Roby was happy—they had soda on the train! That was a nice treat—and at least slightly deserved.

She made her way back to her seat sipping at it—no straw, naked cup only, which was noble and brave. The train ride was long, and she didn't know when it would stop, and she didn't know where it would go, and she didn't want to jump out the window while it was moving, especially since now and then it went in loop-de-loops, and she would get confused as to which way she was supposed to fall. And she'd spill her soda in the doing, too.

She sat down, and across from her was sat a skeleton wearing a wedding ring, and when it noticed her noticing it, it waved politely.

“Hello,” said the skeleton, “I'm Mobile the skeleton. What's your name?”

“Roby Lopkit is what it is,” said Roby with a smile. “It is pleasant to meet you like this!”

“Likewise, Roby,” said Mobile. It stared and thought for a moment—a short one. Maybe it was pretending. “Lopkit? Of the Nesodi Iveent Lopkits?”

Roby nodded and sipped her soda.

“That's grand,” said Mobile. It did not relax the position of its bones, for without a system of nerves, it felt nothing, and so an uncomfortable pose was insignificant. “I used to do business in Nesodi Iveent. Traveling salesman, you see.” Mobile patted a suitcase sitting next to it. “Never had the pleasure of meeting Old Missus Lopkit, but anyone who's been in Nesodi for long has heard all the tales.”

“I have youth too much,” said Roby, “to have learned any such—thing, I mean, you see. But where the city was woods now grow, and it is a place I will no more go.”

“Yeah, heard about that,” said Mobile. It fidgeted. When a person fidgets oddly during a conversation, it indicates that they're lying. Mobile probably knew that. Mobile was old enough to already be dead, and so had probably learned a lot of things during its life—if it had had one. “Well, these things happen. Anyway, it's not all woods. And folk can rebuild, or have it built, or have a new city rise from underground.” The skeleton shrugged ambiguously. It had to.

“Be of help, and throw me a bone,” said Roby. “Where this train goes to is unknown. Say the location of its destination by way of explanation, so I, without hesitation, can plan my salvation—or at least a vacation!”

“Destination?” said Mobile. It ignored the pun. It got that all the time. “No, it doesn't go anywhere. It just goes. On and on, forever and ever, all around the entire world, without ever stopping or slowing down, until everyone aboard lives out their entire lives, and expires, and is nothing—but a skeleton.” To illustrate skeletonness, Mobile ran its fingers up its ribs, making xylophone noises—this is hard-coded into embargoed relativity so it's not even a cartoony gag, it's just reality.

“I do not wish to become a skeleton,” said Roby. “It seems like that would be no fun. Bones cannot taste, so food will be a waste! The friends of me must be worried, so toward them I must hurry, that me and they can meet today so we can say a grand hooray!”

“Bid them join us on the train,” said Mobile, “and they can be passengers aside you evermore.”

“That is one plan,” said Roby, “but I prefer to scram.”

“Well,” said Mobile, “there's not a way to do that. This train makes no stops. I'd be inclined to wonder how you boarded, if I didn't already know.” Mobile chuckled, and the sound did not have the expectable bony dryness. It sounded like a drain emptying—there's a straight-up simile, that's an easy one for the workbooks—but Roby didn't seem to understand, so Mobile added, “You could try the emergency stop, then. Just pull that cord, up there.”

Roby looked up at it—a rope that ran the length of the train car, all the way at the top of the wall.

“I have shortness,” said Roby.

“Ah!” said Mobile. “Well, I don't. Would you like me to pull the cord for you?”

Roby considered this and considered it a good idea. “You can with ease,” she said, “so if you would please, pull the cord so I may no longer be aboard.”

“I do not please,” said Mobile with a broadening grin. “You see, I don't want the train to stop.”

Roby sank into her chair. She was out of soda. “The ideas of you and me form the sign of the cross.”

“Indeed so,” said Mobile. “Do you know what I do want?”

Roby didn't answer.

“What I want is for you to become a skeleton! I want everyone to become a skeleton. For I am Mobile, Lord of Skeletons, and my realm is the realm of all bones, and with more bones grows my strength, and when all the trembling femurs walk in stride with me, and when the rattling cages of a billion breastbones stand at my side, and when all the chattering skulls of all the once-living, spent beings gaze upon me countenance, then will my strength be mighty indeed, and the whole of the world will fall under my survey!” Now as it was speaking, Mobile sought glory, and it rose up to its feet and stood, and lifted its arms and its voice and gazed at the sky, which was concealed by the trainular ceiling, and so it looked more foolish than grand, and knew it, and put its arms and head down and looked at Roby, and became calm again. “Well,” it said, “someday.”

Now, Roby saw that the look of Mobile was the look of a villain, but it seemed content to be patient and wait for Roby to become a skeleton, although that would take a long time, and in the meantime—

“Do you want another soda?” said Mobile.

“That is a want of me,” said Roby, “always.”

“Ah. Always. A big word,” said Mobile, who had too much to say about everything. “No one knows what it means. 'All ways' haven't happened yet. And people talk about 'forever' or 'everywhere'—big, monstrous ideas like that. Well, they're using hyperbole. They're being symbolic. I—I find it rather sickening. Aggrandizing. No, I want the real everything, I want the real everywhere. Skeletons—that shall be my secret. Life is fleeting, but death? Now, that's forever.”

Now, Roby did not know what to say in response to this—or most things—but she waited to see if another soda was on its way, or if Mobile would produce one somehow, or summon a waiter—something like that. But there didn't seem to be any soda forthcoming, and so in this dire circumstance, Roby was driven to take action, and said, “I will go and get a soda for me.” She got up and went away.

“Take your time,” said Mobile. “I'll be waiting. Always.”

The train rumbled on.

Anyway, as soon as the lions attacked Traycup, the jet carrying all the things Famous Cram was crammed into came in for a landing—but there was a problem with the autopilot and they came in a little too low, and they crashed into the tool shed, which exploded, and also the plane exploded, and the crates and boxes and whatever broke open, and Famous Cram was tossed from the crash, did five front flips, and landed on her feet. No one was hurt, because it was a paper airplane, but the autopilot did get demoted to autodishwasher.

“Ah, an electric donut!” said Traycup.

“If only,” said Famous Cram, who was quite dizzy now, but unverted the condition by performing five back flips very quickly, so as to be balanced in all ways.

“Spoilers upon spoilers!” said the pangolin. “Well, let's not say I put on a good show!” With that, it whistled for a cab, and when a dirt-biking buffalo passed by, it leapt aboard, and built a small post-modern house from reclaimed materials on the dashboard. (Do bikes have dashboards? If not, let's say the pangolin also built a dashboard.) The buffalo got on the highway and floored it, as one does in a vehicle, and turned the radio half way up.

Traycup and Famous Cram saw none of this since they were surrounded by ten lions, and also, that all happened behind the wreckage of the tool shed, where it was out of their line of sight and thus out of their minds.

“Ten lions!” said Famous Cram. “Well, that's some.”

“Yes, none fewer,” said Traycup. “I counted them to rest assured, and now, assured, can we rest!”

Famous Cram stood as togetherly to Traycup as she dared, and wondered at the key to lion-defeating. “Yeah, sure,” she said. “By the way, there was a snag with the spices.”

“Alas,” wailed Traycup, “there too-often is. We can look at a boat later.” He gave her a gold-plated, silver-lined, copper-bound wink.

Now, the lions had grown impatient, and kickoff time was nigh, so they made an approach and tried to see the battle joined. They all flung around their nunchucks, and jumped to and fro, acting like colicky children who had their favorite toys taken away, knocked down their TV dinners, and got sent to their rooms, and then, in the depths of their dark cribs, they clambered out, squeezing between bars or vaulting over them, and found their way to the windowsill, where the paint was peeling, and so they helped themselves to chip after chip, engulfing a mountain of lead in the process, and gaining its powers, which were at least ninefold.

Seeing this, Traycup said, “You put turbulence 'pon my child with these sob stories you've loaned out! Glisten well, for I've seen more'n one kind of good daisy, and e'en remember the rabbit! Now, pick a card, any card—but your table's o'erturned with ever fewer redress!” Traycup threw some seeds out for the birds, and the birds caught the seeds in their hats, so they could bring them back to the pool, because they deserved a break for a change—little did they know, however, that this summer would be splendid indeed, and at least ten dollars was right around the corner. But, in the meantime, there was a factory way down south in Nummneddin where they still make carburetors the old fashioned way: Styrofoam soup with brand new fungus standing guard.

“This is a blow!” said the lions, and a blow indeed it was—too much, in fact, for four of the lions, and they were defeated, and moved back home to work at Uncle K's store, even though they were sure their band was close to its big break. (It wasn't.)

Now, of the remaining lions, none were named Leo, so Packel Porridge took the lead, and said, “Stylish shaven man, say what you will about cartwheels, but hitting a spoon with the flat of your hand—ha! Now that's what I call a quality Sunday evening! Oh, don't mind the songs, they paid for the tuna shipping license, you know! Here's a lordly lump—catch the wave!” The lions crowded around the workbench, inspecting the order of some shrews, and took a pencil and each wrote down their names on the back of a stripeless sock named Lloyd, all the while shouting, “Cucumber shoe!” Then Packel Porridge jumped up on top of an old stump and played a regular harp.

“Stand in a crevice!” Traycup said to Famous Cram, and put her under a Mason jar, and then watched some old-timey videos about how they used to have to hand-crank cars to start them, and the lions were confounded.

“We are confounded!” said the lions—or rather, said Packel Porridge, but he spoke for the packet of leonines.

Famous Cram said, “I don't need my hand held,” and she said it indignantly.

Traycup eyed her with his eyes and said, “You'll to take 'fter me, then. Go on and leap, and fearn't a fall, for Father's wide hands can catch any foul! Reflect my motion and prepare to skip the score!”

“What?” said Famous Cram, and then she said, “All right.” She—she had to take a phone call, but no phone rang, and then—then, she looked to Traycup, who made an enthusement—and then she said, “Well, what about a—a badger?” She had a good idea about obscure footwear, but didn't follow through, and she could tie a knot backwards—in theory. Then, she thought about waffles—

It was a mismove, and, undauntable and somewhat refurbished, Packel Porridge said, “Hiccup is spelled just fine the way it is!” and then the other lions painted a mural on the side of the school board administrative building—a mural depicting the way strange squids look at electroplating machines. Someone wanted to find out how to make a holographic worry. There were enough fish in the sea, but even with the price of tonsil stones these days—that is, fake ones—there'd be no restoring the trolley system in Old Town.

Traycup said nothing—algebra could do itself in the rain, and an ultramodern conlang made not by building, but by tearing down, was put in place for the glory of long-lost turkey dinners, and, even though there's a lot of problems you've never heard of, a detailed diagram of the functional parts of an adult tree cannot be elected to office.

“That was close!” said Famous Cram, who naively thought it was close.

“Go on, daughter mine!” said Traycup. “Become offensive, and make proud the family name!”

“I'm trying!” said Famous Cram. “Wait—what is the family name?”

Famous Cram glanced at Traycup, who was beaconing support. She'd have to try again. She—dropped a pencil down the drain and didn't have spare shoes?

Alas—well, I shouldn't take sides by saying things like “alas” like that. Anyway, now the lions surrounded them, and since the pangolin was long gone, the lions had forgotten their mission of capture, and now reclaimed their wild nature, and sought to move for the kill. They loaded their nunchucks and prepared to fire.

And then Traycup said, “I'ven't a way upstairs, little spire flume, and trust the open waters—there's at least three businesses like show business! Now, a cup's a pint if it wants to be, and over by the front door, there's the old ladder Wilbur used to use—back before the shrubbery issues! If you want a little bit of silence, I'm happy to point you to the placeholder, and if there's no atomic clock, well, then there never was! Oh! How the sound can make its home in a tin can that can't in Canton!”

Six times, three cats looked over the papers from HQ, and they couldn't understand what this had to do with their department, so they contacted the manager, and he turned them all into mazes, and then climbed up the side of a sideways beach-goer, and at the top found a forgotten series of strobe lights, once said to be the hallmark of grace, but now reduced to 50% off, so buy it now, because supplies won't last! Next time, I'm not waiting for you, so you'd better be ready when it's time, or else you can find your own ride. No—forget that, because you'll just call Jake, and you're not talking to him anymore—do you understand me? Do I make myself clear? Answer me!

Now five lions were defeated, and went into a mass grave to search for the remains of the loyalists who took part in the great Battle of Ten Walls. This was part of the duty of an archaeologist, after all.

Only Packel Porridge remained. He looked to his left and saw Traycup, he looked to his right and saw Famous Cram. So he looked inside himself and saw a true thing, and gave up and ran away.

Famous Cram breathed with ease, and said, “Does this happen a lot?”

“Victory is daily,” said Traycup happily, not bothering to remember the Nesodi Iveent-ruining defeat he'd been on the wrong side of, and added, “but lions're new.”

Famous Cram unwisely dabbled in thoughts and feelings, which never result in a happy ending, and while she was gladdened to have seen the successful ruining of the lions, her own combattitude had been inadequate, and, what's more, the pangolin and the broadsword had gotten away. As for the shotgun—

“We gotta go check on the bowling shoes!” she blurted.

Traycup laughed joymently. “We'll get you a pair if you cease the hinting!”