Morning came to the Illuminati for The Blind headquarters at 12:00 am, partially out of habit, and partially out of spite for 1:26 pm, who had hosted Harry Houdini’s death, despite Morning’s protests. As she came, Life-Choices-Luther strut into the Spandex Room, a lit match between his lips and a Norwegian casserole between his left hand and the air seven inches above said hand. Seeing that Dawson Filter’s eyes had been pointing at the flame, as much as spheres can point, Luther explained that his physician had recommended matches as a healthy-ish alternative to kerosene soaked Cuban cigars; assuring him that they were an order of magnitude hipper, anyway.
“Ah.” Dawson mouthed, complemented by his voice. “Thank you again for the food you’ve brought out of the kindness of your heart into the hollow recesses of ours. It’s quite neat how you give us stuff. Case in point: it’s neat now, and you’re giving us stuff.” Feeling a need to justify Dawson’s sentiments, Life-Choices handed him the casserole most convenient to hand, which happened to be the one discussed in more detail in the previous paragraph.
After an unspecified time of things, said casserole became eaten, largely due to the efforts of Dawson Filter and Babe Listowel. As Babe set what I have decided to call the last piece, out of my obsession with the practice of recreational lie-telling, into his mouth-parts, he noted the existence of a thick, beige-spined book lying at the top of the bottom of the dish which once housed, at assorted points in its time as a thing: a stew, forty-nine forks, four litres of lithium, countless broken dreams, and a casserole. The volume was barely moist, with “The IFTB’s Guide to Being” printed, presumably to act as a title, in golden 34-point Times New Roman letters.
“Rule and/or regulation #1” Babe read, “Double the negative, double the fun.”
“That’s quite the sort of thing that is.” Dawson commented, startling himself with his voice’s temperature, which he had briefly forgotten to expect as non-existent. He leaned far enough to see the parts of the text which were meant to be seen, wondering why a book which seemed to have likely been published independently by and for an organization with “for The Blind” in its favourite name. The book seemed to yield very few answers, containing instead a boatload more rules and/or regulations (many of which were simply more general tips on maximizing fun-levels); as well as various conspiracy-outlines and a diagram of November marked “of a fair amount o’ importance”, which Babe took as an invitation to tear the sheet from its special place, sliding it into the satchel you didn’t know about (these are just some more words to avoid ending a sentence with a preposition, pay them no mind).
The diagram consisted mainly of an empty space approximating the size of the paper sheet, with several arrows pointing to assorted sections of the expanse, all labeled with coordinates corresponding to locations on the moon Io, save one, which was marked “The Amazonian Basin” in fresher ink than the others, and the only one yet to be stroked through in panda venom.
Babe Listowel offered a weak smile, far weaker than one would expect from someone with his jawline; and suggested to Dawson that they finish lining their stomachs with the casserole, forcing me to reveal that they still had four casserole-units left to eat, and the rest of society to come to terms with the loss of the lack of existence of this sentence.