HOW FAR CAN A PIÑATA RUN INTO THE DESERT?

EPILOGUE

You wander through Peacock Market, amongst all the sellers and the hustle and bustle of people weaving in and out. The baboon that sells rugs is also back, it seems, and you take a minute to take a look at the intricate patterns and delightful colours of all the various varieties of rugs. The baboon is distracted by a TV as you browse the rugs. On the TV, you see a familiar face; the old man who's the head of the financial executive bankers or whatever they are. The same man you saw at the press conference giving that convoluted statement for the cameras is now on TV giving an interview on some news channel. The TV is on a low volume, so you can't quite hear the sound, but you watch and at once the man gets up unexpectedly, unclips his lapel mic, throws it down and storms out in a fit of rage. The camera cuts back to the interviewer, who isn't sure what to say. You look back at the rugs and see that the baboon is staring at you with his small orange eyes. It's also the first time you've noticed that he's wearing a fez hat and a little waistcoat. He looks threatening, like he wants you to either buy something or go away.

You walk forward in the market, looking around and taking in the atmosphere, when suddenly you see what you've been looking for. You weren't sure if it would be here or not, or even if it was ever here in the first place — but now you've come back and you head towards the cart selling books. The old woman wearing a shawl and bangles running the cart greets you sweetly and you scan the rows of books and magazines until you see it. The magazine. That magazine. Identical to the one that you found in the desert which you lost and then re-found and then lost again. The one with all the answers. Well — most of the answers, anyway.

You look closely at the magazine's twin on the shelf of this book cart. The cover looks exactly the same; visually busy and impossible to describe. You ask the woman what this magazine is and where it came from.

She says that it's a mystical, ancient relic from a forgotten period of history. The makers of the magazine are nameless elites that the world is oblivious of. She says this magazine reveals itself only to those who seek its glory.

You tell her that you found an identical copy in a phone booth in the desert and that you've used it to get out of all sorts of weird situations. Her eyes widen. "So it is you," she says in a gasping whisper. "The Chosen One."

You aren't sure what to say. There is a smell of incense and it's adding to the mystic vibe. "The Chosen One?" you ask. "Are you serious?"

"No," she says, laughing. "But a pretty good sales pitch, right?"