Over there was a hill, round and green and whatnot, as hills so often are, and to its left was another hill, equally round, equally green, equally whatnot, and behind that one lay or stood another, third hill, roundness and greenness unspecified. The third hill was the secret-keeper, for ahind it lay the Amberlamped Sea, which formed the foundation of pillaral smoke that sought the sky, ’neath which was housed all that remained of the late S. S. Dripspout—may it rest in pieces with all the passengers it bore. All but one, of course—for there then came atop the hill—the third hill, I think—the sound of horse feet, clopping their way to the summit, and their owner was indeed a horse, as suspected. Now, I lied—the horse was not the sole passenger who survived the explosing, for the horse was not, in fact, a passenger at all, and had just happened to be passing through at that pivotish moment, and had continued its canter awayward afore the explosion completed its cycle and consumed that oblivious equine. The smokish cloud endarkened the sky, and the horse stood atop the hill and gazed back at the ruin, the contents of its brain unknowable. Yes, it’d be more poetic to say “the contents of its heart,” but hearts contain and manipulate blood, and encapsulate full strength.
And then there came a new sound, after the clop clop of horse feet came to cessation, and their last echo, if any, dissipated. Newly come was the sound of a zipper, for lo! The horse was no horse, but a horse costume—none but Phillippo itself, and the contents of Phillippo’s fabrical torse were, at last, revealed to be merely Captain and Limonade. They clumb out with medium awkwardness, and placated themselves with sloth upon the ground.
“Oh, gosh!” said Phillippo. “I didn’t know you guys got caught in there! I’m terrible at being sorry!”
“Yet the gist is accomplished with aplomb,” said Captain. “Get thanked, you mighty steed!”
“I’m no steed,” said Phillippo, demurely zipping its self back up. “I’m not any kind of horse at all, but a horse costume!”
“In my foggy eye you’re as good as a great stallion,” said Captain jovially.
“When,” said Limonade, sprawled uncomfortably and unbreathed as well, “I’m done counting my lucky leaves, I may ask what you were doing where you were.”
“I’ll happily share!” said Phillippo. “Get comfy—here’s what happened!” Captain and Limonade made themselves as comfortable as they could upon a rock, a log, and a patch of moss, and set to listening to the story, not having seent the nearby folding chairs at an amoral picnic. “You see,” Phillippo carried on, “I was at a party, looking for the ice cream. And then—I found it! So I started eating the ice cream. I started with chocolate, for a change of pace? And then I moved onto the chocolate chip. It’s so weird! The chips in the chocolate chip were so different from the regular chocolate ice cream! Completely different flavors and everything, the textures different, everything! Ice cream is such a feat, truly. I couldn’t believe how different they were! And yet, they’re both chocolate! How do they do it?”
Captain and Limonade passed a glance back and forth, and Phillippo continued.
“So then, I went to the fudge swirl,” said Phillippo. “Now, I always thought fudge was just chocolate, but melty? But, no! It’s completely different, too! Well, it’s essentially chocolate, I guess, but the flavor and style are so different from the other ones! I never knew ice cream hid such deep lore! Such a quest, in tasting these things! And then I had strawberry.”
“That’s quite a tale,” said Captain.
“Hang on, I’m not done,” said Phillippo.
“Close enough,” said Limonade. “I think we’ve picked up what you put down. Anyway, we’ve got to put our minds at the next step—the sunken ship’s not done with us yet!”
“More true than words!” said Captain, desleeving a ready hand. “If you’re desoggy enough, redress—we’re headed back to the brink to pluck survivors from the abyss!”
“Oh, no, we’re not!” said Limonade.
“Oh? You’d stymie a do-gooder?” said Captain.
“God, yes,” said Limonade. “I can’t bear to see anyone work for free. And money’s on point now. Consider: only thanks to—” He glanced at Phillippo.
“Oh!” said Phillippo. “I’m Phillippo.”
“—to Phil’s clippity-cloppers,” said Limonade, “did we get out of the blast radius in a timely fashion. I don’t reckon anyone else had that luck. As the ultimate crew members, it falls to us to foot the bill—and that’s a leg I won’t stand on!”
“Some costly maintenance,” said Captain. “What’s your plan for the recompense?”
“My plan is you,” said Limonade, “since you’re the one who dug the ship-sinking hole, and you who armed the fatal saltines!”
Captain stood up abrusquely and faced at Limonade, but, owing to his discarded back—that’s what it means to “throw out” your back, it was thrown away with the rest of the trash, rubbish, and bathwater babies—Captain was, as yet, joined shoulder to hip with naught betwixt, and so his posture was threatless. Nonetheless, he said to Limonade, “Oh, what blame is this? You’re pinning it on me for orders followed? As for the grenade—a hero’s gesture any right man would do!”
“Then call me a lefty,” said Limonade. “But, moreover, I’m superseded here, and I don’t want to be around to bear the trickle-down!”
“Gents!” said Phillippo. “Let’s not come to blows! Surely, there’s a quieter way to solve a dispute?”
“I’ll rise to that challenge,” said Captain.
“And I’ll stoop to new lows,” said Limonade. Thus, Limonade shoved on Captain only slightly, and due to the aforementioned crippling spinal injury, Captain collapsed heapfully.
“You wretched catamaran!” said Captain. He began to unravel and failed to get himself footwise. “Well, call your revenge in helping me afoot, won’t you?”
“Look at you,” said Limonade. “Can barely stand, and you’re thinking about diving to the briny deep to recover shrapnel?”
“That’s cold words,” said Captain, reinstating himself. “But you are pointful—I’m out, as a rescuer. And if a rescue’s unavailable, that leaves one activity.”
Limonade scratched a portion of his chin. He said, “More like three: disguise, escape—and some money-making theatrics. Oh, I’m brewing something! There’s beachy tourist traps aplenty with condos with favorable leases. If we play some cards right, we can manage both sides—retire as planned and still roll some dough for me and my woes! We’d keep up the oceanic theme, too.”
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
“May I join you?” said Phillippo.
Captain spake before Limonade could answer, and said, “Aye, of course! You’re chummed to us, now. We’ll find a resortical spot with ice cream aplenty. Limonade, you know one’s locale?”
“More than one,” said Limonade. “Indeed, I know the ins and inns of most ports at arm’s length! We’ll give one to three a shot and see how sticky they are.”
“Then, let’s dawdle no more,” said Captain, “and commence the so-called ‘respite’!”
And so they coined a teamly name for their microgang, established a shaky hand to use cipherly, and then together they departed as three, and went down from that hill, toward as much a lack of adventure as they could, for all their own reasons, and unote, at once, as one.
But, unobserved, as they departed, up from the other side of the hill clomb a different sort of trio, and they—the secondly-mentioned trio, the one hinted at, not Captain and his new friends, those were directly expressed, not merely suggested, and moreover were already gone—were up to some good, perhaps, but naught could be gleaned if the scene keeps its distance. So, let’s eavesdrop! But first, another summary is due. I am sorry, but not for this.
They were, as guessable, the pangolin, the broadsword, and the shotgun. Now, what enspired was that the glass toboggan—I owe that one to spellcheck—that the pangolin, the broadsword, and the shotgun had arriven in—for the stealth aspect, of course—was still kept nearabouts by them, so at the time that the grand explosion occurred, they reoccupied it, and, with the speed it granted upon them, departed from the ship’s entire zone speedilier than the explosion could embrace, and thus were unscalded by the blastage. Fleeing aimlessly, they sought no destination of a particularity, and arrove hillside afore long, and stopped at then, since the toboggan was slowed by the hill’s sloping character.
The pangolin exited first. “Well,” it said, panting reasonlessly, “that didn’t go as planned.”
“Well, no,” said the shotgun. “But then, you said you had no plan.”
“No,” said the pangolin, “that was your mother’s declaration. I had a plan. Well—an outline, anyway.”
“I guess it didn’t go ‘to outline,’ then” said the shotgun.
Now, their discussion continued in a way or so for a little bit of time—details are not necessary here, as this scene has been seen one thousand, four thousand, sixteen thousand times—until it was interrupted by a sound—a small sound, barely hearable over their squabblish trialogue, but its innativity was piercing, and it engaged their attention. It was the sound of a match being struck—and none of them were smokers.
“Sounds like your pickle’s in a jam,” said a man who was as mysterious as a museum.
Ultrasymbolic Unitasker, with knowing drama, tossed the match from the frame of a film noir past the surprised eyes of the pangolin and into a dove’s nest, in full knowledge of all the world’s problems, and stepped forth from the shadowed alleys and took light upon his face so he’d be known without doubt.
“You!” said the pangolin. It squirreled up its morals and was found wanting.
“Who else?” said Unitasker.
“But how?” said the pangolin.
“How else?” said Unitasker. The cigarette he had lit, he held about as a charismatic prop, so that it might last as long as a wind chime.
“Of all people!” said the pangolin, wringing its hands, caught in a lifelong lie. “Listen—you gotta understand. We acted pragmatically. We assumed you were surely dead!”
“Oh, perhaps I was,” said Unitasker. “There are always plentiful options. And, as you rightly suspect, that kind of weight will do that to a fellow—as will that kind of wait. But it seems you’re doing well.”
“Well enough,” said the pangolin.
“Well, enough chat,” said the broadsword, who didn’t share the pangolin’s nostalgia. “There’s another cruiserful of shod eldergenarians who’ll be plucked clean if we don’t hurry. Plus, I break out in hives if I’m off a boat for too long. Let’s call some cabs already!”
“Let’s shall,” said the pangolin, nodding to the broadsword. It turned back to Unitasker. “It’s been fun catching up,” it said, “but we’re ’twixt-heist, and someone’s left a bun in the oven!”
But Unitasker could concoct a plan like no one else—well. Technically, anyone can do anything “like no one else,” since everyone’s a unique example of existence, and everything everyone does, in some utterly minuscule way, is always different from everyone else—even when neutron pianos are involved. All the same, Unitasker stood abar the pangolin’s flight path, and so it was choiceless when it came to acquiescence.
“A tale as old as time,” said Unitasker with calmhood, flicking glowing ashes. “I know the feeling well. In fact—well, I dare say I’ve got one unfinished, myself. But... you asked what happened, didn’t you? Shall I recount the sequence of events?” Unitasker was speaking heistly, not bunly, and obliquing to their shared past, which the pangolin had been pleased to leave in the past—but Unitasker, as he was now known, was not keen on becoming part of the past.
The pangolin wailed, “No need for that here! Come on—before the cruisers get their tops spinning. You want to talk business—there, in that clam shell. We’ll go unbothered for long in here.”
After ducking into the clam shell and making themselves comfortable under a broken ironing board, Unitasker said, “I’m offering you a second chance. A new job, to wash away the old.”
The pangolin glanced this way, the pangolin glanced that way—reasonless. It should’ve known better. And wouldn’t it be terribly rude to try again to bail, after agreeing to hear him out? Its hands were tied. Or, paws? Claws? Whatever pangolins have. I think hands will do. That horse from before had feet, so, it’s fine.
“What happened to—” said the pangolin.
“You said there’s no need for that,” said Unitasker. “And, you’re right. No need to worry about what happened in the past.” As Unitasker loomed toward the pangolin, the pangolin leant into the reverse. “You need to worry about what’s going to happen now.”
“All right, I will,” said the pangolin, dreading each word as it automatically emerged. “Go on.”
“Well, this new job,” said Unitasker, out-putting the cigarette and folding his hands. He had gloves on, and he knew the best brands. “It so happens I’ve become the new lead detective for the mayor of Howlistune. A nice, governmental position. An official position. It’s, well, paid.”
“Good for you,” said the pangolin.
“And I’ve got myself a little side project going on,” said Unitasker, “and I need a bit of a hand. An unofficial hand, busy as I am. I suspect you can make some time to spare.”
“What of payment?” said the pangolin.
“Let’s not rush to the unpleasant part. You’re on a rope,” said Unitasker. “I’m willing to let bygones be gone. I think that’s of adequation.”
The pangolin was, indeed, on a rope, ever shortening, ever fraying. It sighed. “What’s the job, then?” it said.
“Take a look at this photo. It tells the story,” said Unitasker, handing to the pangolin a photo.
“Let me tell you a story,” said the photo. The pangolin collected some popcorn and it and the broadsword and the shotgun got, to listen, encozed under a blanket. Unitasker dimmed the lights, and the photo continued. “It all goes back to the forties, when soda was free—free to live and love as it pleased, I of course mean. Not free as in cost, nothing’s free in this world, and I could tell you a thing or two about what things used to cost. Why, when I got my first job, I had to buy a coat with my last nickel, and when it came time to shine shoes, I tell you, mine where the shiningest. My shoe-shining shoes, I mean. Of course, I didn’t shine my own shoes, we couldn’t spare the whale gum back then, and what’s more, that stuff was rationed back during the Trampoline War of Thirty-Two. Now, I can tell you a fair few stories from out west, back before they discovered the railroad and the ball bearing, back when you had to hire a donkey to get anywhere because they were the only ones who knew how to fly the biplanes. Mind you, back then planes didn’t have as many wings as they do nowadays, and you’d see a lot more cigars in the cartoons, what with the orphans and all—”
“All right, old man,” said the pangolin. “Get to the point, already.”
“The story is the point,” said the photo.
“Then get to a different point!” said the pangolin.
The shotgun raised its hand and said, afore it was called upon, “Wait, is this gonna be another musical?”
“It’s not a musical,” said the pangolin.
“Then why’s it in black and white?” said the shotgun.
Ultrasymbolic Unitasker said, “I think that’s enough for the first coat. Let’s let this dry.”
The pangolin’s eyes swiveled, but fire escapes had not been invented yet, and it had no magnifying glass, at any rate. It said, “It seems like a tall job. We generally prefer to work with wide jobs, when we can—broad ones would be even better, if you’ve got one—”
Unitasker said, “It’s come to my attention that there’s a person of interest wandering around Howlistune. Very interesting—to me, anyway. And you know I have interesting interests. The man of the hour—or, minute. You’ve just to deliver his invite—by hook or by crook. You can do something as simple as that.” Unitasker pulled from his coat a wicker box containing a bottle of pink ink, a build-your-own-contact-lens kit, a fresh set of cosines, and one badly burned saxophone.
The pangolin looked at the photo. “So, this is the guy you want?” it said.
Unitasker’s eyes flicked to the photo for an instant. “No. That’s a photo,” he said.
“But, it’s a photo of the guy you want?” said the pangolin.
“No, it’s a photo of a bridge,” said Unitasker with a shrug. “I just thought it looked good.”
“Thanks,” said the photo.
“Every bridge looks good, don’t flatter yourself!” snapped the pangolin, but only at the photo, for to Unitasker he showed excessive deference. “You’ve got me paddleless, it seems. So, it’s to be. The only question that remains is: who’s it to be?”
“Surely you must remember the incomparable Old Missus Lopkit?” said Unitasker. “Well—he’s one of hers.”