As the tow truck pulled into the Tempe driveway, a slender, elder man was seated on the porch.

Although it was dark, he seemed to be originally from Trinidad or India. He wore a transparent green sun visor, a pale button-down shirt, and suit pants. His hair was white, very fluffy, and cloud-like.

He had arrived five minutes ago and told Raven to go to bed, that He would welcome the visitors.

In his hand was a hand-fired coffee mug in burgundy and gold, inlaid with quartz crystal points surrounding the words:

WORLD’S GREATEST PHILOSOPHY PROFESSOR

He stood up slowly.

“My Crown Victoria…” he said with great mourning.

He seemed pained as he approached Seattle Pilot, who had just exited the vehicle.

“My son…” stated the professor with great feeling.

Seattle sighed, rolled his eyes, and returned the embrace.

“Son… Are you alright? Did the energy of the car tell you she was dying when you turned the key, or was it sudden? Can we save this car?”

“I’ll have Raven look at it in the morning.”

“Why did you drive into the desert instead of straight home?”

“I had passengers and was trying to bring them in after the kid was asleep. It worked.”

“My car, Seattle. It’s a Main Line car with Pennsylvania classic plates. She isn’t designed for exposure outside metropolitan areas. Are you planning on introducing your friends…?”

“Oh fudge,” whispered Atticus as he shrank down in the back seat of the tow truck cab.

“That’s my line,” replied Mango. “Wait… why ‘Oh fudge?’”

“That’s the philosophy professor. I can’t hide what I am from him. He teaches mysticism.”

Mufti Mango Garrett John Butler seemed confused.

“So do we.”

“No… I mean he’s actually legible to outsiders.”

“That’s great!”

“He’s still a mystic.”

Suddenly, the elder professor looked up from embracing his much taller pilot son and developed a sharp, bird-like expression.

“Oh no.”

“I can feel you in there. You are hiding.”

“Go outside, Mango.” Atticus urged “Introduce yourself.”

John opened the door, and just as he was about to speak, the older man in the green visor quickly crossed the distance to open the closer door.

The professor looked incredulously into the cab and found Atticus attempting to hide under the glove compartment.

“Namaste?” stated Atticus. “I fell.”

“Is that why you wrote yourself as Marchosias?! YOU SLEPT AT MY HOUSE.”

“Well, according to the dictionary your wife gave me, it isn’t a bad thing. My entry is only a paragraph. Sorry I’m not cooler. Anyway, Doctor, have you met Abaddon? He runs the Mango Madrassa an hour from your mansion.”

The doctor facepalmed.

“My coursework doesn’t cover this.”

“Islam…?”

“No. You. You wrote about my old dear friend in London being trapped in a statue while you dressed like a local colleague in my own field. Then, to further the difficulties, I was suddenly written into this narrative in Tempe when there is no reason this couldn’t be in Sedona. Nothin’ misses you.”

“Nothing missing you seems…” Mango started.

“My son is Nothin’,” replied the professor.

“I’m cooler than Nothin’,” replied Seattle Pilot.

“Nothin’ was playing at the Posse Pavilion yesterday,” his father replied.

“That’s great,” replied Atticus. “I always loved Nothin’.”

Mango proceeded to start dhikr because he was utterly lost following the conversation and felt only Allah could assist him.

“I hate philosophers,” stated the tow truck man, who handed Seattle the receipt just before his father tipped him generously in cash.

“I hate them significantly less now. Praise be to Immanuel Kant.”

He drove off.

The Philosopher Prince then slapped Atticus across the face.

“Ow.”

“That wasn’t to you.”

The professor pulled up a live broadcast of Atticus’ Molana-shaykh, who, on screen, looked horribly offended as he held his own hand to his cheek.

“This is obscene.”

“We work on Universal Reason and Consciousness just a little slower, Sir…”

“This is an unethical method of immortality.” The professor lectured,


“Seattle Pilot looks like Babaji…and no one has seen Babaji lately.  Is that unethical?”

“You cannot just inherit a personality. What was wrong with the first one?”

“What first one?”

“There it is! Also, to what gender am I addressing?”

“My own. I discovered I left my penis in Munich in infancy.”

“Left it…?”

“I like to tell myself it was removed because it was abnormally large and would have caused massive circulation problems if I kept it.”

“Is that true?”

“I haven’t the foggiest. It could also have just ended up in medical waste, a jar of formalin in a lab, or as a late-night snack for a Weimar type. Who knows? I didn’t choose to look like a fourteen-year-old boy at forty-four, Sir.”

The professor facepalmed.

“MARCHOSIAS,” was suddenly heard from an unknown voice.

Atticus went pale.

“Oh no.”

“Do you just go wherever your name is called now? Summoned?”

“Sir, that’s a different philosophy professor entirely.”

“I teach Islamic philosophy,” stated Mango.

Marchosias patted his head.

“Look… Professor, father of Nothin’. If someone spends time on my education and looks after me, even begrudgingly, without intending harm, maintaining the connection is important.”

“Where have you been?”

“You haven’t wanted to call me.”

“MARCHOSIAS!!!!!!”

Atticus started to fade.

“I’ll be back soon. I can assure you Mango is a far better conversationalist than I am.”

The professor noticed the turban.

“YOU PICKED ISLAM OVER UNIVERSAL CONSCIOUSNESS?”

“IT PICKED US! WE CANNOT UNDO THAT GOD MADE US SHUYOUKH!”

“ANTONY,” stated the disembodied voice.

Atticus was nowhere to be found in Tempe.