The letters trudged for hours, directly under the hot sun of Eden as they plotted their revenge. It was a journey blighted by woe and suffering, worthy of the great poets. However, I only have so much time, so all of that very poetic suffering happened and we’re just going to rush past it; because the longer I take, the more likely that damn sword is coming back.

Anyways, it was after this grueling, poetic, and spiritual journey through the desert that the letters found themselves at the far edge of the crowd near the beginning of the show, surrounded by titans (technically humans, but the difference between the two for your average letter is negligible). The distance was impossible. The show was already five minutes in, and the letters were at least a forty minute sprint by their standard movement. It looked impossible.

“Shit, it looks impossible.” Repeated the letter T. He paced around, putting his pencil-thin hand on his forehead, deep in thought. P came up next to T, and put his hand on T’s “shoulder.”

“We’ve tried. Unless you can get us into that window of distraction, our day will have to wait.” P said.

“No. We agreed. We’re doing it for E. We’re not getting another shot. This is it.” T said. All of the other letters nodded, even W.

“I-”

“Yes?” I interjected once more. The letters glared in frustration from their long, intense, spiritual journey to the set of The Slightly Late Show.

“Take your time T. There’s a chance we can make it.” P relented. He would not back out of his agreement. Promises meant something, and P was not about to break his. Not when the fate of his found letter family was on the line.

Unfortunately a large, clumsy foot, nearly crushed T, as a titan whose name I really don’t want to mention ran straight for the concession stand full of stolen hot dogs and beer, pushing several people to the ground out of sheer idiocy.

Several thugs from the crowd came up from behind in an attempt to fight the oarfish buffoon as he swallowed two hot dogs whole. The first punch to the idiot’s back barely registered within his thick skull, as he swung a tree trunk-like arm around, clotheslining the nameless Eden mooks in the face. They were out cold.

“Oh. Sorry. Didn’t see you there.” The titan “carefully” (by his own standards, at least) stooped down, lifted the three men, and set them into three empty folding chairs.

“You should watch where you’re walking. Drink plenty of liquids. Get better soon.” the dumb, absolutely moronic man then sat down next to the three unconscious criminals, and began to watch The Slightly Late Show again.

“Man, I-” the ludicrously annoying man had attempted to say the sentence “Man, I really love The Slightly Late Show with Zune Tee-em” but instead was interrupted by none other than I.

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“Yes?” I asked the impossibly large titan.

“Oh, hello little fella. Can I help you?” the loathful steer asked.

“ummm….” I said, uncertain how to say other words. W, however, understood the titan perfectly.

“Sorry, my friend ‘I’ here has a habit of interrupting others. I hope you don’t mind. My friends and I are trying to get up to the stage, as close as possible to Real Galadhorn. Would you, perhaps, know a quicker way?” W asked.

“I wouldn’t know one.” The idiot said, thankfully.

“Oh, okay. Sorry to have bothered you with such a request.” W said.

“It’s fine, it happens all the time.” said the half-giant.

W turned her attention back to her group.

“Now that W is done wasting our time, back to the matter at hand.” T said, irritated.

“Wasting your time, how?” W asked.

“Speaking that moronic, incomprehensible language. Whatever it’s called.”

“English. T. You know? That language we meld together to form words for?” W said.

“Yeah whatever. English never got me anywhere in life. New plan: we gotta figure out how to ride one of these humans to the front. It’s the only way. By my estimates we have fifteen minutes to get there.” T said.

“And if we don’t make it, we abandon the mission? Are you sure it’s safe to ride a human?” Asked P, with worry lacing his voice.

“Safer than letting Galadhorn stay alive. I’ll guarantee you that much.” T said. All of the letters grunted in unanimous agreement.

“Well, if we need to ride one, we could ask the human next to use right now. He seemed alright, and polite.”

“English never got me anywhere.” T sneered.

“I’m asking.”

“Okay, it won’t work, but whatever.”

W walked up to the idiot’s incredibly baggy and out-of-fashion jeans, and gave them a tug.

“Yes little one, is there anything I can do for you?” the buffoon asked.

“Sorry to bother you again,” W asked far too politely, “but would you be willing to give me and my friends a lift a little bit closer to the stage? We’re having trouble seeing.”

The moron waited five minutes to give his answer.

“Sounds good to me, hop on.” the half-giant said, extending his hand downwards to the runaway letters. W motioned for all of the letters aboard. After they had all boarded his hand, the idiot put his hand right in front of his face to get a better view of his tiny, linguistic passengers.

“So, how close were you thinking?” the moron asked.

“Backstage. I think that’ll be the best place to watch.”

“Okay. Let’s go.” the half-giant said, as he began to walk past a ranks of I’mos guards, uncertain of what they could possibly do to stop the large man’s advance.

“By the way, mister human, what’s your name?” W, who was far too polite, asked.

“Darryl.” He said. Unfortunately.

The narrator cringed at his misfortune as Killer-throatslitter-taxevasion-littering ended the chapter, and drew the scene back to itself.