So anyway, this story takes place within the hollow Earth, which is a real place that can be proven by science—for a given definition of “science.” And for a given definition of “definition.” Now, it may seem far-fetched, and it's always fine for things to seem one way or another, but rest assured there's an explanation. You've heard of general relativity and special relativity, but what they don't teach you in school—along with how to divide three cups of blueberries into a flock of horses, or why bingo night always ends in a blood sacrifice—is embargoed relativity.

Meanwhile, Traycup Lopkit was already out the door and on his way to work. Now, Traycup looked as if he wore his work clothes home, and possibly to bed as well, and come laundry day he'd kill two birds with one stone and just wear them in the tub. But no right-minded person would do that, of course, and since there were no carpenters nearby to determine the plumb lines of Traycup's mindedness, barring better evidence, it could only be supposed that he was so garbed as to present a convincing costume—for some reason.

So there he was, skipping down the lane amongst the meadows on his way to work. It was his first job, but it wasn't his first day, and he already got the hang of things and knew well what he was doing, and he was looking forward to doing it again. Now, Traycup of course had a square wheeled-bicycle, which he fed like clockwork every other Tuesday—or rather, he fed, like, clockwork, every other Tuesday—but he had an especially jovial spring in his step today, so he opted to go without and enjoy the bounty of nature a bit. Alas for the forsaken bike, for it eats springs and gears, of course, but couldn't feast on the spring in Traycup's step, so along the way to work, he'd have to stop by someplace and get some bits and bobs.

After a certain amount of time, definitely less than a week and probably less than a day, Traycup reached the crossroads by the village. Now, he had skipped breakfast—I assume, because I skipped the part where he would have had breakfast—plus he was skipping down the lane, after all, so it seems to be a skipping sort of day. More importantly, just over there was Qasper Quilt, sat nicely on an eggplant, so as to hatch it.

“Traycup,” said Qasper.

“I'm he,” said Traycup.

“Fine morning,” said Qasper.

“It's so,” said Traycup.

“Then, the pleasantries have been accomplished. Let's move on to business.”

“Indeed!” said Traycup, pleased. “You see, I'm on my way to work in this moment, and I'm without my square wheeled-bicycle, and so I'm slowed.”

“Then, behold!” Qasper gestured to a row of owls, freshly plucked from the vine, which he had yet to name, and Traycup knew Qasper's proclivity for the naming of such things, and so paid his most careful attention, which was considerable.

“Is this some manner of cabaret?” said Traycup.

“Three and a half times better,” said Qasper. “I'll now announce their new nomenclature. This one is Albert. This, her mate, is Albert. These two are the pick of the litter, or rather, literally picked—Albert and Albert, they are. And the runt, he'll need the most TLC of all. That's Albert.”

Seven kangaroos arrived and began applauding vociferously, until the beernuts guy came by and they all bought some beef jerky. Even Traycup was impressed.

“A true maestro!” cheered Traycup.

“You've my thanks,” said Qasper, “and, perhaps, you'd long to have Albert at your side as well.”

“It's so, but I've no money. In fact—it's all I can afford to feed my square wheeled-bicycle.”

“I can't give you a freebie,” said Qasper, “but I can give you a free bee. Here. This is Lorenzo. Take good care of him.”

“Hello, Lorenzo,” said Traycup.

Lorenzo said nothing because Lorenzo was a bee and bees do not talk.

Traycup put Lorenzo in his pocket. “Now—” Traycup began but Qasper cut him off and raised a toast.

“I only name owls,” said Qasper, “and distribute wayward bees once in a while. I haven't got hay nor whey to feed your steed.”

“Now, that's a pity,” said Traycup. “Well, it's a bicycle, after all. It doesn't need to eat. It just would be nice—just wanted to be considerate, that's all.”

Traycup and Qasper spoke a little longer about misunderstanding what a pool party was, and then parted ways, and Traycup was back en route to work, a staggeringly long journey that would possibly take him weeks or months to complete—or a few minutes, who knows? It all depends on what the cards have to say.

“I ain't sayin' nothin',” said the cards.

“You'll talk, or we'll make you talk!” said the bakers.

This didn't impact Traycup's commute, and as strolled on by he only stared in their direction, not at them, but they couldn't tell, and made a note of his face for later—just in case.

Now, at the far end of the lane it passed underground, into an ancient mine, all packed rock and winding darkness, choked with old dust, where even a lit match was no better than a vivid aftershock of a neutron bomb, and digital watches were wont to run backwards a little bit. Just a little, not so much as to draw attention to themselves, or really cause a major timekeeping issue in any important industries, but just enough to make you have to remember that the stove is like four minutes ahead. It's only important if you need to be right on time, when showing up just a few minutes early and then having to wait in the parking lot was really awkward.

In the depths of the mine, when everything fell to utter pitch-blackness, Darnello the unicorn had a ferret stand. The ferret grew tired of standing, and as soon as it saw Traycup round the corner—ferrets can see in pitch-blackness, of course, thanks to the surgery—it scampered over to him and threw some dirty laundry on him.

“There!” said the ferret. “Can you believe how long that has to soak? To get the stains out? Foolhardy, I say!”

Traycup's head spun, and not because it was filled with marble—that's just how he is. We don't judge, not even the people who've got jade or onyx or rust for brains. Paltropisburg is a diverse and open-mindless country. They even elected a toddler as president, mainly because his running mate was a rubber duck, and not just any rubber duck, but the George Bandsaw, who oversaw the installation of the world's first sewing-machine-based plumbing system, so when George promised light bulbs for everyone, she meant it.

Darnello gave the ferret a car battery. “Happy birthday,” it said. Then, to Traycup, it said, “Pardon me, sir, I'll get the spray.”

“It's n'mind,” said Traycup with a smile. Traycup's genetic makeup made him quite immune to such clothing-based attacks, and moreover, he knew the ferret meant well. It should be noted, for the reader's consideration, that the ferret did not, in fact, mean well. But while the unicorn grabbed the cattail spray for the clothing bites, Traycup simply wrote a short jingle suitable for a car rental service commercial, or perhaps one where a restaurant mocks a restaurant that doesn't exist. Too often dreams are stillborn.

Darnello hung up a dart board and said, “Will you be having any weather today, sir?”

“I'll not—I've an errand. I'll be happy to some other time. In the winter?”

“Absolutely,” the unicorn smiled, relieved. Then it turned to the ferret, which now had a loupe in each eye and was doing some really advanced pottery. This stuff even included stickers! “Is that adequately aerobic?”

“Yeah, sign here,” the ferret said, presenting the unicorn with a regulation-length end user license agreement. The unicorn, not to be fooled, sold the entire property to a family of leprechauns. It would later be seen smoking a pipe and counting its cash while sitting on another, larger pile of cash. I'll let you know when that happens, keep your eyes peeled.

Traycup headed out of the mines at last, and encountered another pseudorandomized event: someone had built a windmill in the middle of the freeway. Unfortunately, the mine entrance opened up directly on the median, right into the windmill, so when Traycup expected to reach the surface and was prepared to play Frogger to get to the safety of the sidewalk—as one does—he now found himself in the middle of the mill, grinding corn, and was now a farmer.

“It's honest work,” said Traycup, “but I can't be expected to build my own Stonehenge and track the solstice to know when it's harvest time.”

Curly Frantoes, the mill's co-owner, spit on the floor and said, “Tray! I ain't hired you for that kinda lip! Keep them wheels fed! We got empty wheels, the grindstone's like as not to kick up a spark! Whole place'll go up in flames, then down in flames!”

Meanwhile, all the traffic was stopped, of course, and the traffic jam reached for over a mile. For readers who use a metric or another non-mileal measuring system, one mile is equivalent to less than one hundred miles. Give or take. Take, mostly.

Beep beep! Honk honk! That was the sound of the traffic jam, voting in opposition to the windmill. The traffic jam, as a person, had no opinion on the quality of lightly-used pantyhose, but it was probably positive. If not, they'd been bought off.

Traycup ran to the window. “We're holding up traffic,” he said.

“We're holding up society,” said Frantoes.

“We're holding back society,” said Traycup.

“You got lymph nodes, ain't ya? Well, use 'em!”

At Frantoes's encouragement, Traycup flexed his lymph nodes and coaxed the windmill into inventing a new cipher that could only be solved by comparing breakfast cereal mascots, or flirting with the librarian while your accomplice slipped all the overdue books back on the shelves, no one the wiser.

“We are all the wiser this day,” said Frantoes. “Now, Tray! Engage warp drive!”

“Aye-aye, captain!” Traycup made for the engine room, halibut in hand, leaping over the doggie gate outside the bathroom hall, and threw the fish underhand out the window. However, it suddenly broke out in mushy halibut syndrome, took a sharp ninety degree turn, and landed in the mayor's soda. The mayor—an anode named Yonilicus—retraced the fish's steps with the help of their lead detective, Ultrasymbolic Unitasker, and found Traycup standing there, red handed.

“What's your name, Traycup?” said Yonilicus.

“It's so,” said Traycup.

“Your name will be added to a book, and later I'm going to read all the names in the book, and if your name is still in the book, I'll send a fleet of hamburger-loving zombies to steal everything you value.”

Now, no one can listen to such a withering threat without reaction, and when it's seen that Traycup had no reaction at all, rest assured that the poor lad was quite in shock, and knew not how to respond. Such a thing was detrimental to his future, and he wouldn't last long at the mill with the mayor out to get him. Moreover, there was no telling when they'd start reading the names in the book—it could be as soon as the next century.

Frantoes looked at a brick. “Quittin' time,” he said.

“All right,” said Traycup, “then I quit. I've work to do, after all, and this is itn't.”

Frantoes packed up the windmill, and the relieved traffic all floored it at once, which, believe me, made things a whole lot worse. Frantoes hitchhiked back home and found, waiting for him at the door—well, this isn't Frantoes's story, so, never mind.

At longest last, Traycup started the final leg of his journey, kayaking through the sewers—it's more common than you'd think—and aside from one or two gunfights, this was an uneventful trip, and he successfully arrived at his destination, which was his own backdoor. Traycup worked from home, of course, but the connecting door was locked, and had lost the key. The short route would take him through the front yard and into the back, which would require stomping on many blades of grass, and he was loath to get all his feet so cut up, and so the only route available was the meandering one previously seen. The point is, he made it to work on time.

So, Traycup punched in—they had a really old fashioned time card machine, from the forties or whatever—and he got to work.

Now, this was Traycup's job: he sat in a chair and looked out a window at a tree. It was a small window and it was a thick wall, so all he could see was the tree. His job was to watch it, and, if he saw something, report it. It was a good job. It was an important job. He had a shift of a hundred and forty-four hours, and he got all his blinking out of the way ahead of time, so he'd be able to watch the tree nonstop all day, and he was looking forward to looking at it.

So far, in all his days or years or however long he'd had this job, Traycup had never been paid. That was kind of moot because what would we do with that many zippers? What's more, in all his months or weeks or however long he'd had this job, he never saw anything other than the tree. That was good. That was easy. That meant everything was fine and safe and there were no problems—or maybe it meant everything was bad and the fate of civilization hinged on him ever seeing anything other than that tree. He hadn't been given a lot of instructions, just the job. He had been given it, hadn't he? He had it, that's a given.

The following hundred and forty-four hours consisted of the kind of doldrums that busily-bodied work-a-day folks could only imagine in a fervent daydream. Suffice to say, once again, Traycup didn't see anything. One hour went by, and he saw nothing, Two hours went by, and he saw nothing. Three hours went by, and he saw nothing. Three and a half hours went by, and he saw nothing. Thirteen, seventeen, nineteen, thirty-seven, forty-three—those are some of the numbers of hours that transpired without Traycup seeing anything. Traycup dutifully sat in a regular chair in a bare room looking out a small square window that faced only a tree, and he saw nothing but the tree for a hundred and forty-four hours.

Well, he saw nothing but the tree for a hundred and forty-three hours and fifty-nine minutes.

Then he saw something.