It’s just after midnight. You’ve just settled into your favorite rhino-skin armchair and have lit up one of the Portuguese sausages you smoke in lieu of cigars. You hear a rumbling outside and the unmistakable howl of a motor-klaxon, and push back the blinds to reveal a 1924 Renault Six-Roues Type MH. What’s the driver yelling at you?
Here’s some possibilities:
“Don’t say a word. Get in. Grab the elephant gun and get ready. You’ll aim for the ruby on the airship and — well, you can figure out the rest.”
“Quick! Climb in! The Moon Princess has agreed to meet you! But it has to be now!”
“The Inner Earth people! The signal — they sent the signal!”
“It’s the goddamn Mole King. You were right. I apologize. Now, shut up and take the wheel.”
“We were wrong! It was listening the whole time! One tentacle already took out the lab. So get in and grab The Device and shove it in the back there.”
“I guess I do still love you. But if you meant what you said, you’ll climb in right now and help me through the lava plains so we can end this once and for all.”
“The Orb. She spoke. Get in.”
“The hovership is stuck about two days from here. You’ll want to suit up before we go — it’s in the Crocodile People’s land.”
“The hippos got into the serum. It’s happening, just like you wrote. We have to leave now.”
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