Now, all this time, back in Dot-Speck-Water-Trail, the unicorns had been gambling. They were idiots—not just because they were gambling, but because they were doing it badly and losing. But they weren't complete idiots, so they went to the penny slots, so they could lose slowly, at least. But they were still idiots, and they couldn't figure out how to use the slots, so, in their embarrassment, they went with roulette, because they didn't have a good enough poker face to play backgammon. Really, these are just people that should never have been given an allowance in the first place. Where were their parents, anyway? Or are we retconning that?

Anyway, to paint the scene a little more, Dot-Speck-Water-Trail was a city with a pluripotent electrical system, and they abused it mightily to create sparkling light shows on every street corner, partly to promote the gamblish halls and dice dens, but also in the classic keeping-up-with-the-Joneses fashion—each facility simply had to outshine the next, or else you were barely even trying, and that simply wouldn't do—and all the people gathered to watch the light shows, staring until their retinas became singed and, withering from the pain of the visualization, packed their things and went to found a city at the bottom of the sea—if they couldn't find a city at the bottom of the sea—and pray that succor would be granted in the depths beneath the waves. The preresidential sea cucumbers gazed in idleness as the newcomers came and went, then returned to their vent-sucking, everlasting and unplussable.

Back up in the 'Trail, Darnello from Chapter 1 showed up and, sensing a kinship with the unicorns, what with them all being similarly specied, teamed up with them to become Darnello and the Unicorns, the latest hip pop group, and they got a permanent show at the seventh-biggest hotel on Fortune Boulevard. That's not the main strip, though, don't get too excited. It was like a secondary section that's not quite as good—but, that's not to say it was bad, per se. That's just where people went if they couldn't afford the good casinos, or if the huge crowds and endless glitz was upsetting to their delicatest sensibilities, or if they didn't mind getting mugged a few times. Anyway, this gig wasn't the highest highlight of the region either, but it's certainly better than most people ever accomplished. If you look at J. Random So-and-so's obituary, it just talks about their family, and their job—and that's just a job, that's just paying the bills, not something to celebrate. People just exist for a while and then stop, and then who cares? But the ones that make it big, the ones that make a splash, they leave ripples after they're gone, and get people talking about them forever. Does it matter? Well, people are talking about you. That's what mattering means. Does it matter in the big picture, though? No, of course not. There is no big picture.

But Darnello can't carry a chapter on his own, so Captain, Limonade, Phil, and the Volkswagen, which was dead, by the way, and so had become—not a zombie, that's way too overdone, and ghost is too important, even in the hollow Earth. Let's say it was the, uh... the banshee of the Volkswagen—which we'll then portmanteau into “Volksbansheegen.” See? Little behind-the-scenes action for you, see how the magic happens in real time.

So, Captain, Limonade, Phil, and the Volksbansheegen were at the seventh-biggest hotel in Dot-Speck-Water-Trail's borderline passable district, and they had doubled Phil's paycheck, then doubled it again, and one more time—and at that point casino staff became suspicious, for they disbelieved in luck and, for some reason, counted it more likely that Captain et al had some sort of extremely clever plan to guarantee winnings. You know, like cheating. Cheating was, in fact, beyond them, as was planning, and their winnings were mainly due to finding a bone in their martinis and settling with the lawyers out of court afore a sandal could erupt. That's right—a sandal. But then they went ahead and invested all the cash into nightlights—a very risky investment indeed since night didn't exist, but the fact that anyone even knew about it foretold the coming end—and this bankrupted them nigh instantaneously, and they out-turned their pockets like in the ye olde cartoons to display their poverty. Then, since they couldn't afford the fee to exit the hotel, they stuck around and watched Darnello and the Unicorns perform.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Darnello into the microphone, “I shall now perform.”

He began to perform.

“That's quite a performance,” said Captain.

“Quiet! That's a performance,” hushed Limonade.

Phil fluttered through the script, trying to find his lines for this scene.

Then the Volksbansheegen, its turn to talk, did what banshees do best—it unleashed the most gut-piercing, outlandish, odoriferous, malevolent screaming screeching shriek that had ever effused from the most abyssic depths of its engine, or any engine, or any sound-making device ever to exist anywhere in the entire world. An eagle dropped its egg in mid-flight because its hands got covered in butter, and fourteen octopuses went to the beach, not knowing the doom it spelt for them, and, once there, challenged the board room to a rousing game of Pong on an original arcade console, which they happened to be carrying with them. Seven violent paintings made a mosaic out of spiders, and over in the hills, the box company and the radio company finalized a merger, fired everybody, and they all went to spend their severance pay at the casino, but when they got there, there was no parking except for frogs, which no one was, and so they became rowdy. Darnello couldn't concentrate on his performance anymore—because of sodium—and called the whole thing off. This infuriated everyone, and pitchforks and torches were rapidly distributed, and everyone picked someone to blame for the disaster—some went after the newcoming exployees, some went after that eagle, and some, led by Darnello and the Unicorns themselves—cleverly shifting the blame—pointed their armaments at the Volksbansheegen, and chased it to the old windmill. It goes without saying that Captain, Limonade, and Phil rode inside their old friend, intent to stick by its side until the end of their mutual days.

“Hang on,” said Phil, “I think I have the wrong script. Who's Markerel? Is that one of you's last name?”

The crowd bashed down the door and said, “The last name you'll ever have is mud! You're going to eat it and be it in a moment's notice!” Now they all had bows and arrows, so they all drew back their bows and shot their arrows, and all the arrows pierced the blades of the windmill, and with its wings pinned down as such, no longer could the 'mill spin to keep everyone cool, and they all became so hot that some of them had to call off the hunt, and those that remained redoubled their efforts, though they had not doubled them the once.

Darnello had a flamberge, one of those huge swords with a wavy blade that are supposed to make people bleed extra when they get hit by it—but really, it was like fifty pounds of sharp metal, so you really don't have to be picky with the design, I think. And his flamberge was also venomous, and also rusty, and also high in cholesterol. It was a very dangerous weapon, is my point. Heh—“point.” Like, the point on the tip of the sword. Get it? Oh, never mind. I'm wasted on this silence.

Anyway, Darnello ran into the windmill swinging around the flamberge, chopping up the big grinding wheel and all sorts of gears and stuff, when all of a sudden, wouldn't you know it, but Curly Frantoes, also from Chapter 1, came out with a claymore, which usually had similar stats to the flamberge, but without a bleed effect, for it had no waves to its shape. He could let no 'mill be sullied in such ways, and so he challenged Darnello to battle, and their battle was joined, but theirs was a typical sort of battle, what with the clashing of weapons and whatnot, so it wasn't really worth recounting in detail. They both insulted each others' mothers, as required by law, and broke numerous pieces of pottery, some of which were dated to the good ol' days, which made the archaeologists cry—but, like I said, I'm not going into detail.

In the meantime, the Volksbansheegen and its passengers slipped out the back door, and since most of the crowd was blind or deaf or both, on average no one noticed them, and those that did found it hard to express to those that didn't, and a few poets found the symmetry to the Tower of Babel story to be poignant, but some Bible scholars were on hand to point out all the inaccuracies in the comparison, so that crisis was averted—for now.

“Hey!” said Mr. Ovaltine. Mr. Ovaltine was the producer of the stage show, and the longer that Darnello and the Unicorns weren't on the stage making him money, the shorter he became. They had a tight schedule, and couldn't afford to waste time wrecking windmills. Besides, windmills were going extinct, and had been on the endangered species list for years—something I think we can all relate to. “You sand dunes have a show to put on! So cease with putting it off! This is indecorous behavior, and I'd say I mislike it, but should I make such a fool of myself to invent new wordage?”

Darnello and the Unicorns slumped up against the world's biggest mushroom and felt their necks, to see if they could still grow new hairs, and when it rained it poured, so a bus was called but it didn't answer, which concerned everyone, but when they called the police to request a wellness check, the police said that the bus probably just ran away from home—case closed! The bus was never seen again, and even with sophisticated modern DNA technology, little girls drove little cars through the car wash at over two hundred miles per hour—at least in theory. It wasn't a carefully conducted scientific study. I'm not supposed to win.

Curly Frantoes had one concern and one concern only: the operation of the mill. Now that it was ruined, he sought compensation from Darnello and the Unicorns, but after their swordfight—well, no details, I don't want to give away how that ended, but Curly Frantoes remained unpayed, and so he went to Mr. Ovaltine, but Mr. Ovaltine refused to cough up the dough, saying that he in turn only worked for the hotel-casino complex—hotelsino, I guess—so Curly Frantoes went to the hotelsino's owner—no, wait! The casinotel's owner, Luminous Artery, who claimed to be a king, a queen, and everything in between.

Luminous Artery, surrounded by legitimate businessmen, said, “Say, in words, your demand, and be replied with estrangement and apoplexy.”

“My windmill's been busted by one of your guys!” said Curly Frantoes. “It ain't right—I'm out here tryin' to get by with some honest labor, and some punk's come bust up my means o' livin'!”

Luminous Artery laughed like the sinking darkness and said, “Then, be bound up in sin and be stripped of faith until the memory of hope fades and you bear your eternal yoke with gratitude, lost in bliss.”

With that, the legitimate businessmen picked up Curly Frantoes and threw him off the roof, and he landed in the maternity ward, and a kangaroo was going into labor, and Curly Frantoes, who had been a laborer his whole life, knew just what to do, and led her to the closet where the mop lived.

“Is this the end of the world?” said the mop.

Curly Frantoes looked to the kangaroo, who shook her head. “Not today,” he said. “We've got one more chance. And I expect you're gonna make it count.”

The mop saluted weakly. “You can count on me. You can always count on me.”

“I know,” said Curly Frantoes. “Let's go.”

He held out his hand to the mop, which took it unsteadily. The kangaroo bowed and prepared herself for oblivion. Together, they baked cookies and wept.

Five miles down the road the Volksbansheegen sped away, and Captain, Limonade, and Phil saw in the rear view mirror the mushroom cloud rising. They put on some more sunglasses and floored it.

Amelia Namington moved—had moved—the site of the meeting of the masters of Oopertreepia from the highest and brightest room in her monumentally peerless palace into the darkest and most secret chamber deep within the heart of the Earth, for the nature of their conversation had shifted from the lofty and grand to a miserable deviation for which they had not accounted, and was unworthy of celebration. Amelia would let none depart until it was resolved—they could not depart, for this existence was all they knew—and so they sought answers to questions better than better questions. Traycup's letter was strange and portended omens, and she would let no one have peace until their meaning was revealed.

It was Amelia's turn to speak, because it was her house, and she made the rules.

“I'll tell you what I think,” said Amelia. “And it's this: the vision proclaimed in the letter is the nonsense of a madman and an impossibility. It is ludicrous in its assertion of factuality. It must be—this should be easily evident! Consider its all-encompassing scope. Could it have escaped the eyes of all others in the whole world? Obviously not. We should have word from a thousand spies corroborating the event—to say nothing of the comments of citizens in our own streets.”

They nine were present, but none wished to be involved in this latest challenge, and so even the most loudest-mouthed of them kept their peace—aside from those who didn't, meaning Woliack, who always had something to say, and Votary-Polite, who was too officious to stave off participation.

“You are quick to dismissal,” said Woliack. “Does it fluster you so?”

“No,” said Amelia, suppressing unvalued emotion. “We are reading the ravings of a fool and putting undue worth on them. This should be forgotten.”

“We would not use an unskilled spy,” interjected Votary-Polite. “Do not consider hallucination an option. A mistake could not have happened. An err? There is no chance of that. Instead, we must contemplate that he has seen something only seeable to him. He has seen the path of a future that no others can see. A future displayed only to him—and now to us.”

“Some future,” said Amelia too grimly.

“Some future,” said Votary-Polite, “is better than none.”

“And some,” said Amelia, “are not.”

“Let's save doom for after dessert,” said Naked Blindforager, so as to keep track. This—the dessert—was a metaphor, to Humbash Foor's disappointment. Their feast was to be lingering mysteries and puzzles with too many missing pieces. This was no way to live.

Amelia returned to the vital topic. “Then, we can ponder whether the sights were unreal and delivered purposefully to the spy's vision. This only begets a new question: from whom?”

To this, everyone had an answer, for Oopertreepia's enemies were endless—the jealous, would-be rivals, the pitiful nuisances lying in the path of conquest, and the last remnants of the long-lost fallen—but which meager land could have the potency to concoct such an event? These options were in short supply. Only one came to mind: Endestallia—and even it, so they could see, lacked the capacity to pull off this trick.

“It seems we're in agreement,” said Amelia, gazing at them each in turn. “Let's try a different approach. A direct speech with this spy. Confrontation. Have him collected and brought here, so we can ply him for all surrounding information. There are surely points unwritten, and we must first have a fuller account from the source. And he may know more—” She did not finish the sentence, for it seemed too ignoble to admit such a flaw. She was their leader.

Woliack leaned in, grinning, and obliged. “'Than us,' you mean to say? My, darling, you're wavering in your position. What happened to confidence?”

“Our grogginess has us at a disadvantage,” said Amelia, defensively and with growing impatience. “I know you all feel it clinging as well. We have not solved that puzzle, either. We have much against us.”

“Who employed this spy?” said Ombolodo. Everyone looked at him but he looked at no one.

“As to an individual?” said Votary-Polite. “That is your meaning? Not I. You, Ms. Woliack?”

“I ill like overturning my cards,” said Woliack coolly, “but no. He's not mine. I'm surprised he's not yours,” she said to Ombolodo.

Amelia turned to Ombolodo. “Is he yours?”

It transpired that none among them could recall hiring this particular person. They could not recall hiring any particular person. They could not recall much.

“Disadvantage indeed,” said Ombolodo without mirth.

“Return to your idea,” said Woliack, “of relocating this person here. Find his employer from him, while we're at it. Although, it's to be hoped you've better than your clod of a butler to lead that foray, my dear.”

“I can send an agent,” said Ombolodo.

“No,” snapped Amelia. “You've got too many sleeves for my liking. I will send someone.”

“Distrust does not suit you,” said Ombolodo.

“Neither does waking,” said Amelia. “Now, listen. I'll send a humble footman to bring the spy hither. None will know his value but us, and not until he's here. Then, as one, we'll know his tale. Does this sound like an acceptable plan?”

“It's a route toward answers,” said Votary-Polite. “It's an action. An action is better than inaction.”

“Oh,” said Woliack, “do call this satisfactory and let us be adjourned.”

“Then this is our course,” said Amelia. “We are adjourned.”