After a very un-noteworthy drive westward for a few days, you stop at a historical exhibit on transportation. The recreation of an old-timey train conductor is sort of an odd, black fellow who asks for your ticket when you walk by.
“All aboard, so say the Loard!,” he shouts through his hands.
You step up onto the train to avoid him, even if the evasion itself was more awkward than you realized – he reminds you a lot of the guy with the eight-ball. The antique locomotive has been very nicely preserved or restored on the inside, but then you start to wonder when the doors won’t open for you. You wrap at the window to get the conductor’s attention but he just turns and smiles back at you.
“Hey, it is you!”
Then a very thick, green smoke clouds your vision completely. You suddenly forget…forget…forget what? You drop to the floor to get away from the most dense concentrations of the wet smoke at nose and mouth level.
To page 91!
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