Captain, Limonade, and Phillippo had not yet reached the completion of their attempted retiration—that is, the attempt was Captain’s, as the only one fit for such a status, and the others were tagging along for their own reasons—and that doubtable trio had continued their meandering along the regions of interest, striving with maximum vanity to find their sliding goals of work, sloth, or some kind of murky blend betwixt. These fenlows were men of too many minds, for Captain as much sought retirement as some activity to keep him filled with busiment, and as for Limonade, his quest was a lazy one—“quest” a poor denotator for the pursuit, as was “pursuit”—and he’d not lift a feather if it weighed half as much, yet he kept peeled his eyes to enspot some gainable work, thus they’d be funded ere the bill collectors came. But, this is noted overmuch—do these things need to face the spelling bee? It’s not a rhetorical question—none are, unless bitter and faithless, so let’s say so, despite the resistance, and fight, fly, and die.

  Phillippo, of course, was only eared toward ice cream, which lacked at all places.

  So, having not yet found a satisfying conclusion to his life, Captain led the triumvirate in a forwardic sense toward something next. We could say it took some ludicrous amount of time, cite some contradictory data, and astonishingly reveal oddity in the tale. We could. But this is the realm of private relativity, and as much as time moves strangely in G. R., it acts likewise in the Inverted Earth, except in a completely different manner.

  It was three weeks later that they arrove at the next town—although, in truth, they stopped at a spot every day, but nothing of suitable interest happened in any of those—not anything we can legally mention, either. So we’re forced to pick up here, in Selibate Tarmac Presents: Dark Canthony’s Secondary Premise (First Edition). The villáge was named after its founder, Jebediah Selibate Tarmac Presents: Dark Canthony’s Secondary Premise (First Edition) Junior. ’twas another minorly-sized vacationeers’ destine, but one more unpopulated by the vacators—a truly underrated gem. No, that’s a fib—in the fact, it was properly rated, due to the pall cast over the place that stripped the pleasance from any longful stay—an event daily, at the stroke of noon, sure to terrorize, terrify, and tantalize the whole town, and aggravate the residents with an aura of spokeless wheels and cybermancy.

  Of course, this wasn’t on the brochures.

  They came to the gate of the town, Captain at the lead, and said gate was barred shut and guarded by Foton Bill, the guarder, who had no lead foot and wasn’t able to weave as well as a walking-cat.

  “Halt,” said Foton Bill, but his heart wasn’t in it. “Who goes there? Some guys?”

  “Some indeed!” said Captain. “I’m Captain A Big Sandwich Wrapped In Carpet, and these are my friends, Limonade Simplistic and Phil.”

  “Howdy do,” said Limonade.

  “Hi!” said Phillippo.

  Foton Bill was not prepared for this. Foton Bill was not prepared for anything. He wept with secret tears that none could comprehend, and he tore apart his life from beginning to end, remembering everything all at once, each new memory ferreting two more, until all was laid bare. It goes unsayable that his heart broke, not shattered into uncountable pieces as would be chic, but roughly torn into shredded parts, unkempt and clarion. From behind a fence’s post watched Carlina, who now came forward.

  “Good enough,” said Carlina. “All right—you’ve come too far to go back, so get in, or else!”

  Carlina signaled to the apologists to lay waste to the prairie or to open the gate, whichever they could do without hiring a clown.

  “The gate, then,” said the apologists, chuckling softly to themselves, knowing about the end of the church. “How simple it would be,” they said wistfully, making wishes no one asked for.

  “This bodes complex,” said Limonade.

  “Underline something else,” said Captain. “Or, better, nothing!”

  Limonade shrugged. Arguing wasn’t worth the effort—nothing was.

  The gate opened. This’s happening began a moment ago, in fact, so by now it was fully open, and Captain and his pals—or, pallike companions, anyway—strode through, entering at last Selibate Tarmac Presents: Dark Canthony’s Secondary Premise (First Edition) proper.

  Now, Selibate Tarmac Presents: Dark Canthony’s Secondary Premise (First Edition) was not a large town, hence the previously-used appellation of “villáge,” a word I hired because it was the only one that worked. Its entirety was composed by the mustache museum and the lumberjack-only non-dairy farm, which were locked in eternal war with one the other, until the question of who left the fridge open could be resolved. Said fridge, it may be worth noting, broke down in two thousand and four, and was replaced with a candle, small and hotless enough to unprovide overabundant warmth to the supposed-to-be-chilled victuals. Yes, that’s right—the count’s gone up by one, at last.

  Captain beheld first the tangle they were in, and opted to Captain at it. “We’re near a slight tussle,” he said. “Well! Get some sleeves to roll, my juvies, for we’ve work to accept!”

  “You’re terrible at retiring,” said Limonade.

  “Not so,” said Captain. “I can excel, given a chance—and the world’s woes deprive me of that opportunity!”

  “If you’re bent on becoming a helper,” said Limonade, “sign something for payment aforehand—something that tilts funds in our favor, preferably.”

  Now, the museum and the farm were currently battling, and each deployed one swarthy fighter armed with as many swords as arms, and each fighter stabbed the other with all his swords, then plucked his ’ponents from his own self, where they’d been stabbed and left, and then returned the favor and performed the scene until it was stylish. Wonder not at their immortality—devotion to the role is what made them secure. Their combature went from afore the protagonists’ arrival and continued even as they approached, even as they hoped to cast a pause on the scene and dial it down to dialogue—but, afore approachment was completed, the combatters suddentally ceased, and departed from one another with such haste that the swords they wielded fell aside in ignorance and were left. They, with cartoonish folly, fled to their relative homes, and enclosed the doors in their passage.

  “There you go,” said Limonade. “Problem’s solved. Now, where do we collect our paychecks?”

  “Kindness is its own award,” said Captain. “Though your menu’s turned over. There’s some manner of scar here—and all scars seal secrets!”

  Now, this villáge had indeed a secret, as Captain guessed, barely exposed instantly upon perceiving it, for it was void of buildage of any sort save the pointed-out remaining pair of sturdy hice that bore the myriad pocks of dangers past, but not passed. Nor abouts were any folk of much sort, excepting for a convenient mouthpiece who wandered a street when they approached.

  “As pitiful as a pit,” said Limonade. “There’s no cash to be wrung from here.”

  “Nor quality sloth,” said Captain, “but, that’s not the woe wanting recusement.”

  “Let’s not bother the people,” said Limonade, checking under a mayonnaise wrapper for a taxi or a private jet.

  “Quite right,” said Captain. “They’ve been bothered enough.”

  “So,” said Phillippo, “it sounds like they need to be... unbothered?” In this statage it strove for relevance and use, to be akin to Captain or Limonade, if not like them.

  Captain shared a glance with Phillippo while Limonade opted squarely out.

  “You’ve got an idea!” said Captain. “We’re on the hunt for a damage-dealer.”

  “Is this a quest, or a question?” said Limonade. “Remember clearly—we’re not working for free!”

  That mouthpiece approached close enough now. Truth-telling, he was within range the whole time. The place was a bleak hill with a golden sky behind it, the color’s cause either the deepest secret the Internal Earth had to offer, or arbitrary. Sound was sucked out of the place, no bird growled or wind shrieked, but it was a place of desolation. At distances, it seemed to have the character of an established place, though filled with smallhood. Encloser, it tried too hard.

  “Ho, strangers?” said the mouthpiece. He doesn’t have a name in this story, but his name was Catacombs Choseph. He’d once dated a belt buckle, but it didn’t work out—they only had a hundred and two things in common, not nearly enough to build a mirror out of clay and rice. He had thought about it often—but not now, nor would he again.

  “I don’t think so,” said Phillippo. “I think we’re pretty normal.”

  “I do like to blend in,” said Limonade, growing the wrong way all the time.

  “We’re just some fellows,” said Captain, who’d missed the meeting. “But, let’s let it matter less. You don’t have enough places here, so it seems to me—there’s a wrong needing righted, if I’ve to guess.”

  “Oh, dare not,” said the mouthpiece. “No, no, dare not. You’re in danger, strangers—a too-long curse sits on this land, one no one should bear—so don’t linger to meet the cubs.”

  “I like the cut of this guy’s jib,” said Limonade. “Let’s go to Yunto Remo instead. If they have a pie-eating contest, we can stuff ’em with pebbles and make a slaughter playing dentists.”

  “Not fast enough!” said Captain. “Who helps you when you’re kicked down, your own lad?”

  “No one,” said Limonade, “but a laid-back turnip and an inflatable, balloon.”

  “Quite my point,” said Captain. “We’ll be the callers of our course from here!”

  “Nay!” said the mouthpiece. “You’re saying the words of a foulish idea. Come the stroke of noon, you’ll find a doom of a variety most egregious—egregious indeed!”

  There was no further time for consideration, for just then came the stroke of noon, and the thousand bells of the villáge rang at once, singing a song of credence, and when their chime had chum, there fell upon Selibate Tarmac Presents: Dark Canthony’s Secondary Premise (First Edition) a silence in parallel to the one previously experienced, but steeped in such sobriety that it made the former as pleasant as the last three of the Top Forty. The mouthpiece had found shelter, as had all others with a trace of experience at this point.

  Phillippo pointed at something off-screen and said, “What’s that?” Whether it was attempting deliberately to increase tension, and whether it succeeded or not in doing so, remains unknown to this day. All that was known was that somewhere near the pointed-at thing, if any, was Ella Barsport’s zombie, who now groaned, grinned, and ground her teeth.

  If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

  Ella Barsport, notable for a myriad of reasons, whose claims to fame were as well-known as her herself, died in nineteen eighty-five. This was settled. What remained unbeknownst to the pickle manufacturers, however, was that she was now a zombie. Though this should have been expected, preparations had not been made to deal with her subsequent activities, and now Selibate Tarmac Presents: Dark Canthony’s Secondary Premise (First Edition) was doomed daily to pay the price—a cost, assuredly, unaffordable, for Ella Barsport’s zombie was an indefinite loan with interest ever accumulating.

  “So! Who’s here?” cried Ella Barsport’s zombie. “No one? That’s a poor joke! No one’s near or far—so, hidden! Thus it’s solved, and you’re known!”

  Now, the logic of Ella Barsport’s zombie’s logic could go unsaid—but why take the easy road? Captain, Limonade, and Phillippo were as visible as celery. Ella Barsport was nonetheless technically dead, and many folk have difficulty concentrating after their deathes, so it’s not needed to dwell overmuch on her zombie’s words, thoughts, and actions, for it’s all explicable due to circumstances. At least, according to the classical schools of thought, but lately there’ve been some studies by the Campot Institute that suggests—well, we’re getting off track. That happens sometimes. Blame the difficulty, or the usual suspects.

  “Oh,” said Phillippo, “someone’s over there! Let’s ask them for directions—to ice cream, or just around.”

  “That’s concrete!” said Captain. “You’re an ideas man. I like it!”

  Limonade enspected the situation more closely than the other two—or three, if Ella Barsport’s zombie’s included in the count—and arrove at the most correct assessment. “We should probably make like the natives and hide our hides,” he said.

  “Don’t let anxiety consume you,” said Captain. “As easily done as said—that’s a battle only winnable if it’s begun!”

  This was almost half as good as a real plan, so Captain was sated, and he strode forth, upraising his arms to wave and gain the attention of Ella Barsport’s zombie, who was over there, but the distance between them was rapidly decreasing—for Ella Barsport’s zombie had hot-wired a stati’ wag’ and was now piloting it at speed toward Captain, Limonade, and Phillippo’s present locale.

  “Sweet wheels!” said Phillippo. “Hey, you think she’ll let us hitch a ride?”

  “We’ll keep that option apocket momentarily,” said Captain. “Some friction is expectable before friendship can be gleaned!”

  “Get your eyes open and your head closed!” said Limonade. “She’s no friend, but a foe!”

  “It’s a trip like any other,” said Captain, “and can’t be taken alone. You’ve tagged for a few, and I’m given to think you’ll stick to some more!”

  “I’ve got six other options,” said Limonade, “and they’re all worse, but the competition’s getting closer—as is the car!”

  Ella Barsport’s zombie prepared to run them all down in the stati’ wag’, Captain, Limonade, and Phillippo as caught in the headlights as a deer in headlights, staring and agape, awed and odd—can’t believe I never used that one before, but I’ve doubled-down on deers and headlights, so I’m breaking even at best—but that’s a lot to hope for. Meanwhile, Ella Barsport’s zombie floored it.

  “The ‘foe’ guess might have the nose,” said Captain, lip-reading the room.

  At that point they reached a major milestone in their relationship with Ella Barsport’s zombie, that being that her speeding stati’ wag’ crossed the threshold at which she would no longer have ample footage for braking ere contact with Captain and his crew—not that she intended to do so—and, with the appearance of collision now clear, said crew was obliged to depart horizontally. Captain and Limonade had the advantage of being at the auxiliaries, and moved appropriately, so ’twas only Phillippo that was collode with, and collode with it was—but, being a fabric object, the impact meant little to its life or death—except to attach it with momentum to the car’s frontals.

  “You call this vengeance?” shouted Ella Barsport’s zombie, leaning on the horn. “I do! I’ve got more bills to be paid, and the due date ticks ever closer!”

  The stati’ wag’ sped on by, plowing over some mailboxes and stop signs, as is typical—it wisely avoided the fire hydrants, as those don’t merely snap off, not even here, they’ve got a slew of bolts and the pipe goes deep. But, at the crest of the hill, Ella Barsport’s zombie’s stati’ wag’ pulled a you-ee and spun around, tires skidding on macadam as she and it turned to face the remaining targets.

  Captain and Limonade were dusted, undusted themselves, and then Limonade said, “Change of plans.”

  “Not so much,” said Captain. “I’ll put a stop to her, as promised!”

  “Again, this isn’t,” said Limonade, “covered by your insurance!”

  “That’s only a concern if damage is incurred!” said Captain.

  Ella Barsport’s zombie revved the stati’ wag’s engines, reaiming at the remaining pair and ready to attempt destruction again.

  “I didn’t live for three hundred years to be forgotten by a fool,” said Ella Barsport’s zombie, putting the stati’ wag’ into the wrong gear, and utterly flooring it.

  Limonade searched about for a lamp’s post or a telephone’s pole up which to scamper, but found none—nor would he, for this was, as implied, far from Ella Barsport’s zombie’s first assault upon the villáge, and as such, all safety locations had long been annihilated. Roads, sidewalks, parking lots—up to the triple reinforced concrete establishments of the farm and the museum, there was naught but loveless open space.

  “All right,” said Limonade, “got a third plan?”

  “At last, a beacon of curiosity!” said Captain. “But, my first is still satisfactory!”

  Ella Barsport’s zombie was bearing down on them fast. Perhaps a hundred feet, perhaps a hundred yards—Limonade estimated that they had about two seconds until impact—but with private relativity, that’s enough time to go to college and back.

  “The first step’s to dethrone the rider,” said Captain. “Once the steed’s in our hands, so are all the cards!”

  “You mean me?” said Phillippo, lodged still upon the stati’ wag’s hood.

  “You’re not a steed,” said Captain. “You’re a steed costume.”

  “Horse costume,” said Phillippo, “to be very technical.”

  “Not our strong suit,” said Limonade.

  “But he’s the only suit we’ve got!” said Captain. “Philly! Quickly, while you’re aboard—discon’ the carby!”

  “He’s not gonna know what that means,” said Limonade. “No one knows what that means.”

  Now the stati’ wag’ was going a hundred miles an hour, the wheels spinning like the prelude to a spy’s biography, the pedal entirely to the metal and partway through, and Ella Barsport’s zombie hunched over the wheel, unbuckled, like a casualist fool—though a zombie with no fear of death, she ought to consider the eternal possibility of dismemberment, and the difficulty in finding a sewist at this hour.

  Phillippo, stuck in the grill and at the mercy of the stati’ wag’s acceleration, struggled to gain any sort of hoofing, and then did, with effort able to get stood, and it perched precariously on the vehicle’s front. This revealed the next snag.

  “How do you open the hood?” said Phillippo.

  Limonade grabbed his opera glasses. “Let’s see,” he said. “Looks to be a—Ferghornini Concavino Ell Ecks Ess, nineteen fifty-five or fifty-six.” He opted to rub his chin to indicate the depth of his ponderosity—a bold move! Let’s see if it works out for him. “Best way to pop the hood is twelve pounds of see four!”

  Phillippo clumb onto the top of the stati’ wag’ and stood as high as it dared. From there it could see for miles. It could see four miles. This did nothing to pop the hood, but the clop clop clop of its horse feet became nuisanceful to Ella Barsport’s zombie.

  “Neighbors!” shouted Ella Barsport’s zombie. She bung on the ceiling. “Silent, I say! Be silent! Or I’ll visit a reckoning onto you unlike any you’ve received this week!”

  “Oh, sorry!” said Phillippo. It clop-clop-clopped to the rearward part of the stati’ wag’s roof, so as to be away from Ella Barsport’s zombie’s eminent domain, but this was not as helpful as it’d hoped, for the irritant reverberated within the cabin.

  “That betokes the veil!” said Ella Barsport’s zombie. With that, she flang open the door and clomb onto the roof, and loomed over Phillippo, all claws and fangs—you know the sort of image, we’ve seen it before. Like a dracula looming over its vic’, but a zombie instead, yet no less replete with strongness. Apparently, Phillippo was doomed and then some, since with Ella Barsport’s zombie no longer in control of the stati’ wag’, it’d run amok, and flip and tumble and throw them both from its roof—or rather, a lesser stati’ wag’ would, but this particular stati’ wag’ was well trained, noble, and wise. Sorta. It held its course steady and sped straight down the road. Ella Barsport’s zombie was not in alonement, for the stati’ wag’ was a vehicle of a long-past era, as Ella Barsport herself was. They were as akin as peanuts. The stati’ wag’ narrowed its headlights. Ella Barsport’s zombie narrowed her eyes. Missus Peace-oh-home narrowed her waist—the corset was working a charm.

  “This is for all the beans,” muttered Ella Barsport’s zombie, “and all the carrots.”

  She approached Phillippo, and the stati’ wag’ continued to floor it, and Captain and Limonade sought the implements to implement their plan, but it was a dry county and no mosaics or acorns were sold on days that ended in tears, and so, after being on hold for four hours as Milo checked if they had anything in the back, their calendar informed them that the time had come for the stati’ wag’ to approach them—‘them’ being Captain and Limonade, as Milo wasn’t part of this nonsense—and with unprefaced speed cause a collision with damage aplenty. Its engine roared and its tires rolled, terrifying sounds to all but the deaf, to whom the sounds were instead merely horrifying, the vibral waves passing through the matter of contact to deliver the sensation to those who dwelt in silence, and it was one of these, a Betta splendens who had lain in wait since three streets ago, that felt the vibes and was kicked into activity.

  “At last, my time has come,” said the splendens—you only need the specific epithet in private relativity—and it clomb out of the water, and beheld the noisemaker, the stati’ wag’, and at once multiplied twelve squared, and saw the outcome of the uninterrupted event, and, activating its labyrinth, it slode into the street, arriving between Captain and Limonade and the oncoming stati’ wag’.

  “Evade me not!” said the splendens. “This is the strike I was born for, and I have waited ten and twenty years for the second of this moment! Strike me, and be struck in turn, to your full demise!”

  No fishmonger was needed to tell the outcome of the collision, for the splendens’s small size could not be complemented by its sheerful determination, and the stati’ wag’s momentum was approaching maximum effort. But, the fishmonger was twicely unnecessary, for the splendens had chosen its position carefully—and concocted its plan just so. The stati’ wag’, if aimed itward, would avoid entirely Captain and Limonade, and, afore a collision could appear onscreen, the splendens planned to dodge adroitly, so that the stati’ wag’ would proceed and be taken by its momentum into an open manhole that the splendens had previously prepared.

  “The fish wants a fight!” said Ella Barsport’s zombie, who fortunately had not read the plan outlined in the preceding paragraph. “Let’s give it!”

  At Ella Barsport’s zombie’s command, the stati’ wag’ approached the splendens up to an inch of its life, but in the climactic instant—lo! The stati’ wag’ experienced a vision of such profundity that its moral compass was rewound, its poles reversed, and all things born anew, and so, in its newfound holity, wanting not to expend a life, the stati’ wag’ swerved reckfully to one side, so as to dodge the splendens completely and not run it over at all—and in the same instant the splendens executed its own plan, and dodged adroitly as intended, and both had chosen the same seaward side to aim their evasion at, so the outcome was, in the end, the mutually-undesired termination. The stati’ wag’ hit the splendens at full speed, and the fine beast was decapitated by the blow, and fell apart.

  In the hour of the swerve, Phillippo and Ella Barsport’s zombie both were trebucheted from the stati’ wag’s roof, and tumbled apart from each other, and landed in several piles. Captain and Limonade safely collected Phillippo, and then they three turned at the collision and ran over to the site to see what damage had been done. Ella Barsport’s zombie, as well, leapt to her tiptoes and admired the crash. The stati’ wag’, committer of the accidental deed, was aghast.

  “My brother, my sister, my own mercy me!” cried out the stati’ wag’. “What’ve I done? Something too wicked, a breaking of a faith I’d never made!”

  “One down, three to go,” said Ella Barsport’s zombie, “which is where we started, so what good are you to me?”

  “None! Nor to anyone!” said the stati’ wag’. “There’s nothing for it but penance.”

  Though it was enwrote in abundant clarity that only two structurages remained in Selibate Tarmac Presents: Dark Canthony’s Secondary Premise (First Edition), this was a bold- and bald-faced lie from every angle, for in addition to locations one and two, priorly specified, there was atwixt them a creation of a different sort, for a statue, decorated with nothing and adorned with no plaque nor plinth, stood centrally in a street, its purpose another secret. Hanging its head sadly, the stati’ wag’ went to hang its head sadly—it made a noose out of steel wire and salt, tossed it over the statue’s most outstretched part, and leapt into it, to dangle to its own demise. There it swang in eternal solitude—but once it had fully perished, the catastrophe of its woe was sufficient to give it a new role, and it returned in characterization, not as a ghost or zombie, these things being too hot to touch, but as a banshee, and so the stati’ wag’ became the banti’ wag’, and it returned, and the roar of its engine was as pitched as a screech so high that an eagle—no, wait, the eagle part comes later. But the whine was piercing and great, and it hit Ella Barsport’s zombie like a ton of feathers. Moreover, the pitch of its whistle was taken as, to ten bears, the sound of a dog whistle, and they, not being dogs, but knowing what one’s whistle was meant to accomplish, came running, knives and forks at the ready, each wearing a bib, and ready for meat. Ella Barsport’s zombie, being the tallest of any present, was clearly the most desirable subject, her meats already softened by dead age and as tender as beach sand, and so the ten bears quickly surrounded her, devoured her rotted flesh, and then checked the rule book—but, before they got their result, the rot took hold, dwelt within them and set to motion, and it drove the bears to abandon all plans and dwell within the bathroom for the rest of their days, or at least the rest of mine.

  “This is as fine as a gurney,” said Captain, who had seen plenty of fine gurneys in his day. “I call this a cold shoulder, if I call it anything!”

  Limonade pondered over the scene for too long to be convincing. “I’m lost on it,” he said at length, throwing a towel away. “Let’s scram entirely. I wouldn’t pay tuppence for this lore.”

  Sadly, there was no saving the splendens, but we can take heart that it returned as neither ghost nor zombie, nor something even else. Too many options are available, all of them sticky already, and none of them stuck. And so they had a funeral for the splendens, for with its brave sacrifice was Ella Barsport’s zombie defeated. They never knew the splendens’s true plan, and suspected all had played as intended. The splendens was buried kindly, as a friend, and forgotten forever.

  “Well, that lacked a dot’s edge,” said Limonade, after they all had their hats on.

  “Not quite,” said Captain. “We’ve made a new ally, and that’s a blessing in disguise!”

  “You guys still want to hang out with me?” said the banti’ wag’. “Even after what I did to you?”

  “Technically,” said Limonade, “you didn’t do anything to us. And, besides, I could use more hands on deck.”

  “Will you give us a ride?” said Phillippo.

  “An honor, a pleasure, and a thrill!” said the banti’ wag’. “But say the destination and we’re on our way!”

  Captain, Limonade, Phillippo, and the banti’ wag’ squared amongst themselves and, rubbing two brain cells together, emerged with as fair a destination amind as could be hoped from such a gaggle of a troupe, and in short order they piled into the banti’ wag’ and hit a road, having come to ken the only ideal locale for retirement and money-making both. As they, as one, floored it, the cloud of dust they kicked up in their passage was visible from two point eight miles away.