The crisp Maine air, thick with the scent of pine and distant ocean, usually meant a peaceful day. But for Randall B. Styles, peace was merely a suggestion, easily overridden by the whimsical demands of his own existence. At 24, Randy was a living, breathing paradox wrapped in an all-white tuxedo. Yes, a tuxedo. White dress pants, ridiculously comfy white socks, dress shoes with subtle silver snowflakes, a frilly white dress shirt, a four-pocket vest, and a six-button blazer – each button a miniature, ever-changing rainbow dice. Topping it all off was a pure white feather tucked into a white fedora. He looked like a runaway extra from a high-stakes, off-Broadway production of *Guys and Dolls* set in a snow globe.
His ride, a gleaming Triumph Bonneville T120, purred beneath him as he navigated the familiar backroads of rural Maine. Today, his odd job was delivering a particularly fragile-looking ceramic garden gnome to a lady who apparently cherished lawn ornaments more than some people cherished their firstborn.
"You are *not* going to believe the day I've had, Kaz!" Randy's voice, a boisterous symphony of enthusiasm, practically vibrated through his phone. He held it precariously between his ear and shoulder, one hand on the handlebars, the other gesturing wildly at the empty road ahead.
On the other end, 22-year-old Kaz, or Kazmee as he sometimes went by, grunted. Kaz, the poster child for delinquent chic, was currently wrestling a precarious stack of suspiciously unmarked boxes into the back of a beat-up Ford Transit van. His black leather jacket, spiked shoulders and all, strained slightly with the effort. "Randy, please tell me you're not about to launch into another one of your epic video game sagas. I've got three drops before lunch, and this 'organic produce' smells suspiciously like week-old fish."
"No, no, not a video game, my dear Kazzam!" Randy insisted, narrowly avoiding a particularly aggressive squirrel. "This was *real*. Picture this: I'm zipping along, right? Delivering Mrs. Henderson's 'special' herbs – don't ask, I just deliver – when suddenly, a shadow, dark as midnight, blots out the sun! A *dragon*, Kaz! A colossal, fire-breathing beast with scales like obsidian and eyes that burned with the fury of a thousand suns!"
Kaz sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Randy, for the love of all that's unholy, don't tell me you tried to deliver Mrs. Henderson's 'special' herbs to a fantasy convention again. Last time you almost got arrested for 'impersonating a wizard's apprentice.'"
"Details, details! The point is, I was faced with a choice: run like a terrified gazelle, or face my destiny!" Randy paused dramatically, swerving around a pothole with surprising grace. "Naturally, I chose destiny! I looked that beast right in its fiery pupils, and I said – and this is a direct quote, mind you – 'Listen here, scales-for-brains, I've got a deadline, and if you think you're going to hold up Mrs. Henderson's afternoon tea with your theatrics, you've got another thing coming!'"
Kaz, who was now meticulously wiping a suspicious green stain off his "I'm about to go nuclear" t-shirt, barely suppressed a groan. "And then what, Randy? You pulled out your trusty rubber chicken and scared it away?"
"Better!" Randy practically sang. "I manifested a giant, inflatable rubber ducky! Honked it right in its face! Dragon flew off squawking like a startled pigeon. You should have seen it, Kaz! Pure comedy gold!"
Silence. Then, Kaz's flat voice: "Randy. Please. My brain cells are committing ritual suicide. No more video game lore. Just...no."
Randy pouted, though Kaz couldn't see it. "It wasn't video game lore! It was a genuine, bona fide, dragon-slaying adventure! You wound me, sir! You truly wound me!" He let out an exaggerated sniffle. "Fine. If you don't want to hear about my valiant escapades, then let's talk about something truly important. Lunch."
Kaz, relieved, leaned against his van. "Now *that* I can get behind. What're you craving, Tuxedo Man?"
"Ooh, good question!" Randy's voice brightened instantly. "I'm thinking... lobster roll, obviously. But not just *any* lobster roll. It has to be from that little shack down by the harbor, the one with the faded red sign and the owner who looks suspiciously like a retired pirate."
"The 'Crusty Crab'?" Kaz snorted. "Their prices are criminal."
"But their lobster is divine, Kaz! Absolutely divine!" Randy argued, now approaching a secluded dirt road. "And a side of those ridiculously greasy onion rings. Oh! And a root beer float, extra vanilla ice cream, so it overflows down the sides and gets all sticky."
"You're going to end up looking like a melted ice cream cone in that getup," Kaz muttered, pulling out his own battered sandwich from a cooler. "You want me to pick one up for you?"
"Nah, no need! I'm almost done with Mrs. Henderson's gnome. Then I'll just zip over there." Randy made a zipping sound with his mouth, a habit he'd picked up. He pulled up to a rusty mailbox. This was it. Mrs. Henderson's. He parked his Bonneville, hopped off, and carefully retrieved the ceramic gnome from his bike's saddlebag.
Kaz, meanwhile, was checking his delivery manifest. "Alright, just gotta drop this off at the old lighthouse. Then I'm free. Might swing by for a coffee. This 'organic produce' is making me question my life choices."
"Sounds like a plan, Stan!" Randy chirped. He walked up the overgrown path to Mrs. Henderson's front door. It was one of those classic Maine farmhouses, weathered wood, slightly crooked porch. As he stepped onto the porch, phone still to his ear, he reached for the doorknob.
"Hold on, Kaz, I'm just about to deliver this little porcelain fellow to his new home," Randy said, turning the knob. The door creaked open, revealing a dimly lit entryway. He stepped inside, humming a little tune.
"Yeah, yeah, don't break anything, Mr. Fancy Pants," Kaz replied, not really listening. He was too busy trying to decipher the scrawled handwriting on his next delivery address. "Alright, gotta go. My next stop is just around the corner. Talk later."
"Roger that, my good man! See you for that lobster roll!" Randy said, and then the line went dead. He tucked his phone back into his vest pocket, the rainbow dice buttons on his blazer seemingly winking in the dim light.
He was inside Mrs. Henderson's house for maybe two seconds. Just long enough to take a single step, gnome in hand, through the doorway.
*Poof.*
One moment, Randy was standing in the musty entryway of an old Maine farmhouse. The next, he was standing in what appeared to be the bustling, chaotic, and decidedly *tropical* receiving bay of a massive cargo ship. The air was thick with the smell of diesel and salt, and the rhythmic clang of metal against metal echoed around him. Sailors, looking distinctly non-Maine, shouted orders in a language Randy didn't recognize. Crates, far larger than any garden gnome, were being hoisted by cranes.
Randy blinked, his fedora slightly askew. He looked down at the ceramic gnome in his hand. "Well, that's certainly not Mrs. Henderson's living room." He chuckled, completely unfazed. "Guess I'm taking the scenic route today."
Meanwhile, back in Maine, Kaz finished his last delivery and was now making his way towards the "Crusty Crab," his mind already on that lobster roll Randy had so enthusiastically described. He pulled out his phone, about to text Zaki about meeting up for lunch. He figured Randy would be there soon enough.
Little did he know, Randy's "zip" had just taken him a few thousand miles south, right into the heart of a major international shipping port. For Randy, it was just another Tuesday, another 'magic trick' gone slightly awry. For the rest of the world, oblivious to his peculiar reality, it was just a Tuesday. For now.