Twelve-Anne reached for the patch covering her leftmost eye to relocate it seven cm to the right. Now that she was several million kilometres away from the Illuminati for The Blind Headquarters, it would be a fairly good life choice to be as sighted as possible. Her best pupil reflexively constricted as moonlight flooded into her functional eye, and she thought of the last two years’ (the last 17 years’ and the next 24’s, if you were take an objective view of things, which I really wouldn’t expect) events.
She’d been serving thought-impairing beverages at the bar of a four-star bowling alley to remain financially stable while she toiled away at her art. It was late when she returned from her day job, late even by her town of Fleetinghope’s standards. Seeing that her latest art project, entitled “Entitled” need only be signed before it was ready for public viewing, she marked the canvas. “Bagghhnn!” she lamented, throwing her arm collection in the air. She’d signed the wrong name. L. Finn wasn’t even particularly close to Twelve-Anne Stradivari. She smacked her face, wondering why she didn’t simply wait until morning to sign it, when her mind was clearer.
When morning did arrive, she decided that L. Finn really wasn’t such an awful name, she could easily extend it to Luther Gigee F. Mansete O’Finn and become one of those women with male pen names, like Mark Twain (Twelve-Anne was an avid conspiracy theorist at that time). She signed with the false name for the next six months, and after the first four, she was able to quit her job at the bowling alley.
“Oh, an artist who is also a man.” The people would say. “I simply have to buy those paintings.”
As her work’s popularity grew, she began to receive invitations to high brow dinner parties and semi-formal barn raisings, which she heartily accepted. Many of these events’ venues boasted coat racks, and she understandably used them to store one such coat.
“Here, let me get your jacket for you.” A gold-plated man offered one Thursday evening.
“Oh, thank you, Spencer.” Twelve-Anne replied, assuming both that the man’s name tag was accurate, and that the garment was hers. She was mistaken on both accounts, the latter more detrimentally so, as the coat was also a one-way time machine set for 2038 Ganymede.
She’d searched for a way off the rock every Tuesday since, but its primary portal was always being used to import breathable air and humans from Earth, and was heavily guarded by highly persuasive signage. It seemed inevitable that she would live in the Illuminati for The Blind headquarters until her habit of aging caught up with her; but then, on the first day of Casserole January at the office, 1782 and company waltzed a time traveling tumour onto the planetoid’s face, and shared her vision for leaving as soon as possible. She stowed away on the tumour, with enough food packed to sustain her for the negative twenty-four years of traveling.
Twelve-Anne realised that she had been staring into the moon for the entirety of her seven-paragraph memory, and lowered her gaze to meet Sylvester Denny’s. Dawson Filter waved, and notified Sylvester that it would be polite to do the same, prompting Sylvester to do the same.
“Would you like to join us in our grand search for the True Meaning of Feelings?” Dawson asked, to make Twelve-Anne feel useful.
“Sorry, was that ‘of Feelings’, or ‘stove Feelings’?” She inquired.
“Of Feelings.” Dawson clarified.
“Thanks.” She thanked, primarily out of gratitude. “And yes, that does sound like the sort of thing that’s good, and I think I’m free until my death, so I would love to join your quest, nameless stranger!”
Babe, Dawson, Sylvester, and Twelve-Anne (listed in order of polo skills) turned their eyes to stare into the latest sunrise, hope filling “their” hearts as they thought of assorted things, all of which were at least borderline good. What was lost in all the thoughts, however, was the shape of an ear within a triangle appearing in a pillar of smoke to their left.