They came into Zullywood and all the splendor of the entertainment town. The bright lights inside thin shaped glass from mana orbs fluttering within. Marques that signaled and pointed to restaurants, burlesque shows, comedy skits. Streets were lined with the glow, the city never seemed to lose it’s light. The streets, those of white soapstone, were filled with the eccentrics. Mimes, painted silver elves, barbarians dressed as monsters with fanged masks. The show was wandering the streets, the price of admission was free.

Harrogate leaned against a palm tree, the green hand wide across the sky. He rubbed his inner shoe.

“You know, I think we’ll be straight for another few weeks. I stole some of that basket money from the church before.” He said.

“How much?” Cecile wiped the sweat from her forehead, the glare of a sign that read ‘Ubfirts Mighty Steaks’ glared against her shiny forehead.

“About two-fiddy.”

“Two hundo’?”

“That’s right-o.” He said.

“Why are we talking like this?”

They shrugged and came down the street. A man on a wooden unicycle juggled vases filled with fairies. They didn’t seem so pleased being thrown in circles, a whole four of them with upside down frowns as they went in circles.

“I’m changing a new leaf, Harry.” She said. “You really inspired me with that talk.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” She said. “I’m done being immoral. I’m done taking advantage of people. I want to earn money, but earn it fair and square. I want to be helpful. A hero. You know?”

“A hero, huh?”

“Why are you laughing?” She asked.

He had his face turned. Cecile grabbed him by the shoulders and raised him and shook him like a toy infant, bobbing his head up and down as he laughed and laughed.

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Beyond her stale and dry face, behind a window, were the crystal balls that had giant holograms imposed on the walls. Zullywood. The city of dreams.

They returned to the carriage a little after noon, the sun just about to set and the low red glare set across the high-rise buildings of Zullywood. The wind carried ocean currents from some sea miles away, a salty breeze that ran through their heads as they wandered back to the outskirts and to their posted carriage held to the ground by spikes. The horses at hay, Harrogate had a glaring contest with them. He lost.

She opened the flaps to the canvas behind the cart and peeked her head inside.

Somewhere in the corner, in an obscure darkness, a figure woke up with dazed and lazy movements. It had - this figure - its hands up against its face. Bloodshot eyes showed through the crevices of their finger gaps.

“Harry, there’s another homeless in here.” She said.

“I’ll get the whip.”

“Close the damn li-” A hiccup. “Close the damn lights.”

“Turnus?” She asked. “I thought you left?”

“We told you to leave, you freeloader.” Harrogate hopped up the edge of the cart and poked his head beneath Cecile’s.

At the bottom of the wooden cart, bottles rolled across the floor with the stench so strong that they pulled away with burned nostrils. His face appeared, then and there, apparition-like.

“Close the lights.” He said. Almost as if hissing.

“Sweet Jenba.” Harrogate said.

“Don’t speak His name.” Turnus said. “I found God and I killed Him.”

“Oh boy, he’s in that phase.” Cecile said, mumbled and low. “Listen, Turnus. Magic Academy is over now, you can grow up.”

“There is no growing up. God is dead.”

“Relax Nietzsche.” Harrogate said.

“Who’s Nitcha?” Cecile asked.

“Don’t worry about it.” Harrogate came through the flaps. “Turnus. You’ve got to go.”

He shook his shoulder, this balled pygmy in the corner of the room with the slobbering, hissing noise and the widened nostrils and the two murderous eyes like a winding rabid animal.

“Get out.” He threw a bottle. “Out!”

Harrogate ducked. It hit Cecile across the top of the head. Though given the hollow noise, it didn’t sound like it made much rattle.

“Where’d you get all this liquor from?” Cecile asked. The bottle rolled beneath her foot.

Harrogate’s eyes widened. He grabbed Turnus by his stained white jacket.

“How. Did you. Buy. This. Liquor?”

And Turnus smiled. Then burped.

“Thank you for your donation to the church.” He turned his head, it jerked and the vomit pooled and pooled beneath Harrogate’s boots.

“Harry.” Cecile said.

“Yes, Cecile?” He looked down with a flat face, shoulders hunched. The face on him seeming a bit mortified. A bit in shock. A bit impressed. Mostly defeated.

“I think we need to get a job.” She said.

“I think you’re right.” Harrogate said.