Sylvester took a broom from the closet designated for such sticks; and began sweeping up the streamers the room had accumulated in the last hour. Upon seeing what an eyesore the floor was when bare, he gave up; and made plans for burning the broom. He looked up to see Dawson Filter, who happened to be talking to him.
“Now that you know what a sham your life turned out to be, would you like to join us on our quest?” Dawson said, twirling a real screwdriver between his two best fingers; “We run about through time and space trying to find the True Meaning of Feelings; making little progress and suffering semi-regular breakdowns.”
Sylvester Denny had been having an awful lot of feelings lately. He’d wondered what they meant for some time; and one of the most pervasive of the feelings was boredom, which a quest seemed likely to remedy. As a result of these, and seventy-three other factors, including that saying ‘yes’ is how one agrees to a proposition in most English speaking countries, Sylvester said “Yes.”
“About the time and space and whatnot, we did forget our time machine on the moon.” Twelve-Anne reminded Dawson; having taken a course on the legal repercussions of false advertising to qualify for art school.
“Ugh! Disillusionment!” Sylvester moaned in English, “I still have seventy-two reasons to say yes, though; so I’m still illusioned-up enough to come along on your quest.”
“I am currently pleased, largely due to your decision.” Dawson affirmed, “Is there anything you’d like before we re-embark on this journey of love, loss, and hope?”
“Well, I am somewhat fond of stability.” Sylvester noted, “Could we set up an official quest-office to discuss the sorts of things people discuss when in offices?”
“My landlord rents out office space in Nebraska in his spare time.” Felipe interjected, “It’s more of a hobby than anything, so the cost is pretty low; and there are a lot of streetlights around. There’s this one that I’m particularly into; and every time I walk by, I can’t help saying to myself: ‘nice post’.”
“Simply perfect.” Twelve-Anne said.
Dawson nodded; because he agreed.
Felipe leaned back against a wall, twiddling his thumbs on his stomach. “You know,” he said, “I’ve been reconsidering my career in the field of body storage. This internship isn’t really working out for me; so if you need an intern of sorts for your office, I would accept the position in a heartbeat.”
Everyone in the room shook Felipe’s hand, welcoming him onto the ground floor of what would soon be (spoiler warning) a grand operation, complete with real money. And at that time, the ground floor of the Quest Committee Office was the top floor.
. . .
Twelve-Anne passed Dawson another cardboard box to unpack. Dawson unpacked it, as well as the smaller box inside, the still smaller box inside of that one, and a series of sixteen other boxes.
“There.” he thought to himself, and anyone nearby who might have been reading his thoughts. He looked over the boxes. Thirty-seven in total, he counted. That should be enough to start them off.
Sylvester walked into the room. He turned around several times to inspect the new office, and handed Felipe a stapler he’d just bought at the local black market.
Thirty seven-boxes and a stapler. Sylvester finally had his stability.