After the hasty departure of the bears ("but they were BARELY in the story," whined Tasha), someone threw cold water on Snerdly's inert form, thereupon bringing him to semi-consciousness. Or whatever it is called when Snerdly is awake.

            "Lad, whaddya you go an' do that for?" Craig admonished Hamish, who had the decency to look contrite.

            "Weel noo, he's the only lad who knows what mushroom we need to fix the ship." Hamish apologized to the others.

            "Fix the ship, ship the fix," muttered Mollie, trying hard to overcome the overwhelming urge to pop the remaining bubble wrap between her fingers. [1]

            They watched Snerdly stumble towards a tree. Thinking it best to give him some privacy, Bruce began handing s'mores out to the hapless would-be campers.

            "Eureka!" Snerdly screeched from behind the tree. No one dared look. "I found them!"

            Clutched in Snerdly's grubby, poison-ivied hands were large, glowing fungi of assorted colors, mostly plaid. The very mushrooms they set out to find.

            Sparki took them from Snerdly and examined them suspiciously. Clearly finding them suitable, she stuffed them into her backpack and surveyed the damage. "Like, total waste of a perfectly bad campsite. Most heinous turn of events. Oh well," she shrugged. "Onward ho!"

            "Who are you calling a `ho', missy?" Bruce wagged a limp finger at Sparki.

            They broke camp. Tasha broke a nail. All was right in the universe.

            (Dear gentle readers, Fiona thinks it would be best if we skipped the trip back to the ship because she is silenced by a gag order and because she only has five minutes left on her lunch break to finish writing this.)

            They arrived at the spot where they had left the (still nameless!) ship. There was only one minor problem…

            "Where's the blinkin' ship?" Hamish exclaimed.

            "I told everyone to remember where we parked!" Bruce simpered.

            "It has GOT to be here." Mollie stomped her foot, her blatant disregard for the aesthetic appearance of her leather boots traumatizing Tasha. "Look again…"

            "Ach, lassie, tis gone real and for surely," Craig sighed.

            "The ship's name is Shirley?" Tasha asked, wide-eyed.

            "But where did it go?" Bruce wondered aloud.

            "What's missing?" asked Tasha, noticing that her Passion Purple Glitter nail polish glistened beautifully in the waning sunlight. No one answered her. Some things are better left unsaid. Some things are also better left unthought (she Tasha's prior comment).

            "Like, what's this?" Sparki plucked something yellow from the ground and unfolded it. "Mondo bummer. Most excellent yuckarama."

            "What?" demanded Mollie.

            "Tacky retro stationary," Sparki clucked her tongue, holding the letter out for Mollie to examine.

            Mollie read aloud: " `we have your space ship - which by the way, needs a name…'"

            "I thought it was `Shirley'…" Tasha interrupted, confused as usual.

            "It says, `If you want to see it again, you'll have to play. Solve the first clue now and you're on your way'."

            "Give me that," Bruce snatched the note from Mollie and investigated it thoroughly. "Yellow-lined note paper, standard blue ink pen, dried…I'd say that whoever left this here does not know how to shop for stationary."

            Tasha shuddered. "And to think that someone tres gauche has our ship…"

            "Excellent use of the You Too Can Learn a Foreign Language section of Vogue, girlfriend!" Bruce highfived Tasha.

            Mollie sank onto the ground, head in her hands. Sparki removed an organic hemp mat from her backpack, placed it on the dirt and sat beside Mollie. She offered her some Multi-flavored Jelly-Bellies, and for a time, Mollie was content. (Note to Kasey and Annabelle - they don't have Jelly-Bellies in Rockland County, New York.)

            "Okay, so let me like totally get a clue," Sparki said. Bruce quickly passed her the paper, eager to remove the offensive item from his presence. "`Where planes check in, but they don't check out on time. In a City of Wind beside deep waters.' Hmmm," Sparki thought for a moment. "I think they mean Albuquerque."

            "No, lass," Craig nodded his head, "Tis clearly Loch Ness."

            "I can understand your confusion," Snerdly smirked, "as none of you have traveled as extensively as I have. In my expert opinion, I believe they are talking about the salt baths and Mud Lake on the shores of Lake Titicaca in South America."

            "Sounds terribly familiar," Hamish declared. "Tis bringin' a memory to me haid of a time long, long ago in a kingdom far, far away…"

            "Bogus!" Sparki's eyebrows were knit without the aid of a crocheting needle. "I hope it's like in THIS galaxy, because without our mondo-cool, most excellently decorated vessel, we are stuck here."

            "Chicago!" Mollie exclaimed suddenly, chewing thoughtfully on a Strawberry Cheesecake jelly-belly. "Tasha and I went there when we were kids. Remember Tasha?"

            "Is that where I got my first black sequined mini-skirt?"

            "Yes…"

            "And we sat at the second booth to the left at the Pizza Place. It had red tablecloths and posters of famous gangsters on the wall…"

            "Yes," Mollie told her impatiently. "But don't you remember the Airport?"

            "No," Tasha glowered emphatically. "And neither do you." She instructed her twin.

            "It just has to be Chicago," Mollie gushed.

            "Fine. Just fine." Snerdly scowled. "And how do you propose we GET there? We can't fly you know…"

            "Ach, weel, we cannae walk that far…" Craig pointed his fiddle bow at the paper for emphasis.

            "An' we cannae run…" Hamish added.

            "Well we certainly won't find a taxi out here in the middle of nowhere!" Mollie pointed out.

            Just then, a Yellow Cab screeched to a halt in front of them, splattering a previously non-existent puddle onto their calves. "You need a ride, no?" the turbaned Driver inquired sticking his head out the window to gape at the Neon Lites, who just stood there, mouths open, collecting flies.

            "This story is getting way too surrealistic for my taste." Mollie muttered.

            Sparki shrugged and opened the taxi door. "Everydude in…chop, chop…"

            The Neon Lites pushed and shoved and squoze into the taxi, barely managing to close the door. The very second the lock clicked shut, the taxi squealed away at an alarming rate, breaking speed laws and its rear axle on a speed bump. The yellow cab raced through traffic, drove up on curbs, frightened pedestrians and pigeons, mowed down a hapless skunk and grazed the bumper of a BMW. At long last, it skidded to a halt in front of the Interstellar Departures entrance at O'Hare Intergalactic Airport.

            Snerdly paid the fare as the others trooped out onto the pavement. Sparki momentarily considered checking her backpack to Old Cleveland, thinking she could pick it up in Noveau Paris, but then deciding against it, as it was not on her agenda to visit Euro-Space Disney any time soon.

            Craig calmly took out his fiddle, dropped some coins into the case and promptly started playing  "Hunting the O'Hare."

By the hundreds, harried travelers threw money into his case, as Craig buskered happily.

Snerdly tapped him on the shoulder. "We do not have a gig booked here."

"Aye, laddie, what are ye doin'?" Hamish approached.

Not missing a note, Craig used his bow to gesture to the pile of loot in the case. Hamish's eyes widened. He gave Craig a jovial slap in the back, watching without concern as the fiddler flew twenty feet and landed with a crunch on a dolly, attached to a grinning SkyCap. The SkyCap graciously wheeled Craig back in place and put out his hand for a tip. Sparki gave him a piece of cinnamon gum, an orange marble and a kitten, which he happily accepted. All this time, Craig never stopped playing.

Meanwhile, Mollie, Tasha and Bruce had wandered inside searching the message boards for their next clue.

Bruce fretted loudly as Mollie removed a piece of parchment from the board. "Oh, I hope we don't have to go to tribal council and vote one of us off the island!" No one knew what he was talking about. (The fact that I know embarrasses me - Fiona.)

They rejoined the others in time for Craig's last note and thunderous applause. Bruce humbly bowed, whispering to Tasha, "See, never underestimate the power of perfect accessories."

Mollie was reading the note. She looked vaguely disturbed as she glanced up at the others. "This is worse than I thought…"

"Like, what does the most excellent but not quite logical parchment tell us, dudette?" Sparki asked, sticking address labels marked `Sparki - Like Everywhere' on her backpack.

"It says…" Mollie began. Snerdly snatched the paper from her hand.

"Let me handle this," he said, puny chest filled with self-importance. "First of all, getting fingerprints all over the evidence hinders the International Bureau of Investigation's investigation into the ship-napping offense. Oils secreted from your skin…"

"Eeewwww…" whispered Tasha to Craig, who nodded, smacking Snerdly soundly with the bow. Accidentally.

"OILS mar the paper and renders all evidence insufficient. Whereby leading to your false arrest, millions of dollars spent in legal fees, an incorrect verdict, years of appeal and a last minute stay of execution from a Governor vying for Presidency on a liberal Democrat ticket. In the meantime, you are forced to spend the best years of your life in a cell with a 300-pound former female wrestler named Big Bertha who wants you for her pet. It's best that the evidence remain untainted…"

"Like, Snerd-dude, you're getting your grimy fingerprints all over that thingamabob," Sparki pointed out. Snerdly dropped it like a live Asp. Mollie grabbed it and began where she left off.

"It says," she glared at Snerdly, but he didn't move. "`You're leaving on a jet plane, don't know if you'll be back again'."

"This does NOT bode well," Sparki sighed.

"It also says we're on Flight 103 and our tickets are at Gate C-119." Mollie finished.

"Where's that?" Tasha looked at the map glowing overhead and found a large YOU ARE HERE X.

"Clear over there," Hamish pointed to the opposite side of the very large map.

"We have twelve minutes to take off - we'd better run!" Bruce exclaimed frantically.

The Neon Lites sprinted into the terminal and joined all the other travelers hurrying for gates. They passed two over-priced Burger Emperors, five newsstands with over-priced gum, a hot dog stand with over-priced wieners, a duty-free liquor store with over-priced beer and eight Starbucks coffee stands with over-priced everything. Mollie stopped at the last one and ordered a Caramel Machiatto, but never broke her stride in the Neon Marathon.

At last, they arrived, lock, stock and fiddle, at Gate C-119 with two minutes to spare.

"Hello," chirped the cheerful woman behind the desk, showing more teeth than necessary. "Welcome to Bogus Airways. May I take your order?"

            Sparki stepped up to the desk. "Like, let me totally intro. I am Sparadicus Smith and these are my mondo almost cool compatriots. We have tickets waiting here. One for Smith, two for Shepherd, one for MacHamish, One for MacCraig, one for…er…Bruce…and one for Slimebottom. Most triumphant."

"How do you spell `Smith'?" asked the annoyingly perky woman.

"You know," observed Mollie sipping her highly caffeinated beverage and staring at the tickets, once they were all in hand. "These say gate X-484, not C-119."

"Where's that?" Tasha asked, watching Sparki scribble X-484 on her arm in day-glo marker.

"Clear o'er there, lassie," Hamish pointed at the map overhead.

"How much time do we have?" Snerdly snapped anxiously.

"The flight was delayed by forty-five minutes, it says," Mollie read the information board. Bruce and Tasha looked relieved. They were built for style, not speed. "But that was forty minutes ago," Mollie added.

"RUN!" Hamish yelled, taking off, kilt flapping in the climate-controlled breeze. The others followed in frantic pursuit. They ran onto the moving sidewalk and raced passed the Riders, who stood to the right of the conveyor belt, just as the droning voice instructed them to. They hopped over a yipping poodle in a cat carrying case and knocked over six Japanese Businessmen, who bowed and snapped photos.

"Fugenjikkou boushou itsu touhou choudai uchitoru,"[2] grinned one man, mid-bow.

Mollie stopped for another Caramel Machiatto and rejoined the race.

Exhausted, panting and wheezing for air, the Neon Lites skidded to Gate X-484 with thirteen seconds to spare.

"Attention all passengers on Bogus Flight 103, there has been a last minute gate change from X-484 to A-17. There is also a nine-minute delay in departure time. Sorry for the inconvenience. Have a nice day. Buh-bye."

"A-17?" gasped Snerdly, gulping for air. "Where's that?"

"Clear o'er yonder," Hamish wearily pointed out.

"Well, let's go," said Sparki brightly.

"Wait a minute!" Mollie looked panicked. "Where's Tasha?"