Pointing At What?

Where are the Fuzzballs? asks Prong.

Terence looks around for the Fuzzballs. 

They are probably playing with their handbag somewhere.

But he can't see them.

Maybe they ran away, says Terence.

You'd better find them, says Simone. Or what was the point of the rescue?

Only one of them was rescued, says Sartre.

Irrelevant, says Simone

I'll find them! says Prong.

She flies up to the top of a portico, from which there's a view.

There are the Fuzzballs, down below, in the queue.

She flies down to the Fuzzballs.

What are you two doing here? asks Prong.

Waiting, says Bowl Fuzzball.

To go inside, says Toyshop Fuzzball.

You don't have tickets, says Prong.

We didn't think we'd need tickets, says Bowl Fuzzball.

Everyone needs a ticket, says Prong. Even you.

The queue moves forward.

You'll see, says Prong. They won't let you through.

Let's give up, says Toyshop Fuzzball.

Yes, give up, says Prong. Come back and see Terence's new finger.

Okay, says Toyshop.

I'm staying, says Bowl.

At least I know where you are, says Prong. Come on, Toyshop.

Prong and Toyshop go back to where Terence and the others are waiting.

I found them! says Prong. They were in the queue for the basilica. 

And I gave up, says Toyshop. Because I don't have a ticket.

You don't need a ticket, says Terence. You're not a person.

I am a person, says Toyshop.

You look like a toy, says Terence. They would just think you were one.

A toy needs to belong to someone, says Simone. A toy on its own ends up in Lost Property.

I made a good choice then, says Toyshop. Bowl didn't.

I'll keep an eye on him, says Prong.

Look at my new finger, says Terence.

He shows it to Toyshop.

It looks like a sword, says Toyshop.

It is a sword, says Terence. 

Where did it come from? asks Toyshop.

Saint Liar, says Terence. He's in that box, pointing.

What at? asks Toyshop.

Terence thinks. 

Saint Liar will be horizontal. And pointing at what?

The end of the box, says Terence. 

Can I see him? asks Toyshop.

Of course you can, says Simone. He might like some company. And you won't wander off.

She picks up Toyshop, takes the lid off the box, and places him beside Saint Elias.

Hello, says Toyshop to Saint Elias. 

Hrumph! says Saint Elias.

Understandably gruff.

Crazy Conjecture

Prong flies down and lands beside Terence.

Where have you been? asks Terence.

Looking for Arthur and Federico, says Prong.

Yeah? Where are they? asks Sweezus.

In a café, near here, having lunch, says Prong.

I thought they went off for breakfast, says Simone.

It turned into lunch, says Prong. 

They'll get a surprise when they come back, says Terence.

They sure will, says Sweezus. 

What's your surprise? asks Terence.

What's yours? asks Sweezus. 

My new sword finger, says Terence. 

Let's see it, says Prong.

Terence shows her his sword finger.

Where did it come from? asks Prong. 

The guy in the box, says Terence. Saint Liar.

Saint Elias, says Sweezus.

How come he had a sword? asks Prong.

Good question, says Sweezus. I'll find out.

He takes out his phone and taps for a few seconds.

Man! says Sweezus. This guy was a tough dude! 

What have you found out? asks Simone.

He killed 450 false prophets, says Sweezus, and ascended to heaven in a whirlwind, on a chariot of fire.

Simone looks at Sartre.

Action man! He's your type of hero.

I'd need to learn more, says Sartre. How do we know they were false prophets?

I guess he knew, says Simone. And the whirlwind's a nice detail.

Did he use my sword finger to kill all those people? asks Terence.

What do you reckon? asks Sweezus.

Terence examines his sword finger. The glue seems to have dried.

He touches the end with his right pointer finger.

Blunt. Which was why he was allowed to have it.

And small.

So it probably wasn't the actual weapon.

Your sword finger represents the sword that killed the false prophets, says Sweezus. If they WERE false. We don't even know.

Maybe that's why he was called Saint Liar, says Terence.

Except that he wasn't, says Sweezus.

And he got found out, says Terence. So he had to escape in a whirlwind. If it was a whirlwind because we don't know.

Saint Elias lies in his box fuming at all this misinformation, lack of faith and crazy conjecture. 

But without his sword, there's not much he can do.

Sequential Events

All right, insert this, says Sartre. The artificial finger was broken.

Where? asks Simone.

It doesn't matter where, says Sartre. 

How about at the end of the second to last sentence? says Simone. 

I thought you were talking about the finger, says Sartre.

No, says Simone. The insertion.

As long as we understand one another, says Sartre. 

Go on, says Simone.

Once again I mounted my bicycle, (dictates Sartre), and cycled through the streets of Barcelona. My thoughts were of fingers. Then it came to me. Saints! Saints are famous for fingers. But of course, I did not want a preserved one. My young colleague would turn his nose up at a withered dead finger..

He pauses, to see how this goes down.

Very funny, says Simone.

What's funny? asks Terence.

He's saying that you wouldn't have wanted an old dead saint's finger, says Simone.

Maybe I would've, says Terence. 

Yes but it's what he was thinking, says Simone. Not what you're thinking. You don't even know.

Know what? asks Terence.

What he's thinking, says Simone.

I do, says Terence. He thinks I don't want one,

But you only just learned that, says Simone. And the readers still haven't.

Yikes! says Terence. 

It's due to the sequential nature of events, says Simone.

Have we finished? asks Sartre.

Go on, dear, says Simone.

Sartre continues:

On Carrer del Duc, I spotted a shop selling religious icons. I parked my bike and went in. There were many saints on display, all with fingers. I chose Saint Elias, whose left pointer finger pointed upwards. Easy to break off, I thought. It occurred to me that they might have a broken one in a skip out the back. I asked, but they claimed that they didn't. I could hardly argue. So once again, I was obliged to pay up. Twenty seven euros. But it came in a box.

You're making yourself sound like a cheapskate, says Simone.

But Sartre doesn't think that he is.

Not Doing Nothing

Sweezus's phone rings.

It's Vello.

Hey, boss, says Sweezus. What's up?

Nothing, says Vello, and that's why I'm calling. When may we expect Sartre's next blog post?

He's been heaps busy, says Sweezus. I'll ask him.

He's left our readers hanging, says Vello. 

Yeah? says Sweezus. What was the last thing he wrote?

But the unforeseen happened... says Vello.

It keeps on happening, says Sweezus.

But we need to know what it is, says Vello. 

Sure, no worries, says Sweezus. He's doing nothing right now.

Are you talking about me? asks Sartre. I'm not doing nothing.

He's wiping his fingers, says Simone. 

That was the boss, says Sweezus. Wants to know when you'll be posting.

I can't type with sticky fingers, says Sartre.

You could type one letter, says Terence.

No one takes any notice.

Then you'd have to stop, says Terence. Because your finger would be stuck to your phone.

Not necessarily, says Simone. The glue doesn't dry for twenty minutes.

How long has my glue been drying? asks Terence.

Ten minutes, says Simone. Are you pressing it down?

Yes, says Terence. 

I could dictate, says Sartre. 

What a sensible idea, says Simone. You dictate and I'll type.

Sartre hands Simone his phone.

Where was I? asks Sartre.

But the unforeseen happened, says Simone. That would be Terence's claw. Are you starting from there?

I planned to, says Sartre. 

Go on, says Simone.

But the unforeseen happened (dictates Sartre). The artificial finger came off. Our young colleague needed a replacement. Where might I find a replacement finger in Barcelona? 

Wait a second, says Simone. Why haven't you mentioned that the artificial finger was a claw? And the young colleague didn't want it glued back, which was the obvious solution, because he'd discovered in the meantime that the original claw owner, his blood brother, had died.

Is this about me? asks Terence.

Yes  says Sweezus.

Which one am I? asks Terence.

The young colleague, says Sweezus. 

Not the blood brother? asks Terence. 

The blood brother died, says Sweezus. 

But I'm HIS blood brother, says Terence.

Yeah, but you're still alive, says Sweezus. 

There, you see! says Sartre. I decided to leave out such complications.

I still think you should mention the reason....begins Simone.

Sartre thought this might happen, if Simone was involved.

He sighs. 

O Lee O Lor

Saint Elias loosens his grip on his sword.

Did you see that? asks Simone.

What? asks Sartre.

It moved its hand! says Simone.

Impossible! says Sartre.

Let me see, says Terence. 

He looks into the box at Saint Elias.

Which hand did he move? asks Terence.

The one holding the sword, says Simone.

Terence touches the sword.

It moves slightly.

It moves! says Terence. I can just slide it out.

Go on then, says Sweezus.

Terence slides the sword out of Saint Elias's right hand.

Yay! Now he has it.

He wields it. Whoosh! Slash!

Don't do that, says Sweezus.

It's not even sharp, says Terence. 

It still looks like a weapon. says Sweezus.

Saint Elias is regretting his hasty decision.

His sword represented the actual sharp weapon he had.

The one he slew 450 false prophets with.

O those were the days!

Now the kid plans to use it for a finger.

Should he curse it? 

No. One day he might get it back.

He lies still and listens.

Can I just carry it? asks Terence. And not have it glued on.

You'd lose it, says Sweezus. 

Boo! says Terence. That means I have to wait twenty minutes.

Twenty minutes will fly by, says Simone.

How? asks Terence.

Where's the glue? asks Simone.

Here, says Sweezus. Ready Terence? Hold out your left hand

Sweezus squeezes a blob of glue onto the sword's handle.

And a blob onto the spot where the claw of Baby B-B once was.

Is this where you want it? asks Sweezus.

Lower, says Terence. Or it's going to look stupid.

My sword could never look stupid, thinks Saint Elias.

Yeah I see what you mean, says Sweezus. Maybe we should break off the handle.

Bit late now, says Sartre.

Not if you do it, says Sweezus. Break the handle off, and give me the blade. Quick!

Sartre takes the sword from Sweezus, and breaks off the handle.

Now he realises why Sweezus was unwilliing to do it himself.

Sartre's fingers are sticky.

Sweezus squeezes a blob of glue onto the blade, and presses the blade into the spot where the claw was.

Done! says Sweezus. Keep it pressed down for twenty minutes.

Okay, says Terence. How do I make time fly by?

Make up a poem about the transition, says Sweezus.

What a good idea, says Simone.

Okay says Terence. What's a transition?

A change from claw finger to sword finger, says Simone.

What rhymes with claw? asks Terence.

Lots of things says Simone.

O lee O lor, says Terence.

I guess so, says Simone.

O le O lor, I once had  claw/ It got stuck to a hatpin/ and I had it no more, says Terence.

Nice, says Sweezus.

Terence continues:

O lee O lor, I got a new finger/ but it was too small/ so I got a sword finger/ the best one of all.

Everyone seems to like it.

Except Saint Elias.

How long now? asks Terence.

Fifteen minutes, says Sweezus. 

Huurrr.....

Blunt!

Sartre cycles back to the Sagrada Familia.

Locks up his bike, and looks for Sweezus, Simone and Terence.

Terence spots him and runs over.

Did you find me a finger? asks Terence.

I believe so, says Sartre. It's inside this box.

Yay! says Terence. Can I have it?

There is work to do first, says Sartre.

Let me carry the box, says Terence.

Here, says Sartre. Be careful.

Terence runs back to Sweezus with the box.

Open it, says Sweezus.

Terence slips off the string and starts ripping the paper.

Then he lifts up the lid.

Who's this weird guy? asks Terence.

Sweezus peers in.

Dunno, says Sweezus. He's got a small left pointer finger.

But a really big sword, says Terence.

It is true. In his right hand, Saint Elias carries a sword.

In fact it looks more like scimitar. 

And Terence loves it.

What do you think? asks Sartre.

How is Terence supposed to make use of this icon? asks Simone.

I thought he could break off the finger, says Sartre.

It's far too small, says Simone.

Sartre looks at Terence's right pointer finger.

He should have measured it before going off on his mission.

I suppose I could ask for a refund, says Sartre.

How much was it? asks Simone.

Twenty seven euros, says Sartre.

Do it, says Simone.

I want to keep it! says Terence. 

But it's kind of useless, says Sweezus. 

Saint Elias is offended. He is not kind of useless. He defends the oppressed. And offers multiple protections.

Let's break the sword off, says Terence. I'll have it for a finger!

Great idea, but not happening, says Sweezus.

Why? asks Terence.

You could do serious damage with a sword for a finger, says Sweezus.

Surely it's not very sharp, says Simone. It's only an icon.

She feels the tip of the sword.

It's not the least bit sharp, says Simone.

So I can have it! says Terence.

Saint Elias lies in his box thinking:

Blunt! The kid may as well have it.

Defender Of The Oppressed

Do you know where you're going? asks Simone.

I'll just cycle around Barcelona, says Sartre. There are bound to be shops that sell saints.

Can I come too? asks Terence.

No, says Sartre. You might fall off and break another finger.

Then I could use it for a pointer, says Terence.

You'd still be missing a finger, says Sweezus. 

But it wouldn't be as bad, says Terence.

I'm off, says Sartre. 

He heads for his bike, which is chained to a bike stand nearby.

Right next to Arthur's bike.

Sartre wonders where Arthur is. Surely he and Federico have finished their breakfasts by now.

Arthur would have been useful in a saint shop.

But too bad! How hard can it be?

He rides away from the Sagrada Familia, looking for a shop that sells religious icons.

He spots one on Carrer del Duc.

He leaves his bike outside and goes in.

There are rows of saints everywhere. Some are tiny, like dolls. Others are elongated and stern. Some point upwards.

May I help you? asks a saint shop assistant.

Perhaps, says Sartre. 

Are you seeking a particular saint? asks the saint shop assistant.

He must be pointing upwards, with his left pointer finger, says Sartre.

Saint Elias, says the saint shop assistant.

She picks up a Saint Elias.

How about him?

Saint Elias, who is he? asks Sartre.

Defender of the oppressed, says the saint shop assistant. 

Do you have any broken ones? asks Sartre.

We don't keep the broken ones, says the assistant.

Where do they go? asks Sartre. 

Into a skip out the back, says the assistant.

Is it possible for me to look through it? asks Sartre.

No, says the assistant. I'm not authorised to allow it.

What would happen if I accidentally dropped this Saint Elias? asks Sartre.

I would have to ask you to pay for it, says the assistant.

Sartre now realises that he has stuffed up his mission.

He may as well pay for the whole Saint Elias, and break the finger off later.

Perhaps Terence would like to do it. 

He pays the shop assistant for the icon. 

She places Saint Elias in a box, wraps the box in brown paper, and ties it with brown string.

May he bring many blessings upon you, says the assisant.

Thank you, says Sartre.

He does not believe Saint Elias will do any such thing.

Saint Elias, in his box, holds a similar opinion.