that story.”
The voice continued. “This will be the original, unabridged version.”
Randall whimpered. The original version was a 1570 page single-spaced manuscript handwritten in very tiny print that struck terror into the hearts of all who gazed upon it.
The voice began to speak in a monotone. “Milton the Merchant really liked numbers. He liked the number one, and the number two, as well as the number three. In addition, he had quite a fondness for the numbers four, five, and six. But he especially liked the number seven, because seven was bigger than one, two, three, four, five, and even six. The number eight was too big, however, and frightened him, but Milton cherished the number seven like his own child.
“One day, Milton woke up and decided he was going to count to seven. Counting like this made him ever so happy. He sat up in bed, and thought about whether or not he ought to start with zero this time. But zero wasn't really a number, at least not to Milton, and so he decided to start with one.”
Randall's breath was coming in quick gasps. Sir William put a comforting hand on his shoulder, though Randall noticed the hand was twitching.
“'One...’ he said. But, alas, he didn't really want to proceed to two, because that would mean leaving the number one behind. And he did love the number one. Not as much as the number seven, of course, but he loved it all the same.”
“Make it stop,” Randall pleaded.
“'Whatever shall I do?’ Milton worried. ‘I do so want to count to two, yet I also wish to stay on one.’ What would
“Drown myself,” said Sir William.
“Then Milton got an idea. It was a good idea, and made Milton smile nearly as much as he smiled when he thought of the number seven. ‘Why, it is simple!’ he declared. ‘I shall write the number one on this piece of paper, and then I can look at it while I count to two!'”
Sir William's grip on Randall's shoulder tightened, causing him to wince with pain.
“And Milton did. But when he finally counted to two, Milton grew sad again, for now he couldn't count to three without rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrwwwwwwwwwww....”
The voice faded away. A perky female voice sounded. “We are experiencing magical difficulties. This exhibit is now closed.”
“YES!” Sir William shouted. “PAR-TEE! PAR-TEE!”
The glowing arrow appeared, and they got up from the bench and proceeded to the next exhibit. It was a stone table, upon which rested a lobster, an avocado, and a piece of lint. A placard on the table read “Thou shalt determineth whicheth object doth not belongeth, and toucheth the blueth dotteth underneatheth. Got ith?”
“The lint,” suggested Randall. “You can eat the lobster and the avocado.”
“I agree about the lint,” said Sir William, “but it might be because both the lobster and avocado can be used as weapons, while the lint would be woefully ineffective.”
“No, no, you're wrong. The answer is the lint. It's the only man-made substance on the table.”
“It must be the lint. The lint is the only one that would burn right away if you thrust a torch at it.”
“Wait, I changed my mind. It's the lint, because that's the only one you can fit between your toes or in your belly button.”
Sir William touched the blue dot under the lint.
“Guess what?” said the voice.
Randall and Sir William waited.
“No, really, guess what?”
“Uh, what?” asked Randall.
“You know that dot you pressed?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, let's take a little quiz. What letter does lobster start with?”
“L,” Randall answered, his stomach sinking.
“And what letter does lint start with?”
“L,” Randall answered, his stomach continuing its downward trajectory.
“Soooooo ... it's my guess that the one thing not to belong would be the one that doesn't start with that wonderful letter L. And by golly, that would be the avocado, wouldn't it?”
The exhibit vanished. The humming sound started up.
“Any last words?” asked the voice.
“Rutabaga, trollop, and fleece,” said Randall.
“Good ones. And now, here comes the wizard beam!”
The humming grew louder, then abruptly died down.
“Just kidding again!” said the voice.
Randall wiped off the quart of sweat that had gathered on his palms.
The voice continued. “Actually, I was just kidding when I said I was just kidding.” The humming grew louder again. The lights all turned a dark red color.
“Sir William, can I tell you something?” asked Randall, shouted to be heard as the humming reached its loudest point.
“Of course you may.”
“If you'll look down at your loin cloth, you'll notice that there's been a bit of ... uh, slippage. I wouldn't want you to die like that.”
“Thank you,” said Sir William, making the necessary adjustments.
The wizard beam fired.
And missed by a good twelve feet.
“Not especially accurate, are they?” asked Randall. The humming died away. The background music was worse than ever, consisting of a man singing about the Tic-Tac-Toe game of love.
“No, they're not,” Sir William agreed.
They followed the next glowing arrow down a short hallway. At the end of it was an iron door, upon which were the words: “Here shalt thou find thy final test. Pass through this door, and confront thy True Self. If thou goest not loco, thou shalt move on in thy journey, and probably be killed by the witch Grysh.”
“Confront my true self?” asked Sir William. He snorted with laughter. “The only danger in this test is being overcome with the Happies from being too close to myself.”
He threw open the door, and they walked through. The air was like liquid again, although this time liquid of a much thinner consistency yet with more lumps.
* * * *
SIR WILLIAM found himself alone in a room with mirrored walls. He checked his hair, found it adequate, and then began walking around the room, searching for the exit.
A human-shaped shadow materialized in front of him. Slowly it began to develop a flesh-colored hue. Finally, it had transformed into an exact duplicate of himself.
“Hello,” it said.
“Why, hello,” said Sir William, looking his true self over. “Those are some shiny biceps you've got there.”
“You too. And I'm very impressed by your fully developed pectorals. I don't suppose you'd make a muscle for me?”
“I'd be happy to,” said Sir William, making immense muscles in both of his arms. “These aren't those stick-on muscles, either. These are the real thing.”
“I can tell,” his true self said, shoving a finger deep into its nose.
Sir William lowered his arms. “What are you doing?”
His true self withdrew the finger, and inserted it into the next lower orifice. “Dining.”
“Stop that! You're a knight in the king's army! Behavior like that is completely unacceptable!”
“Oh, really?” asked his true self, hocking the mother of all loogies and spitting it on the floor. “Who says?”
“You can't possibly be my true self,” said Sir William.
The duplicate began to vigorously scratch his underarms. “Dang, my pits itch! Would you mind helping me
