Traycup acted quickly, because he only had another minute on the clock and he was not going to do overtime for this. He knew as well as anyone, and perhaps slightly better for the aforementioned reasons, that memory could be fleeting, and the sight of the sight would, inevitably, be misrecalled, and so must be codified at once. He wrote down what he saw on a piece of paper—good paper, paper he was hanging onto just for such an occasion. On the corner, it had a cartoon of a kitten chasing a butterfly—hopefully they’d be friends. Once wrote, he put the paper, folded neatly fourwise, into his coat pocket, and then put on said coat, buttoning it all the way up, and getting most of them right. He checked the clock, which referred him to the egg timer on the stove—there were still a couple of seconds left on his shift, so he resumed watching the tree in case he saw something else, but he did not, and then the clock struck noon, and he punched and headed out—but not homeward.
Traycup’s retirement at home would be postponed so as to deliver the report he had apocket, forcause his boss would want to see it, but sadly, he had no inkling as to where his boss was, but did recall some mention of a main office in Oopertreepia—the location of said city, if any, he also did not know. Transportation was needed by him now, and so he took a different path than took him to work—partly for funsies, since there were more places to see than could be seen, and the injustice of the world, if there was one, was in its fractal nature; whatever soliditude was observed would be seen to contain myriads, and you’d wind up spending all day going nowhere but deeper—and hopefully this course of passage would happen nearby a benefital place.
In hardly a moment of time, the taken path led Traycup to the domain of Qasper Quilt, sat upon a fine eggplant so as to hatch it. Traycup wondered about bubbles and whether an addition could be made to his troupe, and Qasper waved in Traycup, and kindled conversation.
“Fine day,” said Qasper.
“It’s so,” said Traycup.
“Then, the pleasantries have been accomplished,” said Qasper. “Let’s move on to business.”
“There’s some!” said Traycup, pleased. “Mine’s this: you see, I’m for Oopertreepia in this moment, but I’m wholly unknowed on its placement, and so you can see I’m likely to be slowed. Give a piece of advice, if you can!”
“Advice?” said Qasper, perking sideways. “That’s sparing lately. No, that’s not my forte—that’s this!” Qasper gestured to a row of owls, freshly plucked from the vine, which he had yet to name, and Traycup knew not Qasper’s proclivity for the naming of such things, yet nonetheless paid his most careful attention, which was considerable.
“Is this some manner of cabaret?” said Traycup.
“Four-point-eight times better,” said Qasper. “They’re unlabeled, so I’ll now announce their new nomenclature. So, it’s like so. This one is Albert. This—her mate—is Albert. These two are the pick of the litter—or rather, literally picked—Albert and Albert, they are. And the runt, he’ll need the most tee-el-see of all. That’s Albert.”
Seven kangaroos arrove and began applauding vociferously, until the peanuts and crackerjack guy came by and they all bought neither, opting instead for the beef jerky. Even Traycup was impressed. This was some tasteful stuff—you don’t get a lesson like this just anywhere!
“A true maestro!” cheered Traycup.
“You’ve my thanks,” said Qasper, “and, perhaps, you’d long to have Albert at your side as well?”
“It’s so, but I’ve n’money,” said Traycup. “Had I a wobbly lagomorph of my own, it’d be all I could to see’t fed a bit!”
“I can’t give you a freebie,” said Qasper, “but I can give you a free bee. Here. This is Lorenzo. Take good care of him, and he’ll take care of you.”
“Hello, Lorenzo,” said Traycup to the free bee.
Lorenzo said nothing because Lorenzo was a bee and bees do not talk.
Traycup put Lorenzo in his coat pocket, a different one from the letter, but no less secure. “Now—” Traycup began but Qasper cut him off and raised a toast.
“I only name owls,” said Qasper, “and distribute wayward bees once in a while. I know not the named place’s place, but you’ve neighbors, that’s factual enough. Try prying—someone’s like got legends to share!”
“Now, that’s an option,” said Traycup. “Well, get thanked for your gift! I’ve’n idea apiece, y’see, and I aim to see it seen through!”
“I’d wish you luck,” said Qasper, “but I need to cling to what I’ve got left. Now, dispense, and yearn forevermore!”
Qasper fell into a passing suitcase and Traycup fared well, and was on his way.
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Now, hereabouts in this part of Howlistune, ’twixt the high heights of this and that building, the seeable sky was there, in the colors of its nature. The sun shone its light throughout the air that fills the Inverted Earth, but the air is imperfectly clarion, and with a little element of humidness or a small presence of clouds, clear seeing failed too soon, and so, far away, where the world curled up into a great big bowl, the rising lands and seas disappeared into a haze, and the fardom was hidden on all but the clearest days, when the endless heights of the world could be spotted and, if one had a fine enough ’scope, the streets of ever-distant towns could be mapped, the waves of foreign seas be seen cresting on their beaches—but just then an airplane passed overhead and shattered the reverie. Traycup averted his gaze in favor of his stepping.
A local tuna fish flagged down Traycup and gave him a ride on its skateboard to Fourth Street, which was pretty close to the train station. He’d just have to get past a towering wall of flame. No big deal, of course—he simply showed the wall his I. D. But the wall stared at Traycup’s I. D. for long enough for a problem to become apparent.
“Who are you to me,” said the wall of flame, “that you should get what you want at the expense of my pride, my time, and my dignity?”
“A descendant of my own,” Traycup said, “and a slight duckling as well.”
“Unlikely! You’ve hardly got a featherous bone in your body,” said the wall of flame.
“Body?” said Traycup. “Oh, it’s so, but behold!” Traycup produced, in the professional sense, a three-act play for the high school about the pros and cons of hot air balloon racing—which wasn’t a metaphor at all—featuring the lunch lady on the piano, which was perfectly tuned but in dire need of refinishing. They only performed once, and naught but the school’s very own paper reported its eventuals, and left it as bare-boned as it could, for they were on a budget that wouldn’t budge. The praise, though accurate, was inadequate.
The wall of flame gave that piano a good long look. “Listen,” it said, “my cousin has a business. He does woodwork, odd jobs—he can take a crack at that piano. Have the school contact him—he’ll give you good prices. That’s a fair deal, I think. We hate to see such a fine instrument degraded into a mere eyesore.”
“I’ve another think coming,” said Traycup, “and what’s more, I could use some good socks.”
“Ha! Ha! HA!” said the wall of flame, and then it burst into laughter, spilling all over the street, spraying a nearby crowd which then ran screaming and shrieking, and the police were brought in with buckets to clean up the mess. Traycup wisely left this to the professionals, and foisted himself along the street until he came at last to a destination.
This was a brand new building, installed by the city only a century or two ago, two feet wide by thirty tons long and a hundred milliliters tall. Traycup staggered before it, but not due to its size—it’d been more than twelve years since he’d had a small cup of orange juice, and he languished a bit at its lack. And yet, undaunted by the threat of imminent linework, he plunged forward on his quest, entered the train station, and soon found himself at a counter, dealing with a clerk made from tangled, bare wires.
“Oh! Oh! You dare?” This the clerk boomed. “You seek a train station? Well, get bygone, because this is a training station! I know how to deal with the likes of you, and if you think it’s battledom, get ready to be right!” The clerk suddishly threw eighty boomerangs at Traycup, but since Traycup couldn’t speak in palindromes the impact was nil—as should have been expected by a fairly diligent coat hanger—and the boomerangs were forced to fly south for the winter, the summer, and the rest of the avocados. Traycup admired some street art instead, and then had a pastry before approaching the clerk with his requestment.
“I’d like to get transposed!” said Traycup honestly.
The clerk was out of boomerangs, and so said, “What, here? That’s unhappening. But there’s a bus station. Maybe that’s more to your liking, if you think you can hammer it!”
“I b’lieve I’ve left the paint to dry needlessly,” said Traycup sadly.
“Apt,” said the clerk, “but how’s thine will? Get your mitt up, ’cause I’ve options untested!” The clerk then became a hundred-foot goliath, and drew a great shiny broadsword, and swung it at Traycup in a bid for his destruction. Traycup did not own an ocean liner, but instead recognized one of the paintings on the wall—a mass-produced reprint of one of Meeleor Fontanel’s early works—its image familiarized by the barn and the shed nearby, not from a show he’d seen once, but a place’s inside he’d been to before, when nobody’d leave him alone after he found the man-e-quin.
When the clerk’s sword clattered to the floor, it elicited a shhhh! from the other patrons and clerkmates, potentially confused as to whether librarish rules applied here as well, and they all saw the spindly fink’s defeat. There was no need for a rematch. Indeed, the clerk was so bedazzled that it was without further word that he pointed at the door leading onward. Traycup, as astute as a table, passed through.
Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
Now, in the next office, there was before him a vast lake, and at the center a mound of golded coins and precial jewels, upon which was sat the next clerk—waiting, ready, and faxless. Traycup coppered himself for this next encounter. A frog sat nearby, as they often do.
“Say, frog,” said Traycup.
“Frog,” said the frog.
“Come now—no attention for punctuation?” said Traycup.
“I’m sorry, sirrah, I cannot read, not words, no,” said the frog.
“Tell me this—may I, from you, rent a calf and a half?” asked Traycup.
The frog thought this was fine, and rented Traycup his calf and a half, and accepted five copies of Prendleton’s Expanded Drywall Encyclopedia (With Full-Color Photography) as payment—a worthy prize that’d feed his family for decades to come. Indeed, for the frog, this was akin to, if not better than, winning three lotteries on the same day and being struck by lightning in such a way as to survive due to some quirk of outfit, such as an unpopular piercing that redirected the infinite joules of the heavens safely into the groundation of the everlasting Earth. In theory, anyway—this so rarely happened, it was hard to measure its frequency meaningfully.
The clerk of the mound, who was made of tea leaves and most of a spice rack, beckoned Traycup to approach, and Traycup jet skied thither with all due haste. Traycup clomb atop a diving board and there found a small magazine feverishly writing some poetry.
“Just a moment, sir,” said the magazine. “Just finishing up a tidbit, here. ’s for the archers, you know?”
“I know it well,” said Traycup. “Poems, I see! Here’s a bit of advice: ‘leafly’ rhymes with ‘paste’. Use that in your stanza, won’t you?”
Quill flourishing, the magazine worked fast, and soon had finished a poem that would bring lovers to tears across the country, up to the furthest borders—but not an inch beyond. Different tastes, you know. Paltropisburgians had specific interests, far diverged from Ibstago or Mongmass or other places like that—and naught was like to budge them from their ways.
Traycup approached the clerk. “I’m told this is the bus station,” he said honorly.
“Blind idiot!” said the clerk. “This is the rust nation! Why d’you think we’ve got such an incomplete jigsaw puzzle to our names?”
“It seemed an opus,” said Traycup, “if not an onus.”
“Will you oxidize? No? Again, they send me such clodpoles!” The clerk worked herself into part of a frenzy, tossing confetti into a blender just in time for the winds to change.
“Let’s abstain from,” said Traycup, “too much scuffle! I’m for the bus still—if I’m unhelpable, say where some can be gathered, willn’t you?”
“Oh, a voyage? Ha!” scoffed the clerk. “One must to go to the post office, and try one of their stressed ponies!”
“I’ll,” said Traycup.
“Nay,” said the clerk, “that’s undoable now! You have wasted my time, and I demand a ’venge! I shall dispatch you once and for all!”
This clerk, at once tea leaves and most of a spice rack, seemed to become tea leaves and all of a spice rack—and I say “seemed to” become because it was all a clever trick of the mind, and the illusion swallowed up Traycup, who was indigestible—and then Traycup put his plan into motion. He deployed the calf and a half in the only way expectable—it challenged Bonzardo the romantic parlor trick’s zombie to a chess-boxing match this very cigarette break, but when Bonzardo’s zombie’s manager got the message, he said, “I do not represent Mr. Bonzardo anymore, and please stop calling me.” More than twelve people turned out to see the show, even though more than eleven had heard of chess in the first place, and before it even started it was all over, and the leftover sold-out tickets were used to patch a hole in the basement walls.
Someone upstairs banged on the floor to get them to cut out the racket, but it wasn’t necessary. The clerk pulled herself up to her desk, all out of breath and highly scuffed. “Fine, fine,” she said. “Fine,” she said once more. “Fine. Go on, then. Right through there. That’s the way for you. You need to go there. That leads—ah, that leads...”
“The post office?” Traycup helped.
“Yes,” grunted the clerk. “Post-office.”
Traycup shook the calf and a half’s hand, and, in accordance with the rental agreement, kindly returned it to the frog from earlier, and went onward.
Alas, only doom approached. The hyphen was no mistake—this was no post office, this was post-office. This was beyond any office. This was beyond offices. Perhaps it was beyond everything, but that’s much too much, once again. This sort of thing always happens, always. Traycup found a flamingo that knew the difference between karate and a harpsichord’s best bet, and a rock that was a traitor to rocks everywhere. These two wouldn’t meet eyes unless a third boot could be found, but it wasn’t too late, as a carriage full of bombs rattled by, its guards silent—except for the nervous ones, the ones that made too much noise. Traycup looked out of his back and wondered if all letters had children, or just the fake ones. He’d get no answer, of coursing, because the radio turned on, stating all of the numbers and wearing two hats—or, none—and it was as dark as a basket, and the lost would never be found, nor would they need to be, for the pizza’s fine now. Always has been, always will be.
“I’ve too far gone,” said Traycup, but it was too late. He was post-office now and forever—but he was not one to succumb to this stream of darkness. By volition he surfaced, and managed emergence in the alley out back, flanked all about by cement bureaucracy, the sight of which was now oppressive and overstrong, and his self too limp. There was little about to gaze at lovelily but a staple remover that sat next to a crack in the sidewalk from which a sapling grew.
Traycup beheld the sapling. “Ah,” he said, “a too-obvious metaphor, d’noting a bit of hope—which is needed at now! I’m minded to pluck it.”
“No,” said the staple remover sternly. “That’s poison ivy. Don’t touch it.”
“Don’t listen to him,” said the poison ivy. “Get over here and get a grip! C’mon, I want your hands running all up and down my me!”
“Get quiet,” said the staple remover. “We don’t need your style right now.”
“Embrace me,” said the poison ivy, “as you would a lasagna!”
Traycup was untimed for the conversation. He politely bid them adieu and swiftly parted, and returned to Howlistune’s personated streetsides.
“Perhaps,” he reasoned, “it’s best to d’liver the message afoot.”
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Now, Traycup wasn’t the only one having difficulty with offices.
Here Roby was in quite a fix and needed a break, and the fix breaking her was this: she had just begun her workday. No big deal you might think, but anyone who’s ever worked before can attest to the fact that it’s just the worst, and Roby, who had not worked before, could not yet attest to that fact, and was about to learn it via the only way affordable.
She curled up and sat down at her desk, upon which were the myriad tools of work, none of which she recognized, and was about to set to her task: constructing believable clinical techniques out of graham crackers or curious wind patterns. She picked up an unbronzed spatula and a scam-scanner—then all of a sudden, she realized that she did not actually know what in Earth she was doing.
“I do not think,” she said, “this job of me is quite the thing I seem to need!” Roby shifted without control. “In fact—employment is not had, and enjoyment, while glad, likely lacks lately, and little riddled whittling tools conspire to make me seem a fool.”
To Roby’s left was a coworker’s desk, and that coworker was sitting there. His name was Two-ply Gettles and he had five trophies in his hair, monuments attesting to his capabilities in the field of believable clinical technique construction. To Roby’s right was another coworker’s desk, that coworker also sitting there. His name was also Two-ply Gettles, and he too had five trophies in his hair, and they were also monuments to his ability in constructing believable clinical techniques.
“Now, why should you be spliced in two?” laughed Roby, but it was too late, as Two-ply had her surrounded, and his jaws emerged from the depths and snapped at her like a bald eagle’s bitter ex. Roby ran away, demonstrating practicality as one of her potential character traits, should she emerge from the ordeal with her personality intact.
Two-ply roared, “The fiend is exposed! Return at once, and take payment for your sin!”
Roby did not return—does that ever work?—but instead continued evacuating. She leapt onto a microwave, since it was not lava, and a fair bit safer than ordering pastrami from a juggler. It was akin to a perch, from which she could envision Two-ply’s subsequent moves.
“My capital head!” said the microwave. “Scoundrel! Elsewhere your feet should be placed, for if your shoes have passed through some untoward substance, transmitting it to me would be most unnunly!”
“That act seems rude and likewise crude,” said Roby. “I am unused to such abuse—instead I could use a bit of good news!”
“Most impressive, but so could I,” said the microwave. It abruptly flew into a rage and out a window, leaving Roby without a foothold, except for the nearby battering ram. Two-ply had evolved into a formidable beast, all fangs and jaws and teeth, slavering and snapping, and, for the sake of mobility, he had one fierce foot with twelve toes which he used to kick-start his motorcycle to give chase.
Roby grabbed a plunger, which was not effective, and was not delicious, and so she grabbed another plunger, which was ineffective in a wholly different way. There’s nothing in my notes about how delicious the second one was, so, use your imagination—within reason.
“This scene is a vexation,” said Roby, “so I think I am owed a vacation, or at least a hand in salvation!”
“That you shall not have,” bellowed the form of Two-ply, “and in its stead, I emerge to consume, and rend your form meat and moot!” He plunged from a balcony above her, but Roby had no match for this attack. Her inaction was of no avail, and nearly half the cafeteria was turned into a morass of decaying baryon particles—moreso than usual, at least.
Roby looked to the clock, which huffed and chuffed. Clearly the lass was foolhardy. The clock resumed its literature, ignoring the goings-on of the assorted loudmouthed posse. The nerve of certain folk! No numbers would be shared, for none who deserved any were about at all.
Two-ply now surrounded Roby on all sides, as was his willless nature. He engulfed the room and became it, and from then onward all cafeterias were to be known as “two-plies”—lowercased, yes, it’s fine to use lowercase letters when it’s a genericized term like that, so don’t worry. As for Roby, she went upstairs to where they kept the old coats, and tried to find some matching hats for them, but there were none, as the coats were from a time before the idea of having hats had come to be. Undaunted, she put on about six dozen more coats, because she liked having all those pockets. Who wouldn’t?
Corporal Ray Tube came downstairs and said, “All right—I’ve had enough. Both of you, get in my office. Back to back, pistols in hand, blindfolds on, mind the gap. We ride at noon!”
Two-ply transformed into a decorative fern and went back to work. Roby didn’t turn into anything.
“Roby!” said Corporal Ray Tube.
“Is this a truce?” said Roby. “To that, I am not used! Now, I would like some instruction, for I have a compunction, and without training I am simply straining! Please direct me, or at least correct me, as this is a new thing, and I know not what I am doing!”
“Hold on,” said Corporal Ray Tube. “On your application it said you’re made of cheese. Is that true?”
“There is no cheese of me, you shall be pleased to see,” said Roby.
“You’re supposed to be—oh, enough of this,” said Corporal Ray Tube. “You’re fired.”
Roby still had a graham cracker, and so she ate it.
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Shortly thereafter, Roby stood on the corner of the street like a scribbled mound of rain-sodden derivation, clutching a cardboard box explicitly labeled “PROP DEPT.—DO NOT REMOVE” and looking vaguely wide-eyed at such things as the goat parade, the seasonal cabinet singing contest, and the unveiled sardonic hourglass studio. These were extremely normal things in Howlistune that happened every Tuesday Jr., and so her gawping at them made her look quite a fool. A passing obelisk shoved her aside and called her a bumpkin, but she thought he said “pumpkin” and so was confused. She spilled her box of junk at someone’s feet, and he went to help her gather said junk, and he was Traycup.
“I’ll to help,” he said.
“Thanks comes from me,” said Roby, “for help is pleasant to see.”
“Oh!” Traycup laughed at Roby. “Well, that’s a little astounding, at the rest!”
“What is that about?” said Roby. “Did I give you cause to doubt?”
“It’ll not do to besmirch,” said Traycup.
“I will not attempt to be,” she said, and then she said, “Now, you helper of me—desist and not resist! For the box do I want not; it can be tossed, and fully forgot.”
“Then, it’s as tossed as the first sniper at a dog show!” said Traycup. “So, you’ve a deal?”
“A job is no longer of me,” said Roby, “and this is a strange city. I have no place, nor knowing of space, and keeping company could be good for me! So, shall you and me try and be friends, and you share to me where next your path wends?”
“A friend is fine, but alas, I’m off,” said Traycup. “I’ve a message to deliver, and wait, it can’t. I’ve got a long trek coming up next—I’m for Oopertreepia! Say, got a guess at where it’s at?”
Roby shook her head. “I do not know, but I would be happy to go! We can walk together to send your letter—may we be joined and so journey? All the better than a joyless sojourning!”
“Now, that is called an idea!” said Traycup.
Roby smiled, finding welcome news at last. “Oh, but say your name, and I will do the same, and friends we will be, both you and me!”
“It’s a fine idea,” said Traycup, “and a kindness besides. The name I’ve got is Traycup Lopkit, and you may call me Traycup, or you may call me by mistake if you fumble a dinner bell.”
“Then we are friended in fame,” said Roby, “for Roby Lopkit is what is my name!”
Now, there was an unusual thing, for strangers to share a surname like that, and while both were perplexed and suspected mishearings, there was not yet the moment to solve this little riddle, as the shadow of a frightful being came before them both, and spoke, saying, “Stand still and prepare thyselves!”