I was released from Metzolukalaka Prison in October, as I predicted. This was partly because I acted like a neighbor-friendly and jovial-and partly because the Metzolukalaka prison system was completely inefficient.

"Stop in and say hi sometime," yelled the guard after I left. That was highly unlikely; the prison was not too uncomfortable, but I would never return. I had to move on, so I called a taxi.

Luckily, the only taxi in Metzolukalaka just happened to be passing by at the time. As I entered the quaint vehicle, the driver asked me, "Where do you want to go today?"

"Metzolukalaka Regional Airport."

"Why'd you call a taxi? It's right over there." The driver pointed across the street, and there stood the airport.

"Umm ... I wanted to get there in style." The interior of the taxicab did not exactly fit the word "style", but I had to have some excuse.

"Smart. Very smart. I'm sure you'll be the envy of all your friends. Heh heh." The driver, obviously not one to turn down easy money, drove the cab for a few seconds, then stopped at the main entrance to the airport.

"Here we are: Metzolukalaka Regional Airport. That'll be seventy thousand."

"Seventy thousand!" I gaped in awe at the absurdly high number.

"Yeah, seventy thousand. Are you gonna pay now or not? While you're thinking, look at the meter-it keeps going and going and going. Seventy-five thousand now."

"I don't think I have that much money."

"Well what do you have on you?"

"Let's see..." I delved into my pockets and produced a few coins adding up to a dollar and sixty-three cents.

"That'll do. Have a nice day." The driver took my money.

"I thought you said seventy-five thousand."

"Yeah, seventy-five thousand. Your American money covers it. After the revolution of '56, the value Metzolukalakan currency dropped like a rock. And thanks for the tip." Slightly confused, I stepped out of the cab, which promptly sped away to its next customer.

I managed to successfully obtain a ticket and board a plane without being arrested-I was doing it right this time.

---

October 17, I returned to my mansion and was greeted by my new butler, Farnsworth.

"Good day, sir. I have two messages for you."

"I cannot say the same. Two for me, none for you, I suppose."

"Of course, sir. The first message is from your mother. She wants to know how you are doing."

"Send her a note on fancy stationary. Make her happy and write, "Right there with you." What is the other message?"

"Your other message is from Mary Goround. She said she had an important revelation to share with you."

"Oh, really?"

"Yes, sir."

"She said that, didn't she?"

"Yes, she did, sir."

"That's what she said, eh?"

"Yes, that's what she said, sir."

"So that's it."

"Yes, that's it, sir. Now please get N or get out."

"All right." I stepped into my mansion, relieved to be free of the inhospitable prison and into my luxurious home. I decided to write these feelings down.

"Farnsworth, how do you spell relief?"

"R-E-L-I-E-F, sir." I finished one sentence, then realized a journal was a waste of my time and threw the paper in the trash bin.

"What is next on my schedule, Farnsworth?"

"After you went to prison for a few months, you were socially exiled. Thus, you have no plans at the moment, sir."

"Right. Then what should I do?"

"You might want to call Ms. Goround, sir."

"Good idea, Farnsworth. Now get working on my mother's letter."

"Yes, sir." He did not seem too enthusiastic about the idea.

For various reasons, I had Mary Goround's telephone number memorized. I quickly dialed her number on the telephone, waited as the telephone rang thirty-seven times. I had nearly fallen asleep when Mary answered.

"Mary Goround speaking. Who is this and what do you want?"

"It's me, Bob Quartzenkofferloferous, and I am calling about the message you left me."

"Oh, it's you. Sorry I kept you waiting. I thought you were some crazy guy who just got out of prison or something."

"Umm ... Ha ha ha, that is funny-me a crazy guy who just got out of a prison. Definitely not correct at all." Whoever said, "be yourself," was clearly not in a similar situation.

"Mm-hm. I wanted to tell you about an important revelation I have had."

"What is it?" Not that I needed to ask; I knew exactly what she was going to say.

"The beef people of Canada hold the key to immortality, world peace, and the legendary ingredients of Spam. I need you to come with me to Canada." Or perhaps I didn't know. Well, I was not about to embark on another fruitless expedition.

"You see, normally I would, but I just got back from a terrible adventure-"

"Pleeeease?" She had to use that voice.

"Okay."

"Great. Bring enough supplies for a week, including your lucky scarf; don't leave home without it. Meet me at the Canadian border tomorrow at seven o' clock in the morning."

---

The next morning I overslept and had to run for the border. I arrived at what Mary said was 7:01 AM with my luggage in hand.

"You're late." I referred to my watch.

"My watch says 6:59."

"Mine is a Timex. What is yours." I glanced down.

"Uh ... Fosters."

"Fosters? I've never heard of that before."

"I got it from an Australian for beer during one of my journeys to the Australian outback."

"I see. It's 7:03 now. Let's get moving." We walked across the border to Canada, and the air smelled fresher, the colors looked brighter, and the landscape looked sharper.

"The beef people live in that town, Eh." Mary pointed to a small town with a sign inscribed "Eh: Population 25."

"Then let's go in there, Eh." A man with a rugged beard and a red plaid shirt stopped us at the entrance.

"I need to see identification if you want to come into this town, Eh." I whipped out my fishing license.

"That won't do. I need the real thing, a driver's license or passport." I deftly whipped my driver's license from my other pocket. The guard inspected it, looked at me, then handed it back."

"You may enter this place, Eh." We strolled into the quiet town, I saw the sights, I heard the sounds, and I smelled the smells-or lack thereof.

"Where's the beef?" I asked to no one in particular. Surprisingly, I was answered.

"I got your beef right here." The mangy scoundrel hobbled toward me and made an obscene gesture.

"Take a bath," I calmly replied and shoved the miscreant into a standing pool.

"It will be a while before we see the sassy one from Canada dry again." I chuckled, but Mary did not share my amusement.

"You could have just lost us the secret to immortality!" she scolded. Another native, this one well-dressed and well-mannered, spoke to us.

"Nah. Pete's a troublemaker. Will you come see the softer side of our town, Eh?" Mary and I accompanied the man into his abode. The walls were adorned with assorted stuffed animals and other plush toys.

"I have some frozen beef sitting on the table. It's what's for dinner. Would you like some?"

"No thanks," I replied.

"Come on. It does a body good; it's a totally organic experience; it tastes much, much cooler than cooked beef."

"No, I really don't want it." While I was refusing the horrid dish, Mary was gnawing at it.

"What are you doing?"

"I am taking advantage of this man's hospitality." The Canadian smiled with pride.

"That is disgusting."

"It's all we eat in here, Eh. And we're all the better for it. How old do you think I am?" asked the odd man.

"One-hundred twenty-eight?" I guessed, although he looked nothing like it.

"Well, yes, I am. And do you know why? It's because we just eat this beef!" He made a dramatic sweeping gesture toward the hunk of meat on the table.

"That is disgusting. I will never understand you people from this town, Eh."

---

So, I left Canada and the twenty-sixth resident of the town of the beef people, Eh. Immortality was not worth the sickening thought of eating raw, frozen beefsicles.