[Durelin]

As they raced their way back onto the highway in their PT Cruiser, they showed each other their winnings. Panakeia brandished Kirk’s toupee with glee, and Valde held out the conveniently pre-cut strip of cloth with much less enthusiasm.

“I was a fool. I didn’t read the directions carefully enough.”

“It’s not your fault,” Panakeia said, trying to make him feel better. “It’s just that you’re a man. You know how it is…”

“Yes, I do know what it is like to be a man,” he replied sarcastically, rolling his eyes to make it clear that he did not fit the male stereotype, in most cases.

“That’s not quite what I meant,” she responded with an eye roll that far outmatched Valde’s.

“I know,” he said, in a remarkably Han Solo-like way. “There.”

“There what?”

“There’s our exit.”

Panakeia swerved over several lanes of traffic in order to reach the exit ramp, coming dangerously close to the Jersey barriers, which Valde had always thought was a football team until he got such a good look at them. When they arrived back at the resort, he started to wish that they had stayed with the Jersey barriers.

“It’s Queen Quon!” Panakeia exclaimed, but quickly fell silent in order to park the car in a designated space.

“And Roggie. But where’s CoDzilla*? Oh, wait, nevermind, it’s Bleater Quackson. Most likely he’s made a replacement in order to use up his budget.” He hopped out of the car, and motioned to Panakeia. “Come on, it’s safe. It’s only rated PG-13.”

So they made their way toward where a vast array of production equipment was set up, and Quackson himself was sitting in his director’s chair, taking the long way around, distancing themselves from the filming. Sure enough, Anakron was amidst that mess. It also seemed that Alumìne Umfuìl and Sai Onara had already arrived; Valde was disappointed, as he thought that he and Panakeia had made good time. A large crowd of young girls who all wore their hair the same way were screeching nearby. Roggie’s fangirls, perhaps? As long as they only admired his gloomily handsome features at a distance, he would be happy.

“Greetings, Grand Anakron,” he proclaimed as he approached Anakron. “Panakeia and I have arrived largely successful and unscathed.” He glanced at the monstrous forms of Queen Quon and Roggie. “Are we interrupting anything?” He asked sarcastically, holding the precious cloth strip in the palm of his hand and holding it close to him, not ready to unveil it yet. Anakron may view the world as a B-rated sci-fi film, but Valde would stick to his tragedy.

But then suddenly another man approached. At least, Valde considered him enough of a man to be called one, though his face appeared as if it were some kind of dog’s that had been hit head on by a very large truck. He had never seen a dog carry a whip, much less wear a hat (obviously he had never been to San Francisco), and so he decided that calling what Alli proclaimed to be a ‘professor’ was indeed a specie of man, or a man-like specie. After an absurd question about Dwarven women, Valde was convinced that this man belonged at the Cultivation Center next week, as he had observed something about a ‘Tollerthon Convention.’

“d,” he answered simply. “Here, take this.” He handed the man with canine tendencies a flyer that he had picked up at the Cultivation Center for that Tollerthon Convention, and then turned back to the Anakron.

*(CoD = CaptainofDespair)