ours to a wiser's trap! How's it we're to make our way?”

“Behold!” said Yonilicus. “Unitasker's employed a gal courier. She can bear us, each in a mighty, meaty hand, and carry us to the very threshold!”

“That's as good as gophers!” said Odorless. “A plan I like!” Then, with a grand gesture, he threw up one of his hands and snapped his fingers, like so—snap!

Markerel screamed.

She threw the pickle jar to the ground and it bounced away, its construction sturdy, as safely protecting Traycup's wayward head as it could a bouquet of pickles. Markerel put into her hands a full myriad of knives, each sharp with sharpness, an edge invisible in its sleight, a tip pin-prick small, and every vertex aching with the perplexion of each angle and ray to deign cross their realm.

“The gal's an attacker?” said Yonilicus. “Traitorism, after all! Well, be outnumbered, hired goon!”

Yonilicus bellowed, and all the counceriffs rose and they formed a rank and a file, and each wielded a spear in their hand, and a shotgun filled with bullets, and a bazooka as well. They arrayed the spears about them, so as to be defensible, and then aimed all the shotguns at Markerel's head, so they may shoot and kill her to death, and all the bazookas they aimed every which way, so that wheresoever Markerel might try escapement, a rocket would be there to meet her with explosions forte.

“The Royal Brigade!” cheered Odorless. “Yes, the die is cast, and it's you who's a fluke tonight! Get buttered, rancidities!”

The counceriffs all shot all their shotguns, and the bullets all raced toward Markerel, each one more excited than the last, spurred on by his neighbors' actions and peer-pressured into hastened flight, and so as the bullets flew, they enspeedened, and caught the speed of sound itself, racing past their own echo, such that their bang became a boom, and with a roar they raced toward Markerel, their speed total, their power aplenty, and their ferocity an unmeasured quantity, but probably a lot.

Markerel smiled a heartful smile. She swung every knife she bore, and every knife was swung at one of the flying bullets, and every knife hit its mark, for Markerel was no mark-misser. Every bullet was sliced in two, and with the great soaring speed each had, and with each bullet's weight reduced in half as it lost its mass to its newborn twin, their speeds all increased, and they outraced not only sound but light itself, and lost sight of their target and their path, and knew not where they were flung. Markerel's motion was like a dancement, knife upon knife met bullet upon bullet, each cut cleanly in two, newmade slivers of silver slipping through the air and toward unknowable targets.

One half of the bullets struck Odorless, and they hit him in the head and body and arms and legs, and the bullets had such speed and such force that when each impacted his body, they exploded together, and so every part of Odorless's body was exploded, and what was him became a rain of blood and flesh that watered the parched earth in every direction for eleven miles. The other half of the bullets struck Yonilicus's anodic body, and every impact was an explosion like a kaleidoscope, and Yonilicus too exploded and burst into powder and dust and was dead instantly and forevermore, and the dust fell like fog and cloaked the land, and all became shadowy and grim, and only Markerel was there, and Unitasker too. The counceriffs, their energy expended, had already shriveled and become beetles and grubs and sunk deep into the dark of the earth.

Unitasker forced himself calm and said, “You go too far.”

“I did not like them,” went Markerel.

“That wasn't part of your orders,” said Unitasker. “I need you to follow orders.”

“It wasn't for orders,” went Markerel, smugsomely. “I said I did not like them. Besides, I have eased your burden.”

Unitasker looked at Markerel without marvel, for there was nothing to her character that was a surprise to him, and it was for these traits that she had been useful—but this, at last, departed from the rails. New concoctions beckoned.

“Don't think that,” said Unitasker. “You don't know my goals.”

“Were they friend or foe?” went Markerel. “You haven't said.”

Unitasker shook his head. “It's not as simple as that. Nothing is black and white.”

The dusty fog settled about them, so that all they could see, all they knew, all they remembered—all they had—was each other. There was no more wind.

“Well,” went Markerel, “I only see red.” She smiled like this: //////

In the hazy gloom, fingertips tapped on glass. Markerel and Unitasker both heard, and they turned around and around until they saw over there standing a humble footman, who now held the Traycup-head-containing pickle jar—although it was perhaps dishonest to persist in calling it a “pickle” jar. Shall the thing be held to its ancient purpose even now, as it reforged its destiny and found new use? Alas, but first impressions overmatter.

“That's mine,” went Markerel. “Give it to me.”

“The tenure of your possession has come to an end,” spake the humble footman. “I am now the holder, and rights lay with me. Relinquish your claim.”

“Give it to me,” went Markerel, “or I'll take it from you!”

“Is this the howl of an animal?” queried the humble footman. “A low beast crying to the forlorn winds, waiting for its time to join them? Do I waste the breath of my only life in vain communion?”

Unitasker stepped forward ere a combat could evolve and said to the humble footman, “Who sent you?”

The humble footman bowed. “I am but a humble footman, my masters the masters of Oopertreepia. Their request was for the presence of a certain person, whose company I have now secured.” He hefted the pickle jar to indicate that Traycup was the object of his quest. “I shall now return.”

Unitasker nodded, for this claim was fully laughable, and at once the only possible solution. It was time to taste a new concoction. He said to Markerel, “This foe is beyond you.”

“No foe is beyond me,” went Markerel.

“A man of Oopertreepia?” said Unitasker, with some little measure of aghastment. “What do you even know about that place?”

“Nothing,” went Markerel sweetly. “It doesn't matter.”

“To you,” said Unitasker.

“It doesn't matter,” went Markerel. She grinned like sharks—good ones, not the ones that fought the bus—and itched to put weapons into her hands, since that was kind of her thing. No foe was beyond her. Nor friend, for that matter.

“Call off your dog,” muttered the humble footman, “for its and your sakes.”

“Don't flatter yourself,” went Markerel. “If you won't give me that head, I'll take it—and yours with it.”

“Is violence the only language you understand?” lamented the humble footman. “If it must be so, then I will speak with words that approach your comprehension.” He carefully tucked the jar under one arm. The pickle jar, I mean.

There was hardly an instant to take in the standoff.

Markerel leapt for the humble footman at once, not wasting a breath on a cry of battle, and she fanned one hundred knives into her hands, with all their sharp edges and piercing tips, and with the one hundred knives she stabbed and stabbed and stabbed again—yet not one blade met its mark. The humble footman was looking at her and not seeing her, and he plucked each blade from her hands, cleaned them off, packed them away carefully, placed them on the top shelf, and then put all of his hands around her entire throat and lifted her right off the ground, and thrust her body down into the dirt. Markerel screamed and shrieked and bit him, bit through his arms and bit off every one of the humble footman's hands, and escaped from his grasp, and leaped atop a high stone where she fancied she had the advantage, and she laughed.

“Imitable spirit,” declared the humble footman. His hands became fine. He stood with ease.

Now Markerel brandished one thousand knives—for where one hundred had failed, surely one thousand could not—and she spun them in a circle, and she splayed them all at once, and leapt this way and that, and jumped hither and yon, and flang herself to and fro, so that the humble footman could not predict from whence she would strike, and indeed, she had so many weapons at her disposal that she struck from every direction, and she stabbed at where the humble footman was, and at where he had been, and at where he was going to be, so that every spot was stabbed ferociously, and there could be no evadement or dodgehood—yet her every blow found no purchase, for at each place the humble footman was, he was not, and wheresoever he deigned to move, he was elsewhere, and wherever he was, he would be, and had been, and wasn't. The humble footman then touched Markerel with the lightest and gentlest of touches at just the right spot on her body, and it put her off balance entirely, and she fell down into the mud and landed on her face, dropping all of her knives so that they all fell off a cliff and were swept away by a river, and she had no more weaponry except the weapons she had left.

Markerel extricated herself from the embarrassment and laughed and went, “A challenge, at last!” while the humble footman stood solemnly over her.

Markerel snatched from her pockets her only remaining armaments—one hundred thousand knives that she kept for only the grandest of battles, the climactic peaks of extreme excitement, which had now begun to attempt to come to pass. She gathered them all up, arrayed them into such cosmetic and symbolic arrangements, kissed them for luck, and then flang them at the humble footman, and she threw them with such speed that the air was severed apart into vacuumful silence that vanished the sky, and the air they sliced became hot with heat and burst into flames that lit up the winds to the horizon, and verily the knives went with such speed that the humble footman could not dodge them, and he did not try and did not need to try, and the numberless knives pierced his flesh all about his face, and passed straight through his body and all his limbs, through his skin and his organs and his eyes, and then Markerel drew forth a great and mighty saw, bloodied and rusted, with great, jagged, much-used teeth, and she leapt upon him bearing it, and made to cut him into shredded and misshapen pieces. She fell upon him with all her weight and strength and bore him to the ground, and drove the saw into him and against him, and slashed and tore at his flesh and body with her goresome tool, and cut him into pieces so small that there was nothing left of him, not even dust, not even a tatter of a shirt or a sock. Markerel panted and shrieked and scrabbled at the naked earth and accomplished nothing.

“Die, die, die, DIE, DIE!” went Markerel.

The humble footman did not die.

“The time for play,” uttered the humble footman, “has come to an end.”

“I'm not 'playing!'” went Markerel.

Markerel looked up and saw the humble footman standing before her and not moving at all. She had one knife remaining, her favorite, Netoldeo, and it was the longest and sharpest knife she had. Markerel's natural state was exactly this: to draw a blade and leap to attack—and this she did one last time. With her one final knife, she filled the sky and shadowed the earth and came from every place, and there was nowhere for the humble footman to go to escape her, so he went nowhere, and was not there, and when Markerel struck, she struck nothing but herself, and pierced all of her own hearts with her own knife. She struck again and the knife went into her own heart again. She struck again, and again, and again. She looked into her hands and saw her own blood upon them, and upon the earth. She looked up. Ausdrom was over there. He wasn't looking at her. She followed his gaze. The humble footman remained, clutching the jar containing Traycup's head. The humble footman was walking away, so far away, not even moving. Markerel lay on the ground. She couldn't find words, couldn't move, but only growled, then shut her eyes and saw nothing ever again and died.

The humble footman strode away and Unitasker followed him.

“Depart,” commanded the humble footman. “You may meet a similar fate.”

“Tell me about your Oopertreepia,” said Unitasker.

Now the humble footman paused, and turned to look at him. “You are known. I should think you know it well.”

“Tell me about your Oopertreepia,” said Unitasker. Said Ausdrom.

The humble footman—

Then, with a horn like a scream the Volksbansheegen approached, skidding to and fro, its wheels spinning wildly and kicking up all manner of rocks and dust, hubcaps flying off hither and yon, the hood and trunk both flapping and rattling freely, and someone's underwear spilling from opened suitcassae strapped to the roof with a shoelace and a prayer.

Limonade, passenger seat, said, “After all, no casino road trip is complete without picking up a few hitchhikers!”

“We're not for the dice-halls and the cardsharps,” said Captain, wheel at hand, “but from it!”

“Ah!” said Limonade. “Then it's a real favor we've done for these poor rollers!”

Phil, sangwiched between them in the front, had entirely lost his place in the script. He turned 'round to the backseat where there was a veritable squad—the lemon, the bicycle, Squeezy and Trojan, the unheaded corpus of Traycup Lopkit, and Jum Burie, whose resolution was maximized.

“D'you know what page we're on?” he asked Jum Burie.

Jum Burie looked at him and the script he waved. “No,” she said, shaking her head.

“Oh,” said Phil. “What part are you playing?”

Jum Burie shrugged. “I'm winging it.”

Unitasker beheld the humble footman. The humble footman beheld Unitasker. The Volksbansheegen's distance closed.

“Arrival of saviors?” intoned the humble footman. “This is a thing without influence. A matter with no matter. Become, as you must, and as you shall.”

The humble footman produced an envelope of coarse paper, stiff and thick, ancient with time and replete with potentiality—a truly frightening thing in wrung hands. Unitasker did not miss the sight of the thing, but was above such simple tricks.

“You have contentment remaining a slave?” pressed Unitasker.

“I am not one,” avowed the humble footman. “I know the bone you worry. Be not foolish—great tasks are well-known, and machines have many parts. I shall serve mine, and you yours. Together we will see the march continue.”

Unitasker knew many things, saving the one that would unravel the whole plot: the birther of this façadical Oopertreepia. Traycup could not be counted on to reveal all answers; the humble footman must be explored.

“I see your envelope,” Unitasker yielded.

“I know,” announced the humble footman. “Make all events easy, and contribute to our common goal and enter within, so that we may hasten to see our deeds done.”

“Will you provide answers to a secret-seeker?” said Unitasker.

“I will not,” pronounced the humble footman.

“That's a shame,” said Unitasker. “Your makers made too many mistakes.”

In this haughtily-delivered phrase the humble footman confirmed opposition—not hostility, for Unitasker had little ire to raise. Unitasker sought a cool order and ease for the world—or so it was supposed. He throve in a world where all the rules were known and obeyed. The introduction of such an outer, contrarian force was not anathema to his utopic concept. Flies are swatted with ease. But—

It had begun. The humble footman moved instantly with singular grace and vanished into the space between light, and his movements traced all knowable paths, diverging and converging at every point, equal lengths at opposite ends, spectrum, paradox. It wasn't counterintuitive—you're thinking of something rather than nothing. Kiss. Seek and destroy. Holy holes made, well, well—even by liars with the best of intentions. Even by liars with the worst of intentions. Time could not sift them.

“Cease the threat,” ordered the humble footman. “It will have no effect. The length of your lay is well-known, and I am born to eclipse it. To cast you into everlasting shadows if need be—a need yours to proffer.”

“I proffer nothing,” said Unitasker, “and I cease nothing.”

“You shall cease all things,” swore the humble footman. “Life and time. Mission and mercy. My makers made no 'mistakes.' You are well-known to us.”

“I assure you,” said Ausdrom, “I am not.”

The longest song rang out, its notes clarion, its melody senseless—spanning time, surpassing time, novelity. Behind unspeakable curtains stood the players, their hands on their chords, they sang, they had sung, they had to sing—and a one, and a two, and a three. They did not see the wood. There was no such thing as all tomorrows, ideas laid to rest in layers, fractions. One solution. One end. One necessity. And only Ausdrom knew his place in relation to it.

Ausdrom beheld the humble footman, standing to the tallness of his height and making shadows without weight. They surrounded him, past and future, when all things were made of gold—but even gold has crystals, and all crystals must grow. This is a story that was told before the beginning. Whither do other roads lead?

“Be undone,” he said.

At first there was water—there was the illusion of water in the fire and snow, rising from the depths and in its light all truths were shown. Confusion was put to death in a bloodless and silent ritual by the creation of the work of art and the length of effort rose to mindless celebrity. It was, of course, immediately evident as a triumph of absolute glory, but the first thing we knew was sowing a field with hate. What unluminous grimace had we borne that had seen us suited to the jungle? What secret glimmer did the conquerors bear that granted them a holy pearl?

“Be done,” he said.

There was no moment to mention, no sudden realization when all the pieces fit together and everything made sense. There was no single spot, no point, which encapsulated all the highest ideals of the process. Some things are not the sum of their parts. What there was was the remnants of builders' unheralded efforts, works of imprecision, ignored in their use, as they struggled for every breath. Oh—but let not a haze fall down so far. The door remains open to prodigal sons.

In the house, silver turned to gold, and noise turned to music, and here it was impossible to count to three—this, the task of a lifetime. One single secret was made manifold, and with indecision and hesitation, months turned to days, seconds to hours, and life, in its repeated catastrophes, unceasingly failed to promise elucidation. This was only the first time, but each would be the same, meaninglessly...

But it was not without end. It ended, and none could say how, or why, or when. The wise heads will guess. “'twas the second day!” they will say. “'twas the second day!” they will say. They will say it was the second day. They can't even count the days, can't even comprehend their number, for even in a single serving, one day is endless, and no one was watching—except for Ausdrom.

There was bread, and warmth, and weight.

Well, in the end, it grew cold—oh, God, how we clutched our coats round our shoulders, we sat close together for what scraps of warmness were left in the world, and there were none whatever. We were sinners, unapologetically—madmen embrace cold like that, crying out for more and more. Well, did they get their wish after the corners stopped and everything was so, so damnably round? Eh? Did that make them happy? I hope so. It was all a bad joke, save the rest of it, God preserve, which was a greater light that we'd ever known. Than I'd ever known.

“Do you want to go back?”

Yes! Always, always, always! But when? When does our wait end? Come now—even a man with a lazy eye can see it's endless upon endless. It's the only thing that can stop their heartless crying, after all. So, what can we do about it? What can we do, m'friend? Bah! We'd be at the end of our rope, but there were only chains.

“We can go back.”

We can but we won't. It's not to be. You know that. I know that. But, they? Oh, they pray, every day, whenever it rains. They can't look at the bare trees without yearning for home, and they'd be there in an instant if there were nothing else—well. Perhaps there'll come the day. Eventually there will be nothing left. And then, then, we'll finally have our moment. Our moment in the sun.

“Your moment in the sun.”

The clouds above parted, the dust and fog below fell out, and the glowing sun shone, its light, its heat, the shape of the world it hid revealed.

“None of it has to be a lie,” said Unitasker.

He beheld the humble footman, and the humble footman was no more.

The Volksbansheegen came to a stop across from him.

When Jum Burie stepped out of the car last, Ausdrom said to her, “I tried to call you.”

“That's not interesting,” said Jum Burie, gazing at him pitilessly with her pitch-black eyes.

“Perhaps not,” said Ausdrom. “What is?”

Jum Burie shook her head. “I don't know. Not yet.”

Now, on the table was Traycup's head, and he was looking around at things and seemed happy enough, as he usually does, but, being as lungless as he was, had no wind for his pipe so as to power his talking cables, and thus was voiceless. Nonetheless, the implications of Traycup's state, and Ausdrom's having him, and Markerel's bloody corpse, were clear at once to Jum Burie.

“I think,” said Jum Burie, “I will finally destroy you.”

“Oh?” said Ausdrom. “Now, how would such an idea occur to you?”

“I don't know,” said Jum Burie. “I think I want to see if it's possible.”

“Well,” said Ausdrom, “you're welcome to try—I'm curious if you're able to, as well.”

Time stopped for too long.

When it ceased, the wind came bearing a sound—the sound of jingling keys.

Traycup turned and saw and smiled brightly. “Hi, boss!”