“Interesting place you brought me to, Wheeler. All I asked for is to give me back the mop.”
“Brrr,” she fake shivered. “Getting cold in here. You’ll have to put on at least a shirt soon.”
“You know I don’t do that, Wheeler,” spoke John L. Brown honestly. For a change. He *was* getting cold. A paradox was coming up. “It’s right there,” he continued. “Just… hand it over.”
“No,” she replied bluntly. “I… I’m not ready.”
“You like the *power*.” His smile turned into a smirk. Change x 2.
Wheeler thought back to using it on Arthur Kill. Indeed made him rise from the dead, just like Duck said it would when they met last. She desired to meet him again. John L. Brown said that he would meet in his stead and that he was away from Our Second Lyfe for the moment. Something in Real Life, he said. Uncopyrighted and untrademarked business. Herbert Domain.
“Herbert Domain?” Wheeler uttered at the time, obviously thinking of Tennessee. And she was right. They weren’t ready for that kind of business here. The dog named Spider is enough for now.
“You’ve done your business here,” spoke John L. Brown, the smirky smile not quite off his lips. “You know you can’t get out of this.”
“Chop me some wood first,” she said, fake shivering again. Because Wheeler had her own internal heating system. Unlike John.
But there was no wood to find in this desolate place high in the Foxtrot Backcountry. Only snow, static to others. Tennessee remains untraceable. The plane remains crashed in Kentucky and not Black Jack. That was the whole point of this.
Wheeler relented, gave over the mop. John L. Brown would hand it over to Paul in the next post.