A lonely seagull flew slowly over a small patch of land. It looked sickly, because, when your planet is dying, it's kind of hard not to look sickly. It sounded a lot sicker, making loud hacking coughs as it flew.

There was a quick whirring noise, and then all was silent. The seagull fell to the ground, a ninja star stuck in its neck.

Selma kept walking along the beach, glad for the return of silence. One major advantage of being stranded on a deserted island was the quiet, with no annoying people to ask you stupid questions. She went over to the fallen bird and retrieved her ninja star, because it was her only one and she needed it in case something else, animal or human, came along to bother her.

She had been there about six months, at least, she thought she had been. There was some huge accident, and the first thing she remembered was waking up on the island. She kept track of days by making marks in a tree, which was tricky since she had lost the rest of her weapons.

Life on the island wasn't so bad, Selma thought. She wasn't the only thing that had washed up here, as it turned out. Plenty of debris from the wrecked world also found its way to the island, including food, books, and even paper and pencils for drawing. They were usually a bit wet when they got there, but Selma just let them sit out a few days to dry. After all, she figured, she had all the time in the world. She actually believed this as the literal truth, because they way things were looking right now, the world didn't have much longer to go before the end. Until then, everything was just fine.

Except . . .

Except sometimes while she was asleep she heard familiar voices, reminding her of better times, of her friends that were now lost. They were probably all dead. In fact, for all she knew, Selma was the last human alive on Earth.

Sometimes it seemed like the world itself was trying to torture her with these memories. Every once in a while, something would drift ashore that sparked a memory she couldn't ignore. Like one day, a deck of cards floated almost right up to her feet. It was pretty well ruined by water damage, but she picked it up anyway. And then the voices started.

"Me too." (Selma recognized her own voice in the mix.)

Another time, a first aid kit came in on the tide. It would have been very useful, except every time Selma picked up, her head was filled with the sound of:

"How does it work?" (Her own voice again.)

After a while, the memories became stronger. They were no longer just voices, but there were images, too. She could see her friends, but for some reason she still could not think of their names.

One day, a simple crate landed on the island. It was empty, but the label on the side was still barely legible. Selma stared at the crate and read the label out loud, slowly. "Thompson And Son's Jumbo Peanut Butter." She paused. "T . . . A . . . S . . . J . . . P . . . B." She stopped. And then, very slowly, she started to sound out names, like reading her first words. "Tiff . . . any. Ash . . . ley. Selma. Joa . . . nie. Pat . . . sy. Ben."

And then, everything came back. The whole history of Card Club, from when she had first thrown that ninja star at Ben to the near death of the world in the Temple of the Ancients. Unfortunately, it came back backwards, so that the first thing she got to relive was the catastrophe.

There was an explosion of purple light, and the room began to shake. The was a huge roaring noise that drowned out all others. Purple light shone from the hole where Joe had placed his sword. Joe tugged frantically at the sword, trying to remove it, but it was useless.

She looked back at the rest of the Card Club. It was a depressing sight. She saw Patsy pull a bottle of whiskey from somewhere on his person, and toss it into the pit. She couldn't hear him, but it looked like he said, "I guess there be no need for this anymore." Tiffany was venting her anger by smashing what few parts of the temple near her remained undamaged. Selma was about to stop her from making things any worse, when she realized things probably couldn't get any worse than they already were. Ashley sat down on the ground and lowered her hood over her head. Joanie just stood there, motionless.

Selma was desperate. "We can't just sit here!" she yelled, even though she knew no one could hear her. "We have to do something! We have to . . ."

After this, Selma decided she had to go looking for the rest of the Card Club. She knew she would probably never find them, and that they might all be dead, but she still had to try. If even one of them was still out there, she had to find him or her.

Selma looked around at all of the accumulated stuff on the island. Most of it was junk, but she figured she could use some of it to build a decent boat, at least one good enough to get her to the mainland, if there even was a mainland anymore. She estimated it would take about a week to finish the boat. She set to work, making tools and gathering wood and such.

By the sixth day she was almost finished with the boat. Just then, something new floated on to the island. Selma looked up. It was a boat. She went over to look at it. It was perfectly seaworthy, and was larger and a lot nicer than the one she was building. She swore loudly, which attracted the attention of two other people on the island, who came over to her. Selma was confused as to how she could have not noticed these people on her island before.

"Hello there," she said. She stopped. The two people looked vaguely familiar, like she had known them before. She thought they did something with money, maybe? For some strange reason, she felt that the last time she saw them, they were running away and screaming.

"Hello there yourself," said one of the people.

"I hate to leave you just as we're first meeting, but I'm going off on this boat and I'm probably never coming back to this island again."

"Oh, that's okay," said the other person. "We don't mind."

"Farewell!" said Selma, and she pushed the boat out into the water.

"So," said the first person, as Selma began to float away, "Why didn't we tell her that this isn't really an island?"

"Well, she just seemed to be having so much fun doing the whole 'Deserted Island' thing. I didn't want to ruin it for her."

"Uh-huh." The two people turned and started to walk away. "And why were we floating things we found in her pack toward her? Like the cards?"

"Well, it only seemed right to give her stuff back. At least, the stuff we couldn't use or sell."

"I see." The first person paused to think again. "And floating the boat over just before she was about to finish hers?"

"Yeah, well, I guess that one was just to be cruel. After all, she did take our money from us. We stole that money from that old widow fair and square!"

"Yeah, but we also took her pack while she was unconscious and stole all her weapons and stuff like that."

The first person waited for an answer for a while, but it didn't come. It probably had something to do with the fact that it's hard to talk while someone's elbow is blocking off your ability to breathe.

"Yes, I see that," said Selma. "If you don't mind, I'll be taking those back now. You bandits should learn not to underestimate ninja hearing capabilities."

The terrified first bandit tossed Selma her pack. Selma grabbed it, checked quick to make sure that nothing was missing, and ran back to her boat. Then she ran back, dropped the second bandit she was still gripping by the throat, and went off to find her friends.

Selma drifted in her boat for a long time. It was amazingly boring. No one else was out there. There was plenty of debris floating in the water, but little to no land. Sometimes she wondered if all the land in the world except her island had been destroyed, and the planet was now just a vast ocean. Then she wondered if maybe all the people had fallen into the ocean and evolved into merfolk to survive. Then she realized she probably should have brought more fresh water with her in the boat.

Selma had no idea how she could find the Card Club. Drifting along randomly seemed like a decent idea, since that was how the Card Club had operated when they were still together. This plan served her sometimes better than others. Like the night she fell asleep and her boat crashed into something.

Selma looked up. Her boat had hit a small island. It was tiny, even smaller than her island (although, admittedly, she had never explored the entirety of her island). There were rocks all around it, and in the center, a person. She crept up to him and put her knife at his throat, ready to slit it.

Selma stepped back. "Sorry. Ninja reflex. I saw you lying helpless on the ground, and it was my natural instinct to try and slit your throat before you could wake up and alert others to my presence." She paused, and looked at the person. It was dark, but she could tell he was shorter than her, and his hair looked red. She pulled a candle out of her pocket, and lit it with a match. "Patsy?"

"What d'ye mean, others? We're on a tiny isle!" He stopped. "Selma?"

"Holy polt! I actually found someone! Just by drifting randomly! And I only had to search for about two weeks!"

"Two weeks? Ye've only bin searching for two weeks? I've bin on this isle near seven months now!"

"I had amnesia issues, okay? Besides, why weren't you out looking for me?"

"I have no boat."

"Ah." Selma thought for a second. Something wasn't right. "What did you say when you first woke up?"

"What? Oh, 'twas nothing. Ye know, when ye first wake up and ye mumble incoherent things for a few moments."

"It sounded like another language. And it didn't sound bloody Gaelic."

"I, um, ye see, oh well. I give up. Ye've discovered me horrible secret."

"Which is?"

"I'm actually only a quarter Irish."

Selma was stunned. Not by the fact that he had lied to them, because he hadn't. He had just let them assume he was completely Irish with the accent and the constant drinking. It was just so weird. "Why would you pretend to be all Irish?"

"Because the other three quarters be French."

"Ah. I see."

Patsy stood. When he spoke, his thick Irish brogue had disappeared. "Je viens de l'Isle des Rochers."

"What?"

"It means, 'I come from the Rocky Isle,' in French. I was born on a small island of the coast of France, and the people who lived there called it the Rocky Isle. Later, when I traveled abroad, I learned that the Rocky Isle can also refer to Ireland. I already had the red hair, and I was a quarter Irish, so from then on I just told people I was from the Rocky Isle and let them assume I was Irish instead of French. After I did it for a while, the accent just sort of came naturally."

"Hey, wait a second! When we first met you, you said you were from the Rocky Isle. But when we asked you what that meant, you said it meant Ireland."

"It does. But it also means other things."

Selma looked around. "Well, I don't know about you, but I'd kind of like to get off of this dump."

Patsy sighed. "Ah, but it reminds me of home."

Selma looked around again, this time closer. "This reminds you of home?"

"Hey! It's an isle, isn't it? It's rocky, isn't it?"

"Whatever. Are you coming or not?"

"Sure. Just give me a second to get my things loaded into the boat."

Patsy stepped back and started moving his hands along the ground, shoving sand to the side. Eventually, he found a handle and pulled up, hard. A trap door opened and he stepped down a few stairs into an underground cavern. Selma ran over to the trap door to see what was down there. When she got there she gasped. The cavern was illuminated by scattered candles. It was filled with a treasure trove of liquor, more than any man, even an Irish man, could drink in a lifetime. There was whiskey, scotch, bourbon, tequila, rum, beer, finest ales, vintage wines, and, for a sake of completeness, even raspberry schnaps. Patsy stood in the middle of the room, gazing longingly at the all of the bottles, crates, and kegs.

"Been saving long, have we?" asked Selma

"No, it was like that when I got here. This island must have been used by illegal liquor dealers or something. I told you this place reminded me of home. And it's a good thing too, because I don't know how I could have survived seven months here without all this. Come on, help me carry this stuff to the boat."

Selma shook her head. "No way we're putting all this in my boat."

Patsy's mouth dropped. His eyes bugged out. "Wh . . . wh . . . why?"

"Because if we put all this in, there'll be no room left for more important supplies!"

Patsy blinked, unable to comprehend this statement. He continued to stare blankly forward. "More important . . . than alcohol . . . ?"

"Stop babbling. The boat is leaving soon. This bloody booze is not going to be on it. Are you?"

Patsy turned back and forth between Selma and the stash several times, clearly unable to make up his mind. Finally, he looked Selma straight in the eye. "No," he said. "I can't abandon my precious booze like that. If the liquor stays, then I stay." He stamped his foot down decisively.

Selma stomped back up the steps out of the cave. She stared at the sky. Stars twinkled overhead. Why did it have to be so difficult? Whether she wanted to admit it or not, she needed Patsy. She wasn't sure she could survive another extended boat ride all by herself. At least, not now that she'd already read all of her books four times. She'd go insane! Well, insaner.

She turned back to look at the trap door. "Hmm," she thought to herself. "Maybe I could make use of all that stupid booze to get him off of this island. I could get us both drunk, and then . . ." Selma shuddered, and pushed the idea out of her mind. It was too horrifying to even comprehend. Besides, she had a better idea.

Selma stuck her head through the trap door. "Hey, Patsy!" she yelled. "Come up here a second!"

Selma snuck around to the other side of the hole. Patsy dutifully walked up the steps, and then stared straight forward, not bothering to check behind himself. "Selma?" he cried. "What do you want? Where are you?" Selma hit him on the back of the head with the hilt of her knife, and he collapsed.

Next morning, Patsy woke with a throbbing pain in his head that had nothing to do with alcohol (well, at least, it wasn't directly caused by alcohol). He looked around, and saw he was on a boat. He sat up, and saw his former home slowly drifting away. A quick search of his surroundings revealed Selma, but no alcohol.

"Oh well," he sighed. "I can always go back for it later."

Selma turned. "Oh, good," she said. "You're awake. Pass me one of those round things and some matches from my pack, will you?"

Patsy dug through the pack sitting next to him until he found a spherical object a little bigger than his fist, with a small length of string coming out of it. "What's this?" he asked, as he passed it to Selma.

"Flash grenade," she answered, grabbing the sphere and the matches. "Standard ninja equipment. Designed to temporarily blind the enemy with a sudden blast of light. It doesn't do any real damage, unless it goes off right next to something really flammable." She lit the fuse and hurled the grenade off the boat.

"Whoa, nice arm!" said Patsy. "Say, what are you throwing that at, anyway?" Selma didn't reply. "I mean, there's nothing out here except . . . except . . ." His eyes widened in horror as he realized there was only one thing around in this empty ocean that she could possibly be throwing it at. "You . . . you couldn't!"

"I can and I did, as a matter of fact."

"But . . . but why?"

"I can't bloody well have you swimming back for it the first time I turn my back, now can I?"

"Well, yeah, but did you really have to wait until I was awake to do it? That's just cruel!"

"If I did it while you were asleep, you wouldn't believe me, and you'd go off to check!"

"Wow, that grenade is taking a really long time to fall."

"Yeah, I know. Maybe the disaster messed up Earth's gravity somehow. Oh, no, wait, here it comes."

Patsy turned to face the island. He watched in horror as the grenade arced toward it. Time seemed to slow down. He could feel his heart pounding. The grenade fell down the still open trap door. There were a few moments of dead silence, and then the entire island exploded. Chunks of rock rained down, and the air smelled of, well, a hell of a lot of burned-up alcohol.

Patsy got down on his knees and wept. "No!" he cried. "No, no, no, no, no! It's gone! It's all gone! And for all I know that was all that remained of my birthplace!"

Selma arched her eyebrow. "Are you sure you're this choked up about the island? You can't seriously think that it was the same island you were born on. Are you sure you're not just upset about the booze?"

Patsy stopped crying and sniffed. "Well, yeah. I guess you're right."

They drifted on in silence for a couple of minutes, and then Patsy said, "Hey, Selma? Could you not tell anyone that I'm not really all Irish?"

Selma paused to think. "Okay. I'll keep your secret, on one condition."

Patsy's eyes lit up. "You want me to keep one of your secrets?"

"So, are ye sure ye didn't bring any beer?"

"Positive."

"Are ye really sure? Maybe ye didn't check over in that corner."

"If you don't shut up, you're going to be looking for beer on the bottom of the bloody ocean!"

Selma was finding time alone in the boat with Patsy a little trying, to say the least. He was fine at first, once he switched back to his classic Irish accent. Unfortunately, withdrawal set in pretty quickly. This was a serious concern, because of Patsy's ethnicity (well, pseudo-ethnicity, anyway). For an Irishman, being normally drunk is like an average person being sober. So, when an Irishman sobers up, I mean really sobers up, it gets scary. Selma tried to take his mind off of it by talking about other things, but there was only one subject Patsy wanted to discuss. Most of the time, she just had to give in and roll with it.

"So, Patsy . . . how did you first get interested in, um, binge drinking?"

"Ah, well, ye see, it runs in me blood. Me grandfather, Seamus O'Shananahan, was known far and wide as one o' the greatest drinkers in all o' the Rocky Isle. In fact, every bar in Dublin now has a plaque in his honor."

"Really?" Selma was momentarily interested. "I'd like to see that."

"I don't think so. Ye see, the plaque was placed where me grandfather spent the most of his time."

"So, like on his favorite bar stool?"

"No, not quite. They're all bolted to the floor o' the men's bathroom."

"Ah-hah."

"The plaque reads, at least, so me father told it: 'In honor of Seamus O'Shananahan. The finest drinker who ever lived. He could chug the whole ocean, if someone spiked it first. Died without ever having paid his tab. The miserable bastard."

"That's . . . great. Let's stop talking now."

The sea journey continued for days and days, still without any sign of land. There were times, like when Patsy started listing every type of alcohol he had ever drunk, alphabetically, when Selma contemplated leaping into the ocean and taking her chances on evolving into a mermaid. Only the hope of finding the rest of the Card Club helped her to push on.

One day, Selma could no longer stand it. She yelled to the vastness of the ocean. "If we don't see some land soon, I'm going to kill myself!"

She stared out at the water. Nothing happened.

"I said, if I don't see some land right now, I'm going to fling myself off of this boat and drown. And I'll take Patsy with me."

She stared. Still nothing.

"Polt! Why do things like that never work in real life?"

More days and weeks passed. Selma completely lost track of time. At one point, she even helped Patsy work on a homemade liquor distillery, in hopes that a drink would calm him down. She honestly didn't care that there was an extremely high risk of blowing up the boat. Fortunately, they had to give up when they lost their only matches over the side.

Patsy stood. "How about I sing a little song to help the time go by?"

Selma sighed. "Is it a drinking song?" she said through gritted teeth.

"Well, no, not exactly . . ."

"Go right ahead, then."

Patsy took a deep breath, and began to sing. "Ninety-nine bottles o' beer on the wall, ninety-nine bottles o' beer! Ye take one down, pass it arou . . ."

Selma, without any conscious thought, flung out her arm and hit Patsy in the back of his knees. He fell face first out of the boat.

"Well," she said, "As long as I've killed Patsy I might as well take care of myself, too. She leapt out of the boat . . .

. . . into six inches of water. She looked around, and saw that the boat had run aground on a wide beach. The land stretched as far as the eye could see.

"Land," said Selma, quietly. Then she jumped up and down and screamed, "Land!"

Next to her, Patsy got up. He was extremely dazed from the blow he had received and the ensuing fall. Normally, Patsy could take quite a few blows and show no ill effects, but the severe lack of alcohol in his blood was starting to unbalance his system. "Land . . . ?" he asked, unsure of its meaning.

"Land, land, land! Oh, Patsy, we've done it!" Selma ran over and hugged Patsy, then jumped back, embarrassed. "Whoops, sorry. I kinda forgot you were a guy there for a second."

Patsy was far too out of it to notice the insult. His brain was slowly latching on to an idea, something very important. "Land . . . have . . . beer?" he asked

Selma paused. "Well, yeah, sure. Of course land has beer."

Patsy's eyes brightened. "Land . . . have whiskey?"

"Yes."

Patsy jumped for joy and let out a wild Irish yell. "Land!" He dropped to the ground and ran off. Selma dashed after him, afraid what he might do in this state. He was so sober that it was driving him insane.

Further inland, two people were driving a wagon. It was pulled by two horses, and was heavily laden with something, but the cargo was covered with white sheets.

"See?" said one of the people. "I told you being liquor runners would be easier than being bandits. This way, we don't have to attack anyone at all!"

"I guess," said the second. He sat up, and put a hand over his eyes, looking off into the distance. "Hey, what's that?" he said, pointing at something.

The first person leaned over to look. "It looks like a guy."

A short, red-headed man ran up to their wagon. He moved like a feral animal. He stopped, and sniffed the air. Then he turned to the men. "You have beer," he said.

"Uh, no we don't!" said the first man, panicking. "We don't have anything! Just some, uh, hay. You know, for farms and stuff."

Patsy's eyes narrowed. "Lie you not. Beer I smell. You have it. You do." He raised his head and sniffed the air again. "You have whiskey."

"So what if we do?" asked the second man. "What are you going to do about it?"

"Beer I take. Whiskey I take. You do not stop me."

"Oh, no!" said the first man. "No way are you getting this from us. You'll have to fight us for it!"

Patsy's beating stick appeared in his hand from nowhere. He beat his hands against his chest like a gorilla, then roared and flung himself onto the wagon. The two men bolted, screaming (as usual).

Selma ran up to the now overturned wagon. Patsy came out from behind it, clutching several bottles. "Are you all right now?" she asked

"Oh, I'll be fine. Me blood alcohol content was getting dangerously low. If I hadn't gotten some liquor soon . . ." He trailed off and shuddered a little. "Anyway, we best keep moving if we want to find the rest o' the gang. Where should we go?"

Selma thought for a second. "Well, those two ran off that way. They don't look all that bright, so why don't we go in the opposite direction?"

"Okay. Let's go."

Selma and Pat walked off of the beach. A barren path wound its way across plains that had once been green, but were now quite brown. The world was still. Nothing besides Selma or Patsy made any noise, or even moved. Everything was dead, and, Selma noticed, getting deader as the path went on. Even though the land looked very alien, something about the area felt very familiar.

Eventually, the path led to a wide basin. It was made entirely of crumbled, volcanic rock, perfectly smooth. The basin was an exact circle. Eight ravines shot off from the basin, evenly spaced around its edge. A huge black tower stood in the center, made of polished black stone. The tower was ridiculously tall, and Selma kept thinking that it had to fall over any second, but it didn't. The base of the tower glowed brightly, alternating between sky blue and deep purple. The sky was overcast, but the air in the basin was perfectly still.

"I've been here before," said Selma, despite obvious evidence to the contrary. She stepped forward, and her foot crunched against something. It was wood, and it had once said something, but it was horribly scorched and illegible. However, Selma knew exactly what it said before she even looked at it. "Temple of the Ancients," she said softly. She turned to Patsy. "Do you realize what this means? Do you know where we are?"

"Um, Isengard?" tried Patsy

"Not quite. This is the Temple of the Ancients!" She looked at Patsy. He stared back at her, blank-eyed. "You know, the last place we were all together?"

"Where Ben confronted Joe," said a helpful voice behind them.

"Yeah!" said Selma. Patsy still showed no signs of comprehension. Selma sighed angrily. "Come on! It's where Joe stuck his sword in the wall and almost destroyed the world!"

"Hey!" said the voice behind them. "That was not all my fault! It was just a slight miscalculation."

Selma and Patsy suddenly realized that they were not alone. They spun around, weapons drawn, to see an unfortunately familiar face. "Joe!" cried Selma

"Avast, ye scurvy dog!" cried Patsy

Selma turned to stare at Patsy. There was a long, uncomfortable silence, finally broken by Joe. "What?"

Patsy started. "Oh, sorry. Still feel a little bit like I be on the boat."

"Ah. Right. Okay. Anyway, yes, it is I, Joe."

"I could ask you the very same question. Since I consistently proved that I was stronger than any of you, if you survived the blast, why couldn't I?"

"But . . . what is all this? Where is the temple? Where did this bloody tower come from?"

"Well, unlike some of us standing here, I have been busy doing something besides doodling or getting drunk in the past few months. I built the tower. And as for the temple, what do you think happened? The explosion created this huge basin and sent energy blasts out in all directions. Do you really think that flimsy temple could have survived?"

"But . . . but," started Selma, but Patsy took over.

"Do ye know what caused that explosion?" he asked

"Yes, of course I do," said Joe. "I know all. You see, the hole in the wall was a keyhole that was designed to unlock the way to the Ultimate Destructive Magic. I just had the wrong key. The Temple of the Ancients was made the resting place of the Meteor spell because it was a powerful nexus of spiritual energy. Now, spiritual energy is the life energy of this planet. The power of French Toast Sticks, on the other hand, is the energy of death and decay. Spiritual energy and French Toast Sticks are opposites, like matter and anti-matter. So, when I put the Masamune into the keyhole, the power of the French Toast Sticks reacted with all the spiritual energy flowing through the temple, and there were . . . consequences. Does that answer your question?"

Patsy's head was spinning. "No, not really. Selma, you take the next question."

"Hmm," thought Selma. "Oh! I've got one! How could you build that tower all by yourself in only a few months? No man could do that."

"I am no man," answered Joe.

"Oh, so ye were a girl all along, then?" asked Patsy

"NO!" bellowed Joe. His voice was amazingly loud, and the whole basin rocked as he yelled. When he spoke again, his voice was different, deeper and definitely more evil. "I am a God."

"I thought your whole plan to become a god got screwed up when you nearly exploded the world," said Selma.

"No," said Joe, his voice back to normal. "Actually, it made things a whole lot easier. Since the temple was a nexus of spiritual energy, it was connected to the Heart of the World. Through the power of the French Toast Sticks, I was able to use this connection to link myself with the Heart of the World. Now I have absolute power over this world and all who live in it."

"Prove it," said Selma.

Joe closed his eyes. He concentrated, and levitated himself a few inches off of the ground.

"That's not very impressive," said Patsy.

Joe's eyes flashed open. A huge beam of purple light shot down from the top of the black tower. It hit the basin floor opposite them, and traced a complicated path through the ground for a few seconds. When it was done, Selma and Patsy could see, burned in letters thirty feet high, the words "JOE KICKS ASS."

"Yeah I do!" said Joe

Selma turned back to face Joe. "Joe, we cannot allow you to continue to rule the world. The power of the French Toast Sticks is evil incarnate, and must be stopped. Right, Patsy?"

"I don't know," said Patsy, looking down at his feet. "He is a god. I don't think we can beat a god. Besides, maybe he's a good god. We don't know for sure that he's done anything wrong . . ."

Selma put her knife to Patsy's throat. "I said, right Patsy?"

"Right! Definitely! We must stop you, Joe!"

Joe smiled. "Of course you must. You are the good guys, after all. However, the time for fighting is not here yet. I have placed a powerful seal on the base of the tower. Only when all six members of the Card Club are reassembled can the seal be broken. Then, the way to me and my tower will be clear."

"If you're a god," asked Selma, "Why don't you just make a seal that is impossible to open?"

"Because it amuses me to see you try to win, when defeating me is impossible. The only purpose of the seal is to make sure that you don't try to beat me without all six of you, because that wouldn't be nearly as interesting. Of course, you won't be able to defeat me, but I hope you'll at least put up a decent fight."

"How can you be so sure that we won't win? We're stronger than we look, you know," said Selma.

"Are you sure you want me to tell you? It'll be another long explanation."

"Sure. Why not? We've got nothing better to do," said Patsy.

"Centuries ago, the greatest wizards sought to condense the two great powers, spirit energy and French Toast Stick power, into their purest forms. They succeeded, and created the two most powerful forces in this world. Both forces were placed in very secret locations, to keep them safe. The ultimate power of French Toast Sticks was placed in my sword, the Masamune. Only the person who wields the power of the ultra-condensed spirit energy can defeat me."

"But that be Ben, don't it?" asked Patsy. "I mean, his sword, the Murasame, be the counterpart to your Masamune, right?"

"Not exactly. As far as swords go, the Masamune and the Murasame are the finest blades ever created. However, in terms of phenomenal cosmic power, the good sword kind of got shafted. I mean, that dragon is impressive, but its power is nowhere near that of the French Toast Sticks."

"Then, where is the ultimate spiritual energy?" asked Selma

"The legend goes," said Joe, "That the ultimate power of life was kept not in an object . . . but in a person."

"So, for all you know, that person could be Ben, right?" asked Selma

Joe laughed. "I think not. If Ben had the ultimate power of spiritual energy with him, I would not have defeated him so easily all those times. Being imbued with spiritual energy would give a person awesome, god-like powers. Besides, the legends say that the person who received this awesome power was actually a small girl." Joe laughed again. "Sound like anybody you know?"

"Small girl with god-like powers?" Patsy thought aloud. "Nope, don't think so."

"I thought not. So, go and gather your Card Club so you can face me. But I wouldn't get your hopes up if I was you. See you around."

Joe vanished into thin air. "This sucks," said Patsy. "Our only enemy has become a god-like being that we can't possibly defeat, and whom we can't even face without finding the four others. And I'm sure that tower o' his will be filled with monsters beyond all possible comprehension."

Selma looked up at the top of the tower. Her eyes were bright. "Sounds like fun," she said. She turned and walked purposefully away from the dark basin.

"Fun?" yelled Patsy. "Did ye not hear me? We're going to die!" He stared after Selma, who continued to walk away. "How do I get into these things? I need a drink."

TO BE CONCLUDED . . .

(AND I MEAN IT THIS TIME)