Mr. Babyface used the sandcastle portal again to reach Zebrasil and the nice beach he liked. This time he brought a guest.
“Better lather up for the sun,” he suggests to Caucasian Tommy Brade while applying yet another layer of suntan lotion himself. “Ozone hole’s not getting any smaller, ya know.”
But Tommy just sat awkwardly in his own beach cot and stared at his throwing hand. “I remember bees,” he finally managed.
“Good,” said Mr. Babyface. “You’re progressing, Tommy. Slowly but surely. Soon the big picture will fill in for ya. The impossible Super Bowl win that year, the role my nephew had in it. Everything.”
Caucasian Tommy Brade then stared directly into the sun for a full 5 minutes, but it didn’t hurt. He was the sun.
Moving to the other side of the island to get away from the heat, Mr. Babyface realizes that Tommy Brade may be no good for him now. He has to hatch a second plan, perhaps even a third. He thinks back to his conversation day before yesterday with Tronesisia. The Boss. “A certain building added,” she said several times. Gazing toward mainland, Mr. Babyface wonders again what it might mean.