Shattering light happened to Ben Garment, as Dubious Miraclasm's primary tentacle wrapped him up and put him out to pasture, so to speak, and ringed the pasture with a fence, and ringed the fence with trees, and ringed the whole thing with an ocean, and left that newly-made island to float away on its own. This would be detrimental to Ben Garment were he not an anglerfish—and so, revving his wheels, he leapt the fence in one wonderful arc, bypassed the trees by means of a few simple bribes, and plunged into the icy ocean, to swim to safety, satiety, and profit.

This is the suite of events by which Ben Garment found himself in that extricable pickle.

Miraclasm had brought to the record store his entire safe for trade-in—or rather, the contents thereof—carrying it by pigeonback, and upon reaching the fortified perimeter of the store's bounds, Pote the storekeeper—I think that was his name, and if not, then Pote's here now, he took over his shift—raised the alarm, the militia, and the roof, and Ben Garment, Lorenzo the bee, and Jockey Standish went to battle against Miraclasm, all of them with their slingshots and anvils, which went together like cherries and hubcaps, and Miraclasm blossomed into tentacles, pentacles, and—you can see where this is going—for, owing to his odor proliferation and propensity to leave restrooms in public in the same condition as his at home—not a sight for a Christmas card, so to speak, not even a kinky one—he was unwelcome specifically, mercantilism and other trees notwithstanding.

“You engage?” bellowed Miraclasm. “Foolish practitioners! I come to make exchanges! Behold, my wares—apt to your store's generalities!” He displayed his safe, and dumped from it the vinyls he deigned to see swapped for newer tunes, a governmental lassie-faire policy, or, if no better option gifted itself, a bushel of albacore. None beheld the record collection with a tuba, for their engagement was destined for Roby, who did not emerge from the safe in the slightest, so Ben Garment, Lorenzo, and Jockey let all the light bulbs burn out, and in wallowing in despair they squashed the made deal.

“Well, she's dead,” said Lorenzo. “We can opt to give up, or avenge her.”

“That's as easy,” said Jockey, “as the third barrel of atomic cheesecake! Would a damsel get distressed knowing the use of all scarves?”

Lorenzo hazarded no guesses as to this mystery, and sought Ben Garment's wisdom instead, which was: “Well, vengement was bound to roll by sooner than later. Let's call this ten-thirty—the best o'clock—and get a stand up!”

“It's to be battle in sooth?” said Miraclasm. No fight was the musical rapture he made his main option most times, and yet this redounded wall was his whole indoctrination. Now, he was bad and worse when it came to fighting, but despite his numerous weak spots and moral failings, being a hundred and one or so feet tall was an advantageous status—even without feet—and when it came time to vote on vice librarian detector, he was a shoe-in—again, despite not having feet. This left Ben Garment's barbecue collection in great peril, and only through the foresight of not owning three yachts were Ben and his pals able to distribute instructional pamphlets to the widows' union, averting the colonization era and the invention of parakeets.

“Not all who wander are lost,” said Jockey, “and not all who wonder are lust! I could go on—window, list, for example—but take note, you cock-eyed child molesters! I'm here to make a new noise!”

At this time, the sky was growing red with the flames of war—no, wait. ...sorry, it's not war. Well, not another one, anyway. Someone spilled cherry cough medicine. See, that's why they should've kept it in a hubcap! We covered this! At any rate, the discoloration of the bubble of Heaven was wont to cause ire and strife amongst all who bore witness to it, not least of all Lorenzo, who gazed at it like a bee looking at a red sky.

“Is this an ill omen?” he said, for he knew not that it was cough syrup making the mess, and that illness afore it would soon be cured. “I don't like the looks of this. Or most things.”

Jockey opted to make a Miraclasmward strike during the distraction. She knew about phone booths—had seen them in movies a long while ago, and though she'd never seen one in real life, the possibility for steak donuts remained at large, or at least at medium, or medium-rare if she was feeling daring, which she was. The chef flung the steak donut at her, and alas she chose that moment to check her phone—yep, still boothless.

“Oh! Steak to the temple!” she cried as the meaty missile made its mark.

“We might be overmatched,” said Lorenzo. “Can any of you actually fight?”

Ben Garment and Jockey had no toe-socks.

“That's not going to cut it,” lamented Lorenzo. “Perhaps vengeance is out of reach. What was the other selection?”

Now, Ben Garment was not eager to give up on Roby, and truth be told nor was Lorenzo, but laid out plain like that, they had no choice but to admit that slaying the giant fairy-tale style was only as possible as three landslides in a dishwasher on Flag Day. With or without Roby—or, wither without, Roby—the old goal, and the late school's last motto, remained enshrined in their brains, where it was etched deeply in jagged lines.

However, this dire dying daydream had to take a number, for they were soon swarmed—Miraclasm would keep them hooked, for the battle came toward them and a number of scaly orphans, eager to discontinue the narrative, rode in formation on inner tubes, leeks in hand, shouting their battle cry: “Why don't you just check in the TV Guide?!” So Ben Garment, Lorenzo, and Jockey were compelled to be pressed to dive into a bush, and the judges leapt out of their seats and gave them all a perfect ten-point-zero, except that Lorenzo got straight nil, and Ben Garment got between five and six for the most part, and Jockey was disqualified for unspecified fluid issues.

“The issue is the issue,” specified the judges.

“Well, that happens,” said Jockey. “Get me some corks and I'll put a stop to it!”

“Or a bottle,” said Ben Garment, “and we'll get entrepreneurial.”

But neither cork nor bottle was brought, for their unsatisfying scores kept them from the finals, and they were ordered to pack their things and decamp from the athlete's village before the church bells struck dinnertime, and so they placed all their belongings into a wet duffel bag, placed the duffel bag into a torpedo tube, and launched it at full speed off the port bow, saluting as it skipped across the water and scored a direct hit on the enemy cruiser, hitting it in the magazine and making it lose its page and mustache. The cruiser, feigning indifference, wore a fine coat with numerous patches, some mechanical, some structural, and one loose thread—that was Sabrina, of course, and there'd be no coaxing her to safety, not while she embraced the love for love that tore her heart asunder, as under the spell of a diphthong and on the waiting list for a donor. After half an afternoon, someone stopped playing the violin, and had to be sold for parts, and Miles the Literal Social Tank finally had a use for his kit, and ran up with the glue in one hand and the calipers in another, singing, “Lovely spaced-out marshmallow pans!” as loud as he could—but it was too late. The cruiser got evicted, Sabrina got convicted, and Miles fell on his earlobe and was cauterized.

“That'll buy us a moment,” said Ben Garment, “but it's a pricey prize!”

“Evacuate at once!” said Lorenzo. “Don't be too picky on the route!”

So, the three of them ran into a shopping cart in the middle of the greeting card section, idly wondering whether there was some missed symbolism in the old script from out west, and remarking on how they don't have as many tigers as they used to. Miraclasm hadn't noticed them yet, since he was well aware of the whole gazebo bit. Ben Garment put some lip balm in his pocket.

“For the bay,” he explained.

Approximately three giraffes had a lance, and they skewered some weird old mushrooms with it, old crumbly things that fell apart as soon as anyone touched them, and Princess Toto was there with a blue feather, and the Danish danish salesman was there telling her that was a terrible idea, twice as illegal as snowboarding, and why not buy some danishes before she went? She didn't have any money, but the danishes looked good, so she asked if there was any other way she could pay, and the danish salesman suggested she apply to be the junior postmaster for the town this season—it was a small town, you see, and they didn't have regular post office staff, they just had volunteers pitch in and take care of things in shifts, pretty much. It had down-home country charm and it got the job done—more or less—and yet Princess Toto thought this was a terrible idea.

“In general?” said the Danish danish salesman. “Or d'you mean you doing it?”

“It's always a good idea when I do it,” said Princess Toto. But before she could elaborate on the heritage of arsenic wallpaper, Old Johnny Porkrind showed up with his lawyers, and hit Princess Toto with a lawsuit, since she stole that line directly from Porkrind's diary, a secret tome which was carved into a four-mile-high bronze slab that can only be seen by people with ninety-nine eyes—it was too big to be seen by any less. Princess Toto had ninety-nine eyes, and could see the slab just fine, but being a foreigner and unused to the lay of the land, had no idea that anyone else didn't, couldn't, or shouldn't see it—it was the very epitome of the public domain, from where she was standing.

“Ignoring the law is no defense,” said Porkrind. “Brace yourself for trial!”

Princess Toto braced herself. The dentist sighed and went back to his cottage.

The trial was set to begin in June, so the jury selection had to get underway stat. It would be hard to find an impartial jury, since Princess Toto had also starred in the big summer blockbuster, I Can Eat The Whole Library, so the judges—the very same who had recently been giving their verdicts only on diving contests and pointy cat ears—declared a mistrial in advance, and decided to just flip a coin for it.

“Heads,” called Porkrind.

“Also heads,” called Princess Toto.

The coin landed on tails. Porkrind and Princess Toto shared a glance, each using it for two days and swapping on the way to work in the morning, and it was this simple neighborly gesture that paved the way for love, and soon they put their differences beside them—so they'd always be within reach—and climbed a volcano backwards, towing no scuba gear, reluctantly remembering bison, and always ready to divulge the printer's serial number.

“You think that's fine?” said Carman Bordame, the finest whistle-carver this side of a loophole. “I did twelve years for a slab-glance! And this bangreale gets off with help? Don't pray, but judge!”

With that, Carman bought ten islands, sold nine of them, and named the last one Filrthro, where the old salesmen would go to seek the wisdom of a fallen lampshade. The island's long and fascinating history was lost, however, on the day that the seventh-biggest telescope in the valley burst into radishes and they had to cancel Christmas, and everyone had to bring their presents back to the landfill where they found them. It was there that Carman lay in wait, and as soon as he saw Princess Toto and Porkrind sadly marching amongst the masses to dispose of their hard-earned matching candelabra-themed toilet seat covers, he set loose a wild trout. “Get on my lawn!” snarled the trout, slapping rollerskates onto Princess Toto and Porkrind and pushing them down the stairs and into the poisonous band room—and then after the crashing had ceased he pushed the fridge down there, too.

“Okay, enough of this,” said the judges, and they captured Ben Garment, Jockey, and Lorenzo with a big lasso. “Right—the crims are finally dead, and that's a spectacle worth enduring, but we need those bodies buried. Not too deep—they're as evil as limes, and, what's more, there's an archaeologist coming later, and I don't want him to be too put out.”

“Can we,” said Lorenzo, “dispense with this gainless activity?”

“You know what's even worse?” said Jockey. “Who's going to star in the next summer blockbuster?”

“Oh ye of little faith,” said the judges, baring their ankles. “Why, I'm looking at my set right now! One, two, three—those are the first three numbers, unless your brain's beyond braining—and yours is!”

And so the three of them got cast in the lead role in the next summer blockbuster, which was going to be called Whither Custodial Supplies, but at the last minute the producer backed out, citing that due to an expected upturn in blindness this weekend, it'd be a losing proposition to invest in entertainment at this or any other time.

“Surgeons,” said the producer. “Everyone's gotta be surgeons. Good ones. Cuttin' eyes open and puttin' in new lenses. It's tricky stuff! I tried it three times, once for each of my children, and failed on all accounts. Now two won't talk to me and one can't! And that's not the worst of it—no one's willing to pay for the executions!”

“All problems are solvable,” said the judges. They handed Ben Garment a surgical tool, and then they handed Jockey a surgical tool, and then they handed Lorenzo a surgical tool. Now they all had a surgical tool, and could be called surgeons truly, and at last begin surgery.

“Bring in the first patient!” said the judges.

Dubious Miraclasm was the first patient. Jockey and Ben Garment shared a non-love-sparking glance.

“I am forming a plan,” said Jockey with sneakiness.

“As am I,” said Lorenzo. “And mine's better.”

“I'm not going to bother, then,” said Ben Garment.

“Listen closely,” said Lorenzo in a low sounding voice. “By inflicting malpractice with the surgical tools we now all hold in our hands, we can render the giant as slain as can be, and thus call Roby avenged, and then try to develop a more interesting set of adventures for ourselves.”

“Well, that's a plan,” said Ben Garment, “by certain means.”

“My turn!” said Jockey, spinning like a cynical egg. “Do you know about sheep? About two of them can fit onto a standard raft, and thus, given the equipment to present their flesh to the cabal, they can wax eloquent about cheese—or else. Then, no one should make a distraction, and we can use a staple remover in peace. What's more, we can lose a stable revolver in peas. Then, all that remains—”

“—is the whipped cream!” said Ben Garment. “Now, that's standing up!”

Jockey said, “A haughty showing—breakdown the door, I'll be ready!”

Lorenzo said, “That undoes a wiser way.”

But by then, Miraclasm sobered up, and realizing that he didn't have insurance, made to dispense with the surgeons ere he could be charged overmuch, and so he dealt with them in this fashion: first he took Lorenzo and sent him to live with his uncle across the country, in the middle of nowhere, doomed to a boring summer stuck indoors doing nothing, or stuck outdoors working on aged crafts, until strange circumstances would bind him to a quirksome adversarial ally, and launch the first jaunt of unpredictable explanations. Then, for Jockey, Miraclasm chucked her up so high that she dislocated all her bones and wasn't allowed to tell anyone, but she went and spilled the beans anyway, and then everyone could count how many beans there were, and this did not go unseen by the forebears, who changed their minds and then were four bears, and they surrounded Jockey without her even noticing, and so the rain fell on her all day long, sweet and as translucent as an advertisement. And, finally, Ben Garment got that pasture thing from before, and as I mentioned, him being a fish means he got out of that jam effortlessly and into entirely unrelated jelly.

Dubious Miraclasm, at last face to face with Pote, growled with pancakes and said outside of a lighthouse, “What'll you give me for the lot?”

Pote said some impossible numbers, died, and turned into every chicken nugget. This was the point at which the telephone poles snuck out to share a cigar and try their hand at whitewashing, but alas—handless, they failed, as everyone always does.

Miraclasm shrugged and took up baking.