Now that her task was complete, Pixanne decided it best to collect her bills of currency and head on out before whatever it was that Highwayman was planning went down. Unfortunately though, that meant that she had to pay a visit to Esteban Calcutta, the two-dimensional anthropomorphic coffee bean.
There was a lot she just did not get about Esteban, like why he was living in the land of Make Believe and not Advert Isle; why he only existed in two dimensions, when all anyone had to do was stick their thumb in their mouth and blow to expand to x, y and z; why he kept a watch and a pocket watch; but most especially, why he thought that Pixanne wanted anything to do with him.
At the cusp of the door with his name emblazoned in roasted mocha, Pixanne took a moment to straighten herself out. Scrunching her dress and bending the edges of her wings even more, she tried to make herself as unappealing as possible. It saddened her to think that those were the only two things she could think of to make herself more unappealing.
She used to drive all the guys wild. They were mesmerized by her fuzzy-toed slippers, but now they looked like the tail of a rabbit that had succeeded one more time than he tried to light his toots aflame. When she smiled, it used to go “P-ting” just like old-timey toothpaste commercials, but now she tried to smile as little as possible to keep the ever growing army of wrinkles at bay. Pixanne missed all of the attention, though miss it she did, she did not want to receive any from Esteban Calcutta the two-dimensional anthropomorphic coffee bean. (Though that is up for debate, as evidenced by this next little scene wherein Pixanne asks for her pay, all the while flirting with Esteban which she justifies by telling herself that she’s only doing it—hey wait a minute. If you want to know more you’re just going to have to read on.)
Jeez. No spoiler warning or nothing.
Pixanne rapped on the door and let herself in before Esteban could give invitation. “Highwayman says for you to pay me.” She said as Esteban’s face lit up with an eager smile.
“Pixanne, you’re looking lovely this evening. As usual, m’lady.” The two-dimensional coffee bean stood up and bowed, inviting his guest to sit.
Pixanne obliged him, promptly crossing her legs as she sat. Esteban was in the habit of turning sideways so that his prying eyes would be obscured by his paper thin sideways form so he could try to sneak a peek. “You’re looking well Esteban. Still living the 2-D life, I see.”
“Paper money, paper people,” he said, turning back to face her. “That’s what I always say.” He picked up a small digital clock from the edge of his desk. “Look at the time. I was expecting you sooner. The Highwayman said to expect you much, much sooner.”
“I know, I got held up.” Pixanne turned to the side, trying to convey her discomfort. This served two purposes, though she would only admit to serving one. The first was that she wanted Esteban to mimic her body language (pixies were very capable of making people copy their body language); the second was that (with the help of Agent Stiffupperlip) it exposed a fairly good percent of her tookus through her torn dress. Refer to Figure 1 for a more detailed description.
Figure 1. Over here==>
The x-axis is the number of degrees that Pixanne is turned from Esteban Calcutta. Right now, she’s at about 50°. According to the chart, that’s approximately 255 TPI.
“It is not my duty to judge, m’lady. My purpose is best described by—how do you say?—paying the bills,” he laughed. “Who are the Bills. I don’t know any Bills. Your colloquialisms confuse me.” He sat back and took a not so sly look at the 255 TPI and smiled. “So, how much does the uh…the uh—what did you deliver again m’lady?
“The low spark.”
“Ah, yes. That’s right. The low spark of the High-Heeled Boys,” He disappeared into two dimensionality. The file cabinet opened up an paper-thin fingers rifled through the papers. “Would I have put that under ‘L’ for ‘low spark’ or ‘H’ for ‘High-Heeled Boys’?”
Pixanne sighed and turned about seven more degrees from the plane of Esteban’s desk (about 300 on the TPI scale). She told herself she was turning because she was annoyed and uncomfortable, bit we all know the real reason, don’t we? “It’s under ‘P’ for ‘Pixanne’. We went over this last time Esteban.” Two more degrees. “Let’s go, I don’t have all day.”
“Ah yes. Of course, of course. Here it is,” he returned to facing her holding a manila folder. “Oh no. This isn’t good at all.”
“What. What is it now?”
“Did you say you brought the low spark?”
“Yes, Esteban,” Six more degrees (for at total of about 65 degrees on the TPI scale). “The low spark.”
“Are you sure? Because I have you down here for the high spark. Are you sure it wasn’t the high spark that you brought?”
“Yes, Esteban. Can I please just collect my currency?”
“Perhaps I should call Highwayman. He’ll be able to sort this out.”
Pixanne sighed and turned even more in her seat. Bringing her to somewhere near 75° on the TPI scale. “I’m sure we don’t need to bring Highwayman into this Mr. Calcutta. He probably has a lot on his mind right now. I don’t think he wants to deal with bureaucracy right now. Couldn’t you just make an executive decision.”
Esteban loved to think of himself as a premier bureaucrat. In his mind, executive decisions were all he made. Two dimensions or three? Executive decision. Wristwatch or pocket watch? Executive decision. Ham sandwich or turkey sandwich? Executive decision. “I suppose you have—how do you say?—pinned the tail on the donkey. What donkey? And what kind of story are you stapling to this poor donkey? Your colloquialisms, I don’t get them.” He shook his head and looked from his wristwatch to his pocket watch to the small digital clock at the edge of his desk. Then he looked back at his wristwatch. He grabbed his hand to restrain himself from repeating the whole time cycle. “I will pay you the currency for the low spark. You say you were commissioned to deliver the low spark, I will pay you for the low spark. You are very trustworthy, Pixanne. And very beautiful too.”
Pixanne recrossed her legs, putting her at an even 80° turned from the plane of Esteban’s desk. At this point she was showing about 700 tookus per square inch. That’s a lot of tookus. She held out her hand. “The currency Esteban.”
“Ah, yes m’lady. Here is your currency,” he handed her a prepared envelope (and lost a lot of TPI in the process too).
Pixanne took the currency and stuffed it in her satchel. She knew better than to count it. Doing so would only prompt Esteban to declare his business savvyiety. For a split second, the TPI index shot drastically down. That was until a loud tremor (nothing to do with K. Bacon) shook the entire foundation. The TPI index shot way back up to 83.2°. “What was that?”
“That m’lady was the shoot hitting the fan.” And this time, he was right. In a PG-13 setting, that colloquialism made no sense.
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