Apologies for the delayed posting, I was procrastinating about formatting and lost track of time last Saturday. But without further ado here is the final instalment. I hope you enjoy what myself and Pied Piper have writen. With all due respect,~John F.Q  

Day 5: Part 2 - A Crease In Time

“People aren't either wicked or noble. They're like chef's salads, with good things and bad things chopped and mixed together in a vinaigrette of confusion and conflict.” ― Lemony Snicket, The Grim Grotto  

The CBers suddenly have a flashback to memories they never experienced:

The Editor and Secretary reaching out from behind a door in the dining carriage. Like gerbils grinning menacingly, reaching up and snatching muffins from a countertop.

Then the Editor and Secretary struggling with a sarcophagus in the Library. The Secretary sneezing at the dust.

The Editor and Secretary emerging from a sea of feathers, holding pillows with the stuffing all up one end. Then, like a rewind, the events of the past few days moving backwards but here and there were The Editor and Secretary.

There were the two of them, piling up mounds of sand around the train tracks, making little mini mountains, party hats, and abstract Japanese minimalist gardens.

“Yes in our writings, we’ve been very there in every event that has transpired, while not exactly implied”, said Pied Piper.

John F.Q muttered, “I mean Morg-”

Pied Piper put her hand over John F.Q’s mouth, “Not yet, spoilers dear brother!”

Chinchilla gave a knowing smile to everyone.

St. Owl asked “Why write? If you know what’s happening can’t you just tell us who the murderer is?”

Orangelemon was annoyed, “Yeah, how come you didn’t stop them?”

Unicat was dumbfounded, “Again your writing about this, really!?”

John F.Q looked sheepish, “Well kind of but not really, it’s really wibbly wobbly timey wimey.”

Pied Piper added, “What he means is it doesn’t make any sense and is mostly embarrassing, sometimes pedantic even. As far as I can tell there is this magical force called the Narrativium, that sort of gives us prophetic flashes into stuff happening though it’s all in the wrong order and we don’t see so much as feel most of it. And many details are missing.”

John F.Q said, “It’s like an old man stopping you in the street and muttering important information that you can’t quite hear. Like old Sherlock Holmes, but all the rationality and reasons are never explained.”

Gandalf crossed his arms. “I only ever stop people in the street to make sure they throw their junk into the proper waist bin. With great power comes great responsibility, you know that well Sam!”

Mr Gold frowns, “ So wait just a minute. You youngsters know everything, happening anywhere, at any time?”

Suddenly, there was a garbled buzz on the overhead speakers, as far up the train the conductor spoke into a tiny mic. “Could the children in the final train section please gather calmly and wait for the boarding of their parents. Administration has reported unattended children with invalid tickets. Please await parental supervision.”

Evergreen said, “What? We’re at the bottom of the sea! And parents never show up on these kinds of adventures!”

Tux frowned. “Yeah, I’m allowed to get abducted by an eccentric madman if I like, I have rights!”

Rosebud said, “This is too logical. It's like Mr. & Mrs. Penvensie suddenly showing up to Professor Kirk's house. It doesn't happen!”

XP said, “Oh Bleep! I knew I should have packed a toothbrush.”

T.S said, “Or, you know, not gone on a train without adult supervision.”

Chinchilla said, “Trains are dangerous, get a grownup!”

Shoshanna said, “Umm guys do you think the pillow battle was such a good idea.”

Hailey said, “I'm sure it'll be fine, we can say it was just a fight...minor skirmish...ok we might have to stretch the truth a little and say it was like a small non-violent raid. Just, you know involving some pillows with stuffing poked up one end and a lot of feathers…ok yeah, there's no getting out of this one. We'll be grounded for sure.”

Abigail said, “No, RoseBud and Evergreen are right, is this possible? Do we even have parents in this universe? Do they even exist?”

Squeak wailed, “It's not true, it's impossible! Araugh!”

Diane said, “Squeak’s right, weren't we all brought to Chatterbox by semi-intelligent storks? Right? Don't tell me I was adopted.”

Someone said sarcastically, “And here I was, thinking I was just picked out from a crowd of strangers.”

I was as confused and mortified as the last person, and turned to see the ‘Ominous’ desperately putting on a false conductor moustache (overtop of his beard). In the same stiff movement this new double-bearded man pushed Mr Gold toward the carriage doors saying, “You have the most responsibility, go up to the parents and say you're a school teacher. You look responsible, plus dear brother...just take full and unquestionable responsibility you got this I believe in you.”

But by know it was already too late to be caught unawares at bumbling, bunburying, or spluttering.

There was a crisp tap on the carriage door and the sound of two brisk coughs.

Leafy said, “I'm sure they're not that bad?”

Then a dry English voice came from behind the door, “I've been worried ill.”

RoseBud said, “Ok scratch that, it's like Eustace’s dad showing up in Narnia.”

The carriage door could only be described as opening in slow motion, but that could have just been my brain attempting to catch up at the pace required of one of Her Majesty's Constabulary.

There it was, shrouded in the doorway, backlit in the rickety corridor like a magician emerging from a trapdoor, or like a hard of hearing old lady blundering into the room.  The figure was a tall, rather neatly dressed individual in a three piece suit. His dark hair parted and nose upturned, speaking in a nasal octave that was oddly familiar but the CBer’s couldn’t quite place were it was from. The voice also seemed familair to The Larrys from all the crime newscasts that they listed too on a regular basis.

“I suppose it's all this scheming, I don't have time for the inclination for vitamins.  So I get colds. Alright passengers, as you see I am not any of your fathers. In fact, my name is…”

Here the figure paused for effect before continuing, “Simo-”

RoseBud interrupted, “Yes we know already, Simon Mor-”

Leafpool interjected, “I saw it too! His name is Simon Morgenstern...”

Simon Morgestern clapped politely, “Yes brilliant you CBers are awfully clever aren't you. Well done. Superlative. Excellent.”

Here I would be remiss for not pointing out that the way this Morgenstern chap said “excellent” was in a manner so deeply pleased that it chilled even my gelatinous bones to the core.

Morgenstern let out a short dry laugh. “I suppose you think I'm simply like a rather dapper version of that Rumplestiltskin fellow. I suppose you eclectic individuals would very much like me to simply stomp my way through the structural integrity of this marvellous contraption.”

RoseBud “What, is calling us eclectic supposed to be intimidating?”

Leafy said, “RoseBud and I raided the account of the Ridiculous Management of Seagoers and noticed your name in the management roster, pretty suspicious don't you think?”

T.S added, “Not to mention your wanted poster on the walls of LIRB’s studio! Which would very much suggest you're a wanted man. Making us in the position to call the police on your ‘structural damage’.”

That is when I realised where I'd seen that neatly ordered face before. This man had eluded the police in the events that took place in the Alps as Mrs Peirce so suspiciously detailed. He was the self-same man that had pushed Bertram Worcestershire!

Notes said “So let me get this straight... this is clearly all a last-minute attempt to explain the blatant, nay I say obvious, clear and flagrant, plot holes throughout this entire journey, is that right?”

Hailey said, “Well, can you blame them for trying? And do try to be careful, the fourth wall's fragile.”

Unicat perked up at a thought, “Also how can you stomp through the train’s floor with just one foot? That seems highly improbable. Also, everyone knows Rumpelstiltskin isn’t real.”

Gandalf nodded. “The young Hobbit has a point.”

“Quite right, that was just an empty threat. However, I have less empty ones as well. I have been here the whole time studying you. There is not much you can do to escape me now. I’ve been behind practically everything in every way.” Morgenstern removed a lettuce-leaf-shaped rubber earpiece from behind one ear, and that’s when the CBers remembered where they’d heard the curt and brusk tones of his voice before. For the salad Mrs Pierce had made was what Morgenstern had been using to observe them. The crunch of the salad was in fact microphone croutons smuggled into Mrs. Peirce’s purse.

Simon Morgenstern leered. “I even poisoned Max’s quiche, he did so like them. Unfortunately one rarely checks the character and suspicious nature of a cheese or egg sustenance, green or otherwise, before eating. A real pity.”

The Ominous turned to Margaret, his false moustache and beard trembling. Then said in a thunderous voice that at the same time was filled with foreboding, “Quick, Margaret! Put a pot of tea on, this is one of the personal demons that I mentioned to Crypto. We are nemeses, he and I. I'd have thought we were literary friends in university, we had a writing group called the Bloopings. Until this ink-spot went off and decided to actually fulfil our boyish jests about taking over the world. He is an enemy like James Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes. Like Gerbert Grindelwald and Albus Dumbledore. Or like the Six-Fingered Man & Inigio Montoya. So, we meet again. What is it that you want, old nemesis?”

Morgenstern said, “ Yes, no need to be quite so Ominous about it. We were friends once for a time, no more.”

The Ominous looked hurt, “We were close friends, there was no plane we wouldn’t hide on top of the faculty building to confuse old professor Fenoglio. And no wild wombat I wouldn’t put down people’s trousers without consulting you. We were as thick as Miguel and Tulio.”

Morgenstern stern raised an eyebrow with skill, “Them too.”

Then Ominous paused and his voice was suddenly filled with sadness, he looked at Morgenstern with a meaningful gaze. “We were once so much like Toopy and Binoo. But again, why are you here? If you intend to endanger my passengers, believe you me, my wrath will be so great you’d wished you were a pineapp-”

Morgenstern interrupted with relish, “Unfortunately not, I’m here on behalf of the RMS Co and its affiliated parties to give you a message. As vice-chairman of the newly assembled board for your expulsion.To remind you once more that you have been served notice of said expulsion. As well, I do hereby demand a full return of property, including but not limited to damages incurred while at sea. To wit, you’ve been fired! You have ten minutes to hand over all valuables and begin the ritualised crying of sugar tears, no worries it will not be legally held against you that sucrose tears are impossible. You are also to return the missing piece of the Improbability-Flux-Resistor-Capacitor as well as the machine itself.”

The Ominous gasped. “I will not give my invention to you!”

“Our invention!” Morgenstern retorted, “I always hated that you took the credit and held the physicist party. Fine then. I’ll just kill you.”

Mr Gold spread his hands apart between Morgestern and The Ominous, “Now look here, this can be settled rationally. Perhaps with a good old boxing fight, or some other exhibition of physical prowess.”

The Ominous’ eyes twitched convulsively. Then he sighed. “Fine, then I call the right to Ye Old Dispute-By-Dueling, Section 7 of the Charter Of Chatters.”

Mogestern gave a wicked grin, “Like a duel, to the death.”

“More like a civilised fencing duel, with foils,” corrected the Ominous.

Mr Gold nodded and handed two foils from nowhere to The Ominous and Morgenstern, “Right, like gentlemen. Here are your weapons, what shall you fight to?”

Morgenstern gave a sly grin, “We shall fight to the death.”

The Ominous said, “No, we shall fight to the random. Til your head turns into a pineapple, til your legs involuntarily dance the mamba, til your eyes gleam like coconuts, and your coat resembles a walnut. To the random. Til you hail the almighty lord of comedy John Cleese, and your mind boggles before the colours of Salvador Dali.”

Mr Gold looked confused. “So until the usual hit count, then.”

Morgenstern begrudgingly nodded and the Ominous made a dignified incline of his head.

Kid munched on a banana, and casually dropped the peel on the carriage floorboards, “Boy, who knew fighting speeches were so interesting! I should go to duels more often.”

Mr Gold looked confused. “Right then gentlemen, select your doubles. These will be the people fighting on your behalf if you are disqualified. Though normally they would do their best to talk you out of fighting in the first place.”

The Ominous grinned, “I pick the finest fighter in the land, Rodrigo ‘Danny Boy’ Indigo Montoya.”

Morgenstern uttered grimly, “You cannot pick the ghost of a penguin as your double. Come now, pick any one of these disposable CBers.”

Leafpool immediately stood up. “Again, not fighting to the death. But I'll be The Ominous’s double, I can double just as well as a penguin. Besides, how difficult can it be?”

RoseBud said, “I'm not sure that's a good idea, it's probably more difficult than it looks...”

Morgenstern caught the Cbers with a withering glance. Then he turned, arms spread out affably, and looked expectant.

The Ominous looked back, face like a thunderstorm, “What else? They appear to have chosen among themselves.”

Morgenstern said with a leer, “You haven't picked my double.”

T.S raised their hand, surprising everyone, and said, “The enemy of my friend will be my enemy. For keep your friends close and your enemies closer.”

Mr Gold oversaw the duel with suddenly grave look, the glitter vanished from his smile. “Right, I want a clean fight, no letting things boil over like coffee. I’ve seen many an actuary accountant die by a stray fancy sword swish. After all, one doesn’t swish a weapon!”

Morgenstern put his left foot forward and raised a gloved hand, expertly swishing the tip of the foil’s blade.

Mr Gold glowered. “Not before the signal lad. I’ll give the traditional directions in French.”

Morgenstern rolled his eyes. “Right, because the Cbers speak French and know the actual rules to fencing.”

Squeak boasted, “I’ve spoken plenty of French! I once ranted in French while fighting an entire battle!”

XP asked, “You mean like Waterloo?”

Squeak looked embarrassed. “No, I meant more like a skirmish, I mean I didn’t actually rant and it wasn’t a battle. I actually saw it, there was this person called Madeline pretend-fighting with a baguette. It counts!”

“Couldn’t escape if I wanted to….” SopranoTwo started humming ABBA, then stopped when she saw everyone was looking at her. “Sorry, I couldn't help myself.”

Mr Gold continued, “As I was saying the traditional rules are as follo-”

T.S declared knowingly, “Yeah yeah, it’s quite simple. The pointy end goes in the other man, right?”

Someone corrected, “No no no, they stand back to back.”

Unicat pointed out, “That’s a gun duel silly.”

“Would you kindly let Mr Gold explain!” said Mrs. Pierce.

Mr Gold coughed, “The dance of death is sort of a whip-nay-nay type moment, if you were curious. But no, fencing one on one is actually not to kill the other guy, it’s done by hits. They stand back to back in the sense that each person goes back on the signal, when I say ‘ready’. And ‘go’ is the traditional starting phrase.”

“En garde … Prêtes …"

The Ominous leaned forward on his left leg in a slight crouch and raised his foil.

“Allez!”

Morgenstern lunged forward, sword raised toward The Ominous’ head! The Ominous flipped the sword aside and moved the blade towards Morgenstern's eyeline, lightly flicking his nose. Morgenstern trotted backwards, going under the Ominous’ arm and rapping it on the wrist.

“Aaaand they’re neck and neck! The Ominous in the lead with one point, followed by a false strike by Simon. Who's to say where this is going, let’s get an early report from the field.” Larry’s voice rang across the room.

“Hello, this is field reported Larry here. Sorry a bit frazzled today, but we’re reporting from the main deck where things are getting heated! There’s a back and forth, back and forth dance going on. Lots of swishing and flicking, but neither seems to be gaining much ground. Level or otherwise, as we are on a train folks!”

The Ominous ducked to the left, swatting Morgenstern's sword into his opponent's torso with an arm. Morgenstern lunged to the left, almost slipping, but the Ominous swished aside the advancing blade.

The Ominous paused for a split-second to catch a breath, but in that moment Morgenstern lunged upright like a praying mantis, sword streaking to the tip of the Ominous’ head. “I have the high ground!” declared Morgenstern.

Suddenly there was a blinding flash as a Larry brandished his camera, “Did you hear that reporters in the field and hosts today? Larrys we have a win for Simon Morgenstern. It’s frontline news...sorry first-hour news!”

While the News Larry ranted and took discombobulating photographs with a flash lens, The Ominous was able to gain the upper hand. He batted the foil aside unbalancing Morgenstern, sending the villain sprawling onto the ground.

The Ominous vaulted over the prone figure, using his sword to flick Morgenstern 2, 4, 6! Times on the head, then land beside his brother.

Mr Gold blew a whistle, shouted, “The match is over!” and then clasped The Ominous’ free hand and held his arm up, declaring him the winner. The Ominous levelled his sword at Morgenstern's neck, and proclaimed, “My name is the Ominous. You have dishonoured me! You have dishonoured my family! And worst of all, you have dishonoured yourself!”

Morgenstern rolled his eyes. “Alright! Alright! Enough dramatics! Kill me already, or are you not enough of a miasma of incandescent plasma to do so?”

“Not at all sir, I am plasma. But plasma never kills.”

Morgenstern raised his eyebrows in both confusion and surprise. “What?!”

“I shall be lenient,” The Ominous intoned, his eyes like stone.

Morgenstern spluttered. “This isn’t the proper way to end a duel! Come on, finish me off,” he whined. “Please, I deserve it!”

“Not happening! Besides, you have not handed over the missing piece of the engine, good sir,” commanded the Ominous, pointing the foil more towards Morgenstern prominent neck veins.

Morgenstern rolled his eyes,“ I don’t have it. Remember, you were the fool that lost it.” He spat out the last word as though it were a sour lemon, or some tea that was devilishly bitter.

The Ominous frowned. “Oh. Right, I’d forgotten... Well, at any rate, Inspector Scotty! Arrest this villain.”

I, the inexorable and fantastic Inspector Scotty, the pride of Scotland Yard and the most intelligent man in the room, looked at the Ominous in confusion. We still hadn’t proven that Morgenstern killed Bertram Worcestershire, or that he was even responsible for the current murder investigation. Even if he’d disguised himself as a salad, that didn’t prove anything other than he might be a very odd actor.

But it was too late, for Ms Piece had already drawn out a blank sheet of paper which obviously qualified her as part of the more advanced human resources department of the Cardiff Advanced Police Archival and Literary Unit. Ah yes, it was beginning to make sense! These were an elite force, known colloquially as the Indiana Joneses of Policemen. She was in fact the most advanced officer, a Police Liaison: someone who could talk a man off the edge of a cliff, or who had investigated and found famous stupidity-enhanced police artefacts. Artefacts like the Blunt Bludgeon of the last Great Bobby Crusades. Or relics like the Wristless Handcuffs and the Noiseless Whistle of Justice.

Ms Pierce said briskly, “Ms. Janet Pierce, special division. You are under arrest for numerous crimes against humanity. Murder, first of which of Bertram Worcestershire and secondly of many innocent CBers, numerous arsons (the great library of Alexandra and industrial food supplies owned by Aldo Brandini included), and numerous impersonations of RMS faculty and classically trained writers.” She marched towards him, ready to snap a pair of handcuffs (where did those come from?) around his wrists. Thankfully these handcuffs were not wristless.

However, before the wristful handcuffs could touch him, Morgenstern ducked, dodged Ms Pierce’s instantaneously-thrown frying pan before it even touched him, and sprinted for the far end of the carriage.

It was at this point that the carelessly dropped banana, belonging to Kid, saved the day. Morgenstern collapsed onto the deck with all the grace of a large headed wombat, or skinny and luckless lemming.

Shoshana declared on a whim, “I say we tackle and tickle the beast!

T.S flapped a flailing hand into Morgenstern’s face.

XP followed suit, flopping onto the villain’s legs.

Orangelemon pinched Morgenstern’s nose.

Luc creamed his arms with a cream pie.

Hailey jammed an elbow into his eyes.

Mary, Margaret, Jemima, and Beatrice converged on the hapless man’s ears, pinching them with all the menace and zeal of Hell’s Grannies.

Chinchilla placed a foot upon his back, and made a pose like a conquering general.

Brooklyn Newsie leapt on Morgenstern and batted his head with a rolled-up newspaper.

Unicat, Kid, and Tux plucked off Morgenstern’s toupee, false arm revealing a real arm underneath, clipped tie, and socks (but somehow left his shoes on).

Then Mr Gold drew his rifle and shot a stream of water at the prone Morgenstern, drenching all that was left of the villain, secret agent butler, and fiend.

Victoria applauded in triumph, and Rosebud and St Owl joined in. The Larrys joined haphazardly with Larry Smith looking down at the floor oddly.

Gandalf did a little victory dance, though he wasn't entirely sure either what was happening or what to dance about.

“I might only be a cat (I’m not), but I know when a man’s been thoroughly beaten and that is that!” Declared Tux in triumphant rhyme.

“Right, that’s enough of that.” Ms Pierce hauled the drenched and dishevelled Morgenstern to his feet. “Simon Morgenstern, you are officially under arrest, and anything you say or do will be used against you in a court of law.”

But Morgenstern was too clever, there was an odd twisting movement and suddenly he slid right out of his overcoat. He dove straight for the wormhole and over the roped-off section, in a desperate escape manoeuvre.

Much like the retreat tacit I’d always been taught to employ in a too-serious police matter or when dealing with anyone peaceful. “Always run away to live another day!” That was the motto Her Majesty first handed down to the police forces of Lesser Britain and the Isles.

The open wormhole warped and buzzed around Morgenstern, the tangled web of space and time seeming to tear at the villain’s features. Morgenstern bowed, and through the static of the wormhole his last remark could be heard, “It’s been fun, but I really must rush!” And then all that could be seen was a jumbled, Picasso-esque moment as Morgenstern swan-dived into the portal and disappeared.

There was a moment of shocked silence. 

Larry Smith legs bucked out from under him and his complexion looked grey and sickened. “Ohh, I think I have indigestion from that awful salad.”

Something about the way he said “awful” spoke oddly enough to my policeman’s ear like a good degree of guilt about something he had not divulged. Then my mind went back to when Morgenstern entered the room and spoken that first time, there was a detail missing on the edge of my on purposely clouded memory. It was this: that voice had not come as a surprise to Larry Smith, who had mentioned leaving briefly for a snack on the night of the murders. A snack that could have been a salad.

“Look I’m sorry, I’m dreadfully sorry. I feel as though I’m the most awful Larry in the whole wide world and for that matter I must be...” Larry Smith’s smile which normally twitched constantly at the edge of his mouth had vanished. The gaunt cheekbones and dishevelled hair shifted at once from pleasantly roguish to a look almost like the face of a dead man.

“Why, whatever is the matter old sport?” asked News Larry worriedly.

“Look I’m sure it’s not as bad as the sardines they served at the party in the Swiss Alps, is it?” brushed aside Host Larry.

Larry Smith quivered. “Look, he made me do it, the salad…that man. I wasn’t in the best of mindsets.”

This was the sort of time that I, Scotty, the greatest detective ever to live, felt a compulsion to practise my deductive abilities on a lampshade or billiard ball rather than focus on the obvious suspect, for what seems obvious must always be a distraction! But now, for the first time in my investigatory career, I felt like asking the right questions: I leaned towards Larry Smith and asked, “Who made you do what?”

“Morgenstern, he made me…” Here Larry Smith choked up in a burble.

“Spit it out darnit! We’ve had enough obtuse speeches for one day,” exclaimed Mr Gold.

Then an idea struck me like a lightning bolt, and I was dazed for a few minutes, watching purple elephants dance around my head. They did the conga in my mind's eye, their huge feet tapping in a rhythmic beat. That’s it, hallucination to prevent the deductive abilities from appearing! I had to applaud my subconscious.

Someone declared, “Wait, don’t tell me! I’ve finally figured it out, Larry Smith is secretly a poet. Look at the way his back arches in anxiety, look at the way his fingers quiver like he’s thinking of something on the edge of vision!”

Shoshana rolled her eyes, “Yeah, like that makes perfect sense.”

T.S nodded, “Well known fact: You can identify writers by their blistered fingers and hunched back from writing on typewriters all day long. And now with the advantages of modern technology, they also have to worry about sight loss due to screen brightness and electrocution, but then again nothing’s perfect. Many are still dealing with the loss of an era’s best writers to rogue half-plucked geese in the early years of illumination and church fires caused by inadequate candlelight for manuscripts.”

Evergreen replied, “Look he clearly has anxiety, that makes more sense then assuming every vaguely writerly person is secretly part of a society of writers called Novelists. I mean, does he look like he could fight off the forces of darkness with a pen?”

The CBer’s sadly had to admit that the now sobbing Larry Smith didn’t really look like a Dickens or Fenoglio.

“ I’m… a murderer. I’d only left the LIRB studio for a minute to catch a bite to eat and clear my head. You see I’d been arguing with Larry about the photographs he’d been taking. And the other Larrys’ controlling attitude. I mean we don’t always have to be cheerful, to be sombre once in a while doesn’t create toxic radio-ism.”

“Woah, woah! It’s so sunny outside, no need to be taking that tone!” Smiled Larry.

“Look, I understand what you mean about solemnity, but being cheerful helps one’s overall health. Not to mention, being sad causes bad weather patterns - well known fact.” nodded Larry.

“No, it’s not that - it’s just that we all look the same… do you know I was thinking about that as I walked to the dining carriage. It’s so odd, it literally makes no sense. How is it that three completely different stranger's can look the same? And I got to wondering, am I even a person without the rest of you? Am I just part of a puzzle, some sort of piece that makes no sense on its own? I’m an individual, and do you know how difficult that is in a group where everyone does the same thing? People can’t even tell me from the other Larrys, it’s terrifying! So I got to talking to that mean salad and just what he said made perfect sense and I got so mad. So I waited in the carriage, just to get someone to recognize me and asked Quill about it, and when they didn’t remember I got mad and used Larry's umbrella to pretend I had a gun. I didn’t mean to shoot, I didn’t even realise it was a gun! Then Pepper got involved and I didn’t want to look guilty and it all went out of control. After that, Crypto was too close to comfort and I was so dreadfully terrified and angry again!”

Larry Smith shot the other three Larrys a look of guilt, and then removed his overcoat. “Larry, I'm so so sorry. But look, I can make it up to you guys. Someone’s got to deal with that Morgenstern.” He suddenly dove towards the wormhole like a pinstriped streak, his parting shout an “Allons-y!”

“But the full force of the time winds… only a fictional character like Morgenstern could survive that!” proclaim T.S

The Ominous smiled and for the first time his ominous eyes glistened with a fiendish sense of adventure, “You never know! He’s a good swimmer.”

I nodded “Olympic-class sculling by the looks of it.”

Ms Pierce nodded, “He might be fine, you never know. After all, stranger things have happened at sea.”

Danie nodded “That’s for sure, I once met a hedgehog playing a lute while on your previous cruise.”

And that I’m afraid, was that.

The End.

Wow!! I don't know who anyone is because I haven't read the earlier parts, and
I haven't finished reading the last two parts yet, but I just wanted to
say congratulations for finishing the ski-lodge at long last! It's quite well-written. :)

Wow! Props to you for your dedication, after all these years! I only have a vague memory of when I joined this, but I've re-read everything and it's fantastic! The dialogue, the plot, the intricacies of the characters, everything! *applauds*

@
Poisentia: No need to sigh at the use of a smiley face. I'm pleased
your smiling, presumably that means your happy. Unless your smiling
because your plan to take over the world has been achieved. In which
case that’s quite an achievement, I’m still pleased.

Thanks
for the congratulations and I think I speak for myself ,and Pied
Piper, when I say I've immensely happy that you've enjoyed our
writing. Did you have a favorite parts from what you've read thus
fair?

@
Siver Crystal: I'm glad you're glad. Perfectly understandable that
you thought this Ski Lodge was dead, my apologies for not updating sooner. I'd
been very busy with farm labour that summer and this. Though I none the less was still writing. Yes luck is
something I shall need, I went to University last fall for film but
wasn't allowed to do anything by the bureaucrats that be for
bureaucratic reasons.

It
was rather like trying to convince Vogon's to do something other then
read poetry, I'd send emails saying I had various rights and they'd
come back requesting health documents in triplicate, signed, queered,
sent in, sent out, and finally burred in soft peat for twelve months.
I'd insist I'd read there poetic emails and that there was nothing of
bureaucratic substance, and they'd mind numbing insist on the
validity of their prose. So yes, luck I shall need and I thank you
for it.

@
Vylotee: It must have been a year and a day ago if that. More like
four years, but a year and a day is the poetical way to say it. I
think I speak for myself ,and Pied Piper, when I say I equally
applaud your rereading the immensely long days and your being here as
an audience and initial member of this Ski Lodge. That meant and still means alot to us.

Let's
hand out pats on the back, we all deserve I. I'm told they make birds and human's happier, at least that’s what Linus Van Pelt
always says to me.

With
all due respect,

John
F.Q

@Admins

Sorry in my last post I misspelt, Poissette,  Silver Crystal and Vyolette.