‘We cAn SenD fOr a draGOn to cArry us,’ SinG saId As we burst oUt oF the stAirWeLL and ruSHED tHrough ThE roOm aBovE.
‘ThAT wILl taKe tOO Long,’ BaStiLlE saiD.
‘We’Ll haVe To graB a VeHiCle oFf thE STrEet,’ I sAid.
(You know what, that’s not nearly frustrating enough. I’m going to have to start adding in random punctuation marks too.)
We c!RoS-Sed thrOu?gH t%he Gra##ND e`nt<Ry>WaY at ‘A’ de-aD Ru)n. OnC$e oUts/iDE, I Co*Uld sEe T^haT the suN wa+S nEar to s=Ett=ING – it w.O.u.l.d Onl>y bE a co@uPle of HoU[rs unTi^L the tR}e}atY RATi~FiCATiON ha,pPenEd. We nEeDeD!! To bE QuicK?.?
UnFOrTu()nAtelY, tHE!re weRe no C?arriA-ges on tHe rOa^D for U/s to cOmMan><dEer. Not a ON~e~. THerE w+eRe pe/\Ople wa|lK|Ing aBoUt, BU?t no caRr#iaGes.
(Okay, you know what? That’s not frustrating enough either. Let’s start replacing some random vowels with the letter Q.)
I lqOk-eD abO!qT, dE#sPqrA#te, fRq?sTr/Ated (like you, hopefully), anD aNn\qYeD. Jq!St eaR&lIer, tHqr^E hq.d BeeN DoZen!S of cq?RriqgEs on The rQA!d! No-W tHqRe wA=Sn’t a SqnGl+e oN^q.
‘ThE_rQ!’ I eXclai$mqd, poIntIng. Mqv=Ing do~Wn th_e RqaD! a shoRt diStq++nCe aWay <wAs> a sTrAngq gLaSs cqnTrAPtion. I waSN’t CqrTain What it <\wAs>, bUt It w!qs MoV?ing – aND s%qmewhat quIc:=}Kly. ‘LeT’s G_q gRA?b iT!’
(Okay, you know how frustrated you are trying to read that? Well, that’s about half as frustrated as I was at having to go get a Librarian to help me. Aren’t you happy I let you experience what I was feeling? That’s the sign of excellent storytelling: writing that makes the reader have the same emotions as the characters. You can thank me later.)
We rushed up to the thing walking down the road. It was a glass animal of some sort, a little like the Hawkwind or the Dragonaut, except instead of flying, it was walking. As we rounded it, I got a better view.
I froze in place on the street. ‘A pig?’
Sing shrugged. Bastille, however, rushed toward the pig in a determined run. She looked less dazed, though she still had a very . . . worn-out cast to her. Her eyes were dark and puffy, her face haggard and exhausted. I jogged after her. As we approached the enormous pig, a section of glass on its backside slid away, revealing someone standing inside.
I feel the need to pause and explain that I don’t approve of potty humor in the least. There has already been far too much of it in this book, and – trifecta or not – it’s just not appropriate. Potty humor is the literary equivalent of potato chips and soda. Appealing, perhaps, but at the same time, dreadful and in poor taste. I will have you know that I don’t stand for such things and – as in the previous volumes of my narrative – intend to hold this story to rigorous quality standards.
‘Farting barf-faced poop!’ a voice exclaimed from inside the pig’s butt.
(Sigh. Sorry. At least that’s another great paragraph to try working into a random conversation.)
The man standing in the pig’s posterior was none other than Prince Rikers Dartmoor, Bastille’s brother, son of the king. He still wore his royal blue robes, his red baseball cap topping a head of red hair.
‘Excuse me?’ I said, stopping short outside the pig. ‘What was that you said, Your Highness?’
‘I hear that Hushlanders like to use synonyms for excrement as curses!’ the prince said. ‘I was trying to make you feel at home, Alcatraz! What in the world are you doing in the middle of the street?’
‘We need a ride, Rikers,’ Bastille said. ‘Fast.’
‘Explosive diarrhea!’ the prince exclaimed.
‘And for the last time, stop trying to talk like a Hushlander. It makes you sound like an idiot.’ She jumped up into the pig, then extended a hand to help me up.
I smiled, taking her hand.
‘What?’ she asked.
‘Nice to see you’re feeling better.’
‘I feel terrible,’ she snapped, sliding on her dark sunglasseslike Warrior’s Lenses. ‘I can barely concentrate, and I’ve got this horrible buzzing in my ears. Now shut up and climb in the pig’s butt.’
I did as ordered, letting her pull me up. Doing so was harder for her than it would have been previously – being disconnected from the Mindstone must have taken away some of her abilities – but she was still far stronger than any thirteen-year-old girl had a right to be. The Warrior’s Lenses probably helped; they’re one of the few types of Lenses that anyone can wear.
Bastille helped Sing up next as the prince rushed through the glass pig – which had a very nice, lush interior – calling for his driver to turn around.
‘Uh, where are we going on our amazing adventure?’ the prince called.
Amazing adventure? I thought. ‘To the palace,’ I called. ‘We need to find my cousin Folsom.’