Tuberlone rapped a rolled-up newspaper on Traycup's cage—that is, the cage Traycup was in, for Traycup had no claim of ownership on it—and said, “Stop trying to change the definition of parallelograms!”

Traycup looked up, moderately guilty, holding the ladle and compass. “Stop? Fair fox, I've barely made a start of it—can't I've a chance to see the new science through before abandoning the grand dream?”

“No. We need parallelograms. And trapezoids—I see the Aztec tablet you've got there!”

Caught red-handed, Traycup sadly threw all his mathematical paraphernalia to a passing whale, who'd use it to build a new nest later, and then he said to Tuberlone, “Is't macaroni time yet?”

Tuberlone looked at a drag racer. “Almost. Settle down and be quiet until it is.”

Capturement had not been on Tuberlone's agenda, and Jum Burie's improvisations had caused a small portion of trouble in the form of securing a storage locale for the cage. Anyone with a big enough metal detector would pick them up, so, for the time being, Traycup's cage—again, so named for the use to which it was put, not a statement of property—was kept in the center of a room made out of damp cardboard and completely covered in gummy bears, and that cardboard room, being unsuited to standing on its own two feet, was situated inside a secret jungle compound, where all the ninjas and pirates and whatever that used to guard Jum Burie now kept watch on Traycup. Traycup was content in his cage, though. He'd never had so many bars to his name! Alas, but he'd learn the true nature of their relationship in time—probably.

Tuberlone left Traycup and went to check on Jum Burie. At the top of a mountain was a deep, deep cave, at the bottom of which was a towering waterfall which hid a sunny forest, and at the center of the forest was a little shrine which stood atop an old speakeasy which hid a ghost town, and in the center of town was an old dried up well, at the bottom of which was the door to the abandoned roller rink, where Jum Burie was.

Here, Jum Burie was dancing, and she didn't need any music, because she knew it all already. She was dancing, and her feet were bloody, and all her arms were weary, and her head was hanging, but she danced on, and on and on, and on and on and on, striving to reach a point of weariness that would drive her to collapse.

Tuberlone didn't say anything to her, it just came down to watch and make sure she was still dancing. The battle with Traycup had taken nothing out of her, of course, and only ignited her passion and lit up her hearts—all excess energy that would have to burned off, else should she threaten to upend the whole world, which obviously wouldn't do. Tuberlone, like many livers, liked living, and wanted to keep it that way.

It watched her for a little while, and decided not to speak to her yet. For better or worse, Traycup wasn't going anywhere. She could do her thing at any old time. Maybe Tuberlone would go get the oven ready—oh, but would Jum Burie prefer his brain as bread, or wine? Well, it could throw some tea in the oven if she didn't want bread.

As soon as it left, Jum Burie stopped dancing and raised her head.

Roby and Ben Garment's school had thirteen stories, but to avoid bad luck they were all on the same floor. They had stairs in every room and all the windows were kept at the bank for safekeeping. There was only one schoolroom—it was one of those old-fashioned one-room schoolhice—but they had a teacher's lounge, break room, conference room, gymnasium, two-ply, seventy-one bathrooms, pool room, pool hall, van pool, and three more bathrooms. Not a bad result, considering they used a QR code as their blueprint. Also there was one more bathroom.

They had five hundred and fifty-five students, and had been teaching them all day, but now, since the bell had rung, and the bell was really the one in charge, they had dismissed the studentia, and went to take a well-earned break. Roby went to sit on a spider cider barrel, and said, “Ben Garment, it is a joy of me to be teaching with glee so many students, pupils, and educatees.”

“Back-breaking work,” observed Ben Garment, “but then it all is. And I've a host of splinters! They'll be needing names—but that's another affair. So, have any students turned smart yet?”

“That is a thing not known by me,” said Roby. “And so a new idea is in need for the solving of the question to proceed!”

“Well, I'm stumped,” said Ben Garment. “Have you got an idea or two?”

“I have got the thought,” said Roby, “to plot a lot and spot who has been taught a lot of smarts. We are pressed to test the best guess of our mess of guests and put this quest to rest. Give all the students a quiz to find who the smartest is, place them all in order, make them ranked and sorted, give each one their grade—and finally get paid!”

“There's a shiny idea,” Ben Garment nodded. “The wig of teacher suits you! You've gained a wisdom, I think to say, or have dispensed with part of your wild eye.”

“I am glad,” said Roby, “and quite unsad to have the compliments of the great Ben Garment!”

“There remains the design of the test,” said Ben Garment. “I propose throwing them out of an airplane without a parachute. That'll weed out the worthy.”

There was a knock at the grill, and before they could say, “Eat more tofu! The presence of mange does no harm to those who believe the guilt of a speeding knapsack,” it popped open, and there was Student #417.

“Egads!” said Roby, adjacent to a startle. “A trifle rude! But how do you do? Silly student, sneaking so, suspiciously stalking in subterfuge! Say the nature of your lateness, but know that you are blameless, and though class is long dismissed, at your home you will be missed, so you must now gain hasteness or your parents will be pissed!”

“Four seventeen,” said Ben Garment informally, “a strange breach! Strange indeed!”

“Yes, yes,” said Student #417, “yes—most odd, I know, I know—so, I'll say it plain! I haven't the foggiest—not the haziest, mistiest idea! How to do it—to be schooled at school, and to be the student proper! Yes, that's why—I'm here for a lesson to supplement the one I've gotten!”

“The knowing of school is not of you,” said Roby, cheerily nodding. “That much is surely true. But while you are a student poorly done, the teachers of you have only just begun! You and you, and also me, are each a novice at this craft, you see!”

“Yes, I know!” said Student #417. “But great teacher, poor teacher, no teacher—no matter! A true student should overcome such odds! But, of course—to school, to learn, to become the smartest, and know it all! That's why I'm here—oh, Teach, teach! For all the day I've longed to learn but still, here is me, dumb and quite the fool! So, what to do, what to do?”

The student, columnar and wrapped in ribbons, was in quite a state, but fortunately, Roby and Ben Garment were now great teachers. ...hang on, that might be a typo, I think that's supposed to say they were not great teachers. But, what they lacked in competence, they seemed to make up for in confidence. That's surely worth something, right?

Roby said, “Now, student, it is a simple thing to go to school—simply come and be and soon cease to be a fool!”

“Here I am,” said the student, “I have come and been! Yet fool I remain!”

Roby considered this mystery. Roby considered this a mystery. “This is a real thing,” she slowly said at last. “And this thing tells one tale: our school has failed! If the student of me tries to be at school and stays a fool, our school is no school by rule!” So much for confidence.

Now it was Ben Garment's turn at idea-having. He snapped his fins to symbolize his thoughts visually. “Ah! Roby!” said Ben Garment. “But here's the student, at school—and so until she leaves a fool, our school's not failed, and we've still the chance. Let's teach!”

“Credit is due you, Ben, and extra, too!” said Roby. “We shall remain to teach some wisdom, so student, begin to listen!”

And so they resumed teaching Student #417, which overjoyed Student #417, because she wanted to become educated and stop being a foolish idiot, and it also joyed Roby and Ben Garment because they had found a loophole by which to demonstrate that their school wasn't a failed project and a waste of time. It'd taken around a hundred years, geologically speaking, to build their school and get registered with the state, so if they had nothing to show for it—well, better to not think of that dismal prospect.

They continued the education by listing all the numbers, picking up where they had left off during class time—somewhere in the low forties. This went on for ninety-nine hours and ninety-nine minutes, and they had covered all the numbers almost up to fifty, when Student #417 raised her hand and said, “Teacher! Am I smart yet?”

“Well,” said Roby, “out we shall find! What is three added to nine?”

“Why,” said Student #417, “surely it's the first president!”

They'd done it! Roby and Ben Garment cheered, and celebrated with champagne, popping the corks at some orphans, and declared that Student #417 had become wise or close to it, and now she could go home, and tomorrow would be another day of class, and they'd learn the rest of the numbers, and become wiser than wise, but they didn't tell the student that last part, because they wanted her to go home with success in her head—or at least at all.

Student #417 gathered up all her papers, as one does at the end of school—because one can't be bothered to organize one's things as one goes along, apparently—when suddenly the windows turned to paint and got outsourced, and the bees that ran the local newspaper busted down the door with a corncob pipe. Roby, Ben Garment, and Student #417 all made an appropriate noise and/or smell of alarm, and ran to hide in the coffee maker.

“Hey! Where'd y'all go?” said the bees. “You can't hide from these GUNZ!” The bees flexed mightily, bursting their shirts to pieces, and the shirt-pieces all got sucked into the ventilation system, jamming up the fans, overheating the motors, and then the whole system exploded—not like a nuclear explosion this time, it was just electrical, all the transformers blew or whatever—and then everything caught on fire.

Ben Garment floored it, and drove the coffee maker downstairs into the flooded ant farm, where they kept all the stickers and sidewalk chalk. The bees followed, but got distracted when they passed an open door wherein a llama, a pterodactyl, and a Knight Templar were posing for a still life painted by one of the original celery-sellers. The bees soon began a heated haggling session as they tried to secure the painting for their dart gallery.

“That one was a close one,” said Roby, “and not close to fun!”

“Hey!” said Student #417. “Watch out! It's a tidal wave!”

Student #417, with all her newfound smarts, correctly identified the tidal wave. Now, the last time Roby and Ben Garment had dealt with one, it washed them clear out to sea. They had learned a lesson in that, so when this tidal wave came, they dodged adroitly, and Student #417 did as well, copying her wise mentors. They successfully failed to get washed out to sea, but they weren't the wave's target—it wanted the school itself, and easily snagged it after they'd left it defenseless. Roby, Ben Garment, and Student #417 were left behind in the coffee maker, and the roving bees surrounded them, still flexing their GUNZ and newly acquired painting. Out at sea, the tidal wave took it upon itself to demonstrate the awesome power of Nature by not only beating the fire to death and casting its corpse into the abyssal depths, but also turning the school in a highly profitable diploma mill, pocketing the cash itself, and firing Roby and Ben Garment.

“Alas!” said Roby. “Yet again I have met the gaining of unemployment.”

“You get used to it,” said Ben Garment. “I'll show you how to make a sofa in a dumpster.”

“But, Ben Garment, there is greater concernment,” said Roby. “No longer teachers and lacking a school, we have no more students, and our plan has been doomed!”

“Hold on,” said Ben Garment, “we've still got one. What's more, as the only one we've got, she's by default our best and brightest pupil.”

“Yeah—yeah!” said Student #417. “I know what five is, so I'm practically a genius! Ask me anything! I've got you covered!”

“Okay,” said the bees, “how do you plan on getting out of this one?”

The bees surrounded them, each one with GUNZ, a machine gun—and a short fuse.