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Suffering from dry, tired, irritated eyes. Don't let dry eyes win. Use Sustain Pro. It hydrates, restores, and protects dry eyes for up to 12 hours. Sustain Pro Triple Action Dry Eye Relief. Foreign. Hi, I'm Will and it's story time. Do you ever stop to think about the nature of reality? And I don't mean what it means to be alive or a human or even living on planet Earth. I mean deeper than that, more fundamental do you ever visualize atomic bonds? Planetary motion? The laws of thermodynamics? Do you ever marvel at the kinetic motion and surface tension that combine to make what we perceive as a splash of water in a pond, something that exists for an instant and then is gone forever, never to be replicated? Do you ever ask yourself, how does it all hold together when it feels like it could fly apart at any moment? I know that my stoners are all nodding along in glassy eyed agreement and I'm right there with you. But I suspect that the majority of us don't spend long hours contemplating the way atoms are ordered and connected to create and represent what we think of as this rock in my hand. And that's probably for the best. I don't know about you, but just writing this intro lifted a little bit of the curtain that I keep closed over a window that if I looked through, it would reveal just enough of the inner workings of the universe to completely freak me out. There are some questions for me anyway, best left unasked. But if we are willing to take a close look, and for the purposes of our time together this week, that is exactly what we are going to do, then we could also ask, how does it hold itself together? Well, after all of these questions, I am here to give you an answer. It doesn't. It doesn't hold itself together. It is held together by a diverse group of entities who call themselves plumbers. They are the ones working behind the scenes to ensure that reality and unreality are kept in balance. And today we are going to watch them work. Come with me as I introduce you to the Council. The Council by Kanan Gill the ghostly mass glowed impossibly, an ectoplasm blob bobbing in many dimensions like the negative of a neon wedding gown wrapped around a gun like a matryoshka dim sum of steamed flashlights casting the inverse of a halo on the ceil and entirely clogging the toilet bowl. Third one this week, mumbled the CP maintenance man as he stuffed the plunger into the commode. He felt the scuffs in the handle, the wax of the wood. He couldn't lose another one. He wasn't ready. Why is this happening? Whispered the trembling tenant of Sea Princess Luxury Apartments, Unit 4B, who was besides himself and beside the other tenant who was beside herself but on the other side, both doubly afraid with the maths to back it up. Hard to say, said CP gripping the plunger with both arms and putting a boot against the lip of the bull. Now stand back, he said to the tenants. This could get ugly. It's quite ugly already, whispered the other tenant. CP grunted the gray eyed leather jawed grunt of someone who had worked in maintenance long enough to plumb too many depths and know the deep that went squelch in the night, the stricken drips that never dried, the clanging pipes that never died, so it would have been unthinkably insufficient to reply. You don't even know what ugly means. Okay, he said as he pushed against the bowl with both feet, arms gripping the handle, and for a second he was suspended in an angle like a periscope that wasn't feeling it tonight until a loud sucking squelch and pop sounded and he was skidding on his back upon marble floors till his head hit the expensive door, the plunger's handle loose in his hands. In the next instant the room's pulsing snot fluorescence sucked inward towards the toilet bowl, leaving darkness in its place as from within the pot the apparition rose, pulsing with light, photo ghostic illumination that didn't travel out of its sea cucumber outlines, a white flame consuming itself, a luminous implosion, a mangled mess of energy made to submit to form, and it rose too bright to see and dripping a little bit, and on its end the plunger head fixed and growing slowly, swallowing the light they had to cover their eyes, but the voice, the voice they could hear a voice filled their ears, a roaring twister of chipped knife tips, and it spoke. You have removed us, but you cannot block the unliving. The barrier will be broken and being will be returned to non being. The last words drowned into a gurgle that grew louder and louder as the plunger head swallowed the light and shattered into flecks of brightness that flew into all directions, returning illumination to the room. Once again the lamp and recessed bulbs spoke their fluorescent buzz. When the tenants in CP reopened their eyes they found the spectral poo, just a fading after image in their vision in front of them, their regular loo with a person steam shower. What was that? Shrieked the terrified tenants. What does it mean. It means, said CP Rising to his feet and brushing his overalls and placing the plunger head in its velvet case, that it is time to call the Council of Plumbers. What? Shrieked the tenants. What does that mean? That'll be 700 bucks. The council chambers were carved from an aquifer stretching underneath the forest on the outskirts. This was not the only chamber. This was not the only council. All over the world there were small circles of effort that kept reality only as real as most people could handle, holding fast the barriers between existence and its inverse, the other worlds. The place where things came from, the place where things went to every aspect of the world was an interplay of energy, the spontaneous waves of creation and destruction of all things, occurring so rapidly that the boat never appeared to rock. But between being and non being there were always gaps. Infinitely brief, infinitely small gaps from where things kept wanting to leak in. Around an oblong table, in high back chairs, no back perches and pinstriped glass bowls, sat the area representatives that answered the call. Because there were so many things that could also be their opposites, the representatives were quite numerous. Only the first 20 to heed the call would attend the meeting of the Council of Plumbers, and everyone else would get an email about it later. At this meeting, among others were the space plumbers that kept things as far away from each other as they should be. The sky plumbers, mostly birds and clouds, the creatures of the water and the earth, dwellers like CP who kept the ground sealed. A low hum of chatter preceded the official opening of the meeting. As is always the case with meetings, until someone interjected with an order, said the chair, a white bellbird with blue wattles hanging from her beak like a pendulous mustache. The room fell silent as expecting faces turned to the chair. I call open this emergency Council of Plumbers, the custodians of reality, those who maintain the world, began the chair. And keep it sealed, repeated everyone in attendance. Turning her head in several lopsided glances at a page below her, the chair continued, it is reported by fellow CP that there are increasing incidents of leakage in the ground layer. Fellow CP you are invited to elaborate. CP took a deep breath. For all his hard jawed tan leather heart, steely gaze and calloused biker jacket hands, public speaking was not his forte. We have incursions from an extra real plane. Three in the week past Past week. Past week. Sorry, yes, I theorize. What polarity plane is the leakage from? Asked the chair. This would be the life, not life plane, said C.P. a grating of groans went around the room. The non living people are the worst, said the Ironing it and ironing it. Guardian of the magnetic non magnetic barrier. Ooh. Join us in death. Join us in death. Yeah, sure, because it looks like you're happy having such a great time. The chair nodded silently. Well, CP3 incursions in a week is quite unusual, but not impossible. If you remember the moon shaped situation of O6. Some of us cannot forget, said a cloud darkly. Guardian of the Moon is spherical, not spherical barrier. Larger things got their own guardians. It was too difficult for any group to remain in charge of the geometric shape of all things. And while I appreciate your diligence, continued the Chair, I think it was hardly necessary for a meeting. Already chairs were pre drawing, and plans were being made to drive or fly or in some way head back together when CP Interrupted quickly and loudly, the leaks are from the same building. The movement in the room ceased to make room for a stunned silence. The same structure? Asked Iron Ingot ferrously. CP Nodded over his drying throat. This indicates a larger breach in this space, said the Cloud. That could create a. You know. A shiver went down the leg of every chair around the table. The word unsaid was whole, a permanent opening in a barrier, a thing that had only happened twice before and something no one was in a hurry to remember. Members whispered quickly, voicing their worries, their fears, their unconvincing dismissal of such an absurd bit of speculation. Until Cod Swallop, said a smooth, deep voice, the New Goldfish of Is Water Is Is not Water had spoken, the lush swell of its voice filling the room with the reassuring deep hum of a cruising engine. New Goldfish. You have an opinion? Asked the Chair. Yes, said the new goldfish, its tone spreading butter over the air. Three incursions, dear friend, do not make a hole. I thank fellow CP but this is an unwarranted panic. Three in a week. If I had to tell you how many times Water wanted to not be water last week, well, we'd have enough holes to strain a cup of tea. Fellow CP Is supposed to be a veteran, but if you ask me, he's acting like a new goldfish. A relieved series of chuckles and wordless agreements followed, and before CP Knew it, the meeting was dismissed. He tried to calm himself, to dismantle his instinct and unbuckle his hunches, but it was proving to be difficult. Something was fishy, and as the goldfish passed him, it flashed a smile. Keep your eyes open, but remember to blink, it said in its suave way as it was wheeled away in its bowl. Thunder flexed the sky, a fierce sound of tin trays tap dancing played between streaks of red lightning that threaded the sides of Sea Princess Apartments, conceived as a modest building many decades ago until the surrounding area decided to become luxuriant. And now it was luxurious accommodations with room size and ceiling heights that could only be approved in the 70s. Indeed, none of the building was maximized within allowed building permissions, which was perhaps the most luxurious idea of them all carelessly left unused space. CP was back in the belly of luxury in apartment 5B at the end of his wit and down to his last plunger. It had only been a day and it had happened again. Another quivering tenant stood beside him, clutching his solid gold wristwatch in terror. Another light emitting dead thing rolled menacingly in the Tati 2020 Princess of Toilets. Its control panel twitched and sparked with otherworldly electric tendrils, the heated seat molten, the auto open lid twitching, the 360 degree typhoon flush spinning helplessly before a deposit from another realm. What is happening? Squeaked the tenant. Catchphrase of bystanders everywhere. Stand back. Sighed CP Once again thrusting the suction cup deep into the flashing depths. The cup clinked with the sides of the ultra smooth ceramic of the Tati 2020. The plunger was not made of pure rubber, but inlaid with the material of the profession lead. The plum bum behind the plumber. CP gripped the handle and saw the lead pull the darkness into itself, his boots melting as they made contact with the overheated seat, and he yanked and flew across the mosaic floors and once again things were as they should be. A regular old Lou. When 5A told me about this, I thought they were insane, whispered the tenant, offering C.P. a hand and not noticing him, refuse. Congratulations, said C.P. now you're insane too. Four incursions in a week in the same building. But he couldn't call a council again so soon. How can I stay here now? Wailed the tenant. But I mean, it's so well situated and connected. That's what the people in 4B said, said CP grimly. Also, that'll be 700. He placed another lonely handle in its case, his full supply of incursion plungers depleted in a week. It was supposed to last at least a year. Years if he was lucky. Now he'd have to travel to the forge to get new plunger cups made, which always cost more money than he had. At least he always kept the handles. 4B 2. Gasped the tenant. Yes, and 3C and 3A, said CP handing the tenant his business card. His commute to the apartment was already an hour from a part of town that started out modest but had decided to become disreputable. But getting new plungers would be another two days at least. Could the building even survive two days? And 3A in Taro banged the tenant. But that's nearly everyone. Yes, well. Began CP before stopping in his tracks. What do you mean nearly everyone? Aren't there a lot more units in this building? Oh, sure, but the bottom four floors are like boutique offices or bijou offices or something. That leaves only 12 residential apartments, and seven are owned by people as like investment properties. I guess. So that only leaves five inhabited flats. Right, said the tenant, counting on his fingers. I was looking to buy another unit here for like an investment. You know how it is. CP's mind raced. He did not know how it was. All he knew was that there had already been four incursions, each in the inhabited apartments, and that meant the uninhabited ones could already have been breached. There would just be no one around to report them. The tenant was busily reading CP's business card and began. Hey, this says 5A, 5B, 4B 3C 3A, said CP. Like a hexadecimal account statement. What's the remaining inhabited apartment? 6A, said the tenant. Building manager lives there, but we never see her. C.P. reached into his bag and pulled out the lead brick he kept in case of emergencies. Listen, he said to the tenant, I need you to run to the store and get a plunger. The tenant thought about saying a lot of things, many of them being wealthy questions about where one could buy such a thing, others being rephrasings of EW. But in the face of the urgency in CP's face and the command in his voice, he found himself simply nodding. But there were some questions he couldn't help but ask. Rereading the business card, he said, hey, this says your name is Lumber. That's right, said CP impatiently. Cp, Lumber. Yes. We have precious little time. So you're kinda destined to be a lumberjack? Yes, said cp. But I chose this responsibility. I chose this life. A steely glint passed over his eyes. Actually, began the tenant, meet me at 6A as soon as you can. Someone could be in great danger, said cp and rushed out the door. To maintain things meant to level them to a state of existence they were meant to be at. Yet in maintenance they were never called to worsen an excelling commode or vandalize some over splendid fountain. It was always to fix things that were fucked. And CP couldn't help thinking that the stairs to the 6th floor were quite fucked. For luxury apartments. His melted boots left solitary Morse code soup prints in the dust on the torn carpet around the Carrara marble steps, meaning that no one had walked this flight in either direction for quite some time. Maybe they took the lift, he reasoned to himself. But his trepidation grew. A teal door said 6A in an expensive font. No light leaked under the door. No milky cataract shine shone through the peephole. He knocked the knock of the salesman. Seeing that there was no one home while knowing that there was. There was no response. He pounded on the door. No response again. He took a deep salty breath and wondered whether he trusted his intuition enough to kick the door in. He decided to kick the door in and then decide. Such. The tenant hurried at a pace propelled by the desire to never be seen walking the streets holding a plunger, even as he held it pinched between his finger and thumb like a used condom you found in your corn flakes. Other than this obvious horrific imposition, he felt quite good about himself. He felt like a man of action, having quickly identified a place to purchase a plunger and then buying it in a real brick and mortar store with almost zero clicks. He felt energized, awake, alive. His life had been in stasis since selling his company, and now he spent listless days trying to find the most comfortable way to sit on a pile of cash. This evening, for a change, he felt something in his bones. The twang of tendons. Momentum. Purpose. It felt great to do something, something meaningful, something real, something gritty, even if it was something gross. The elevator in Sea Princess Luxury Apartments only ran to the fifth floor, and such ran up the remainder of the steps to see the door hanging open and out of it spilling a bright flickering light. Even though he had just experienced a ghostly apparition in his very own apartment, his first thought was, oh, a photo shoot. I wonder what they're filming. CP felt the strain of the ghostly bonds that tied him to the chair. Apparitions from the plane inverse to life swam and wobbled all around him, mumbling words he did not want to hear. The light was too bright, but as his eyes adjusted, he could condense the glowing shapes to human forms. Four of them lurked around him. This was odd. Very odd. Pain throbbed in the back of his skull. He had been hit by something blunt and otherworldly and cold, like a frozen blackjack or a penguin salami. He readied himself for the black tongue, mockery of not life. The disdain they had for the living tended to spurt and as venomous, hateful speech, or at the very least quite mean things to say. But these apparitions had human forms and as CP could see better, looked more annoyed than anything else. It's a ripoff, one apparition was saying as CP wondered what kind of apparition wore glasses. Total ripoff, remarked another apparition as they circled him. The brochure was so clear, said another apparition. I guess these scams are not just limited to the living, said another glowing apparition darkly. CP searched for his toolbox that housed his lead brick but found it placed too far out of reach. Of course, he wondered if he could shift his chair over to it. What could he do? How could he get there? Listen, listen, Said a smooth, deep, warm voice. The situation is under control. CP could have sworn that he'd heard this voice before. It was coming from just out of his peripheral vision. What do you mean under control? Said the apparitions. You swore to us that they would get spooked and move out. No one is moving out. This man is sucking up all this life force and returning it to the other plane. This man, said the smooth, deep voice, has already been taken care of. As you can see, we paid you in our lives for this. And I think my life was worth quite something, said an apparition who thought positively. How can you say there will not be more like him? Because, said the smooth, deep voice, I come from there myself. And finally the voice's source clicked into place in CP's mind. Hello, new goldfish, he said. Hello, CP, said the voice, curved around its edges in a sinister smile. Wheels squeaked as a mid century bar trolley rolled into CP's peripheral vision. Upon its polished surface sat a bowl, magnifying the sinister floating presence of New Goldfish. You're not New Goldfish at all, are you? Said cp, watching the fish's expression turn menacing. It is the part that I play, said the goldfish bitterly. But I've always hated that word new. I am not the new Goldfish. I am not even a newer goldfish. I am the first goldfish. The very first plumber. A seedy neon rose milk lightning flashed outside. You disgust me, said cp, spitting at the base of the bar trolley and being slightly saddened at the lack of impact this had. You don't even understand me or my plans. Dear cp, you did not want to die and so traded your life for being a pawn of the Not Life Plane. CP said his voice shaking. Okay, so you do understand, said the goldfish. But CP pulled against his ghostly bonds in vain. How are you able to do this? What ties me? Just a normal rope. Or should I say the inverse of a rope? Well, actually, no, that's not correct. It's a rope, but wrought of a lack of existence, unexisting solidly enough to work as just a regular rope, but from an inverse place. Does that make sense? Said the goldfish. CP spat, now aiming for the mouth of the goldfish bowl. He missed. So stooges of non life plane get these powers, he said. It's just a rope, said the goldfish, Sickening. Screamed cp. My, my, said the goldfish. You're always so quiet at meetings. You do have some real life in you. For the time being, at least let me disabuse you of one notion. I am not some agent of not life doing their bidding. I remain beholden to no one. The bidding I do is my own. The plans I make are my creations. Are they? Said CP spitting again and missing again. And what would these great plans be? Don't ask such direct questions. Let me work up to it, said the Goldfish, annoyed. You see, goldfish live such short lives. CP looked around. The toolbox was so far behind now, right next to the goldfish. The bonds he had were strong, but not as strong as his secret weapon, a little lead chip he kept in his boot. He had to keep the goldfish talking while he wiggled it up. Could he even wiggle it up discreetly? And from within these convex prisons? I have seen eternity. We have poor memories, they say. What kind of fraught memories should we keep? A warped view of the outside world to be eternally witnessed, magnified, celebrated? But you see, C.P. all that glitters. It was no use, C.P. thought bitterly. He could barely cross a leg over the other when he wasn't tied up. And this was far more ambitious on luv. So when you ask my big plan, know that it comes from all of this. All this I have said, all this I have felt, all this I have lived. Do you understand, C.P. sure. Side C.P. But what is the big plan? Real estate, said the goldfish. Real estate? Asked CP Real estate? Said the goldfish. In what way? In the usual way. No, I mean, what on earth are you talking about? Oh, my dear gullible C.P. said the goldfish, swimming around its tank, but invoking a more sinister sense of pacing before a plate glass view of a skyline. This building and so many like it can house so few. They are so very expensive. So out of touch for the common person. So what does the uncommon person do? Perhaps they work themselves to the bone, but then discover that this too is not nearly enough. So what would a truly uncommon person do? Be willing to kill for the money. Be willing to die for the money. You're selling them apartments? It's a lease, said the Goldfish. In exchange for their lives, I can get them to stay in a 3,000 square foot luxury apartment with unblocked views of downtown and the oceans beyond. We spook the apartment's inhabitants by showing them some mild spectral visions, so they move out and my newly created ghosts can move in free to live their not life lives in the Life plane. And their lives you offer to the not life plane to get you more years. Is that your sick scheme? Yes, said the Goldfish. More and more people cannot live in the luxury they desire. Their life is not long enough or fair enough, but if you just cut it shorter, then it is plenty short enough. You're insane, said C.P. this is insanity. It's actually quite sensible, said an apparition. Even in a renter's market, the price disparity for a good quality of life is really unbelievable. Quite true, said another apparition. But why always poo? Said CP Why not make your spectral forms appear and spook people in person? Because that would get the Council of Plumbers involved, said the Goldfish, rolling itself. A haunting of the bowl is something that wreaks havoc on the psyche, a private lunacy one is scared to report. I've had great success having people just move out until this building. Someone somehow called you, and your plunger tends to send all of the apartment's apparitions back to the Not Life plane. As you can imagine, CP this is not a good look for me and I cannot allow you to continue. CP Spat again, this time getting the opening in the goldfish's bowl perfectly. The splotch of spit descended in a colloidal cloud of its own. An unglowing amorphous form, a living apparition, a symbol of his contempt for the Goldfish, a living form of his disgust. The goldfish ate it. Ew, man, said C.P. the goldfish smiled. Can I interest you in an apartment, C.P. no. Sure. Floor to ceiling windows, wall to wall carpeting, Theater room, golf sim? No. I have to kill you anyway. Do you want to go and become nothingness or retain form and party in this plane? I would rather die, said C.P. no, you don't understand, said the Goldfish. You will definitely die. I'm just asking if you'd like to become a homeowner after that? Well, leaseholder, technically. CP Thought about the squalid apartment he shared with three other people. It wasn't a great life. It wasn't even a good life. He didn't crave some soft velvet luxury. He just wanted some space between him and the abject squalor that bit at his heels, the destitution that would swallow him the moment he stopped moving. It wasn't an easy life, but it was life, and he would have to take it. He couldn't reach his toolbox or his boot. This was the end of the line, and he was fine with that. The only real problem was his cause of death would be being outsmarted. That stung harder than the troop of bedbugs that were renovating his ankles. I'm happy to die, Goldfish, he said. Well, happy is a strong word. I am at peace with death. I served my role. I have lived with dignity, and with it I will die. Very well, said the goldfish, its eyes turning dark. The water sloshed torrid and turbulent until it became a spitting vortex. The flat's maximalist interiors shuddered and vanished as light bent and warped into the goldfish bowl in a vortex, carving out a thick, sickening dark that was more than the absence of light. Outside, the storm raged. Only the apparitions still glowed because their light was not of this world. Thunder cracked like tigers at chiropractors, and within the darkening depths of the apartment, the goldfish glowed brighter and brighter. CP Felt a darkness overtake him. His life was being wrenched away from life to not life. I send you, said the goldfish, and soon this whole building will have no one living living in it. Not on my. Screamed a voice, and in the next instant a plunger handle went through the goldfish bowl, shattering it into pieces. Shards of glass flew through the air and the goldfish flew and fell, flapping on the floor. CP Looked up and saw Sutch, the tenant back from the store. In his hands a brand new plunger watch said such not on my watch. That's what it is. The goldfish flapped helplessly. Without the magnification of the bowl, it looked small, insignificant, a little wriggling thing of wallet sized wildness. It still needed water, thought C.P. but without it it wouldn't die. It was dead already. It seemed like it could not invoke any powers while out of water. They had some time. Untie me, you boob. Shouted CP And Sutch hurried over to him and struggled with the bonds. It's so Slimy, said Sutch, struggling to get purchase with his soft fingers. And there are no knots or anything. How do I, uh. Oh. The apparitions, who were the unliving forms of late 30s Type A types, were standing and watching the scene with some semblance of glowing shock until the goldfish screamed. What are you doing, you buffoons? Get him. One of the apparitions lunged at Such with his spindly arms, demonstrating that being unathletic in life meant being unathletic in death. With its cold hand, it gripped Soch, who yelped and leapt and gripped it right back. A small measure of stillness followed as two figures who had never been in a physical altercation stood gripping each other. One of them had the very real advantage of surprise, what with being dead and all, but no great strength or tact or skill, said the apparition, as Such stood quietly in his grip, thinking a million thoughts. What should I do? Asked the apparition, as a similar thought was slowly pupating in such his mind. Overpower him, you moron. Shrieked the goldfish. The rest of you get me back in water and I can handle this. I've never seen a worse group of clueless. As the goldfish's excoriations became more vivid and hurtful, Sutch, who had not even chosen violence in his MMA classes, felt a new impulse tingle through his limbs and down his arms. He felt his fingers close over his palm and clench. I don't know. Get a glass or something. The goldfish was screaming, but it sounded mute and hollow in Such his ears, as did CP's screams about a toolbox and a boot or something, as for the first time in his life, Such reared back and threw a punch splitch. The strike landed wetly on the apparition, who for the first time in his life and death was punched. Hey, said the apparition, just registering the punch. That didn't hurt at all. Such swung again a few more times, and the apparition began feeling more and more confident and just about ready to throw a punch of his own. When Such swung his other arm, a ripping sound preceded a gasp. The apparition leapt back. That hurt. That hurt a lot. It looked down and saw a small cut of glimmering dark across his chest, as Such stood holding his fists aloft, his mouth agape, a punch that went punch and had the effect of a punch. This was like a movie. Is your watch solid gold? Yelled CP snapping Sutch out of his fugue of violence. Of course, said Sutch, looking at his wrist. It's a Rolex Deepsea. Hey, there's a chunk of the case missing. Yes, yes, drag the gold across these bonds, said cp. But it's a Rolex Deep Sea. Three apparitions were rummaging in the kitchen, frantic with anger and judgment about its layout. Honestly, who wouldn't put the glasses in the obvious place above the sink? Every cupboard stank of poor organization. The plates all the way up here and in the back. Someone could break something. Now where on earth were those glasses? In the living room. The Goldfish was losing its mind. What is taking so long? It shrieked. Sutch was sadly running his watch over the bonds that tied C.P. to his chair, causing little cuts in them and and watching the Rolex Deep Sea disintegrate. Do you want to live or die? Snapped cp. And such, contrary to what he had just told his therapist, realized in that moment, in the darkness of a haunted apartment, that he actually did want to live. He wanted to live a lot. He pushed his watch to the bonds, fraying their breaths. They had some give now, but he couldn't cut them all the way through. The apparitions reappeared from the kitchen with a vintage fluted coupe glass. How's this? One of them asked. You won't believe where it was kept. Something deeper and filled with water. You idiots. Shrieked the Goldfish. Wait, no. It said as it noticed, CP's bonds weakened. One of you get the glass. The rest stop that man. He must not be untied. The apparitions now all shuffled awkwardly at such, who scrambled away to the depths of the open plan. Living dining, the apparitions were cornering such by a lovely bookcase. As CP thought on his seated feet, the frayed bonds allowed him enough give to rock back and forth. He summoned all his strength and rocked forward again and again, until with an upsetting crunch and crash, he managed to push himself off balance onto the ground. The chair splintered. Do you have any other gold on you? Shouted cp. Any jewelry? Any other precious metals? I'm not tacky. Shouted Soch. This sweater is cashmere. Though the goldfish laughed as the apparitions held such in place, CP wriggled on the ground. It's not about expensive things, you idiot. It's about stable elements with a high atomic mass. Such whimpered as he was pinned to the lovely bookcase by ghostly apparitions, a situation as mad as the books in the bookcase being organized by spine color, which they were. I don't know what that means. He cried. It's the number of protons in the nucleus of an atom, said one of the apparitions. That's atomic number, you moron, said another apparition. Please don't talk to me like that, said an apparition. I'm sorry, it's just automatic. I'm hearing how it sounds now. Atomic mass is the mass of protons and neutrons in the atom of an element, laughed the goldfish as an apparition returned from the kitchen now with a regular glass filled with water. It's what we use to stop breaches between planes. But it doesn't matter now. Oh, but it does. Came a grizzled, rugged voice, like the rumble of the planes beneath the cavalry, like the shake of the salt cellar of the earth, like wrinkles breaking in on a saddle, the voice of someone who has just extricated themselves from ghostly bonds. In a splintered chair, CP Was standing. Little rivulets of blood flowed from bits of chair lodged in his face and hands, his mouth curved in a grin. A toolbox lay open at his feet. The goldfish's eyes widened in terror, its mouth gaping hopelessly like the fish that it was. No, it couldn't be. The word plumber comes from those who work with this element, said CP Lightning flashed red white through the window. In his hardening glance, he raised a gray brick in his hand. This is plumb bum, said C.P. but I think you might know its common name. No. Shouted the goldfish. Stop him. Stop him. CP Smiled wider. Lead, You always want the best for your family, and that means only Eggland's Best Eggs in your kitchen. Compared to ordinary eggs, Eggland's best eggs contain 6 times more vitamin D 25% less less saturated fat, more than double the omega 3s, 10 times more vitamin E, and more than double the vitamin B12. So why give your family less when they can have the best? Add Egglands Best Superior nutrition to your next grocery list. Better taste, better nutrition, better eggs. Lights filled apartment 6A. The storm outside had abated, and the downstairs neighbors had decided against filing an official noise complaint. In the bowl of a Tati 1000, an older model, the goldfish quivered under the shadow of a plunger with half a brick of lead taped to its cup. Please, it whispered, its deep voice breaking in hysterics. You don't understand. I can offer you anything. You can live forever. CP Handed Sutch the plunger. Care to do the honors? Sutch, who was covered with bruises and sweat, who had rips in his bespoke sweater and trousers, took the plunger from his hands for the first time in a long time, maybe ever, he felt capable. You need to learn, he said, sticking the plunger in the bolt. The lead melted around the cup and around the Goldfish, and with a final howl and a burst of light and the faintest plop, the oldest Goldfish was no more. No more. Luxury apartments should only be for those who can afford luxury, finished Soch, brushing his chin where he could swear there was minutes old stubble. I don't think that's the moral, said CP oh, okay, said Sach. What should be the moral, then? Something about wealth disparity and the commodification of luxury as an accessible thing, said CP Something like that. They stood in the soft light of apartment 6A, in the aftermath of a task most of the world would never know, needed to be done, and was done by someone somewhere. Almost every day. In each corner of the world were plumbers holding fast the gates of reality. There's going to be a lot of trouble about this, said C.P. i don't know if everyone will believe that new Goldfish was old Goldfish. The last thing I need is a rift in the Council. I've got the whole thing on video, said Such, tapping his glasses. These glasses record every. Ah, these aren't those glasses. Never mind. Thanks, side C.P. stretching his neck. An hour back to his apartment. If he wanted to get new plunger head soon, there would be no dinner. His stomach grumbled as he walked to the door. Take me with you, said Such breathlessly. To your group. I will give testimony. No thanks, said CP Already in the hallway. Please, said Such. I just want to do what you do. I'll do anything. C.P. saw his earnest eyes and felt the wear in his own joints, the weight of the reality that he was trying to protect the home he had to go back to, the empty toolbox of plungers, the impending visit to the forge, the empty refrigerator, his ever loosening trousers. Such had no capability, no skills, no credit to the Council of Plumbers other than his enthusiasm. Maybe enthusiasm was what a jaded, overworked group of people needed now more than anything else. That and money. Anything. Please, said Such. I need this. I need to feel alive. Fine, said CP do you need a roommate? Coningill is a writer and comedian most active during the Hellenistic period, believed by contemporary scholars to be a metaphor for prolixity. Scant records remain of his existence, other than his insistence upon it rising to fame for his novel. I have every answer to every question now. Lost Kanan is thought to have worked in the software industry before going missing allusions to his name appear in the writing and directing credits of several comedy specials, films, and even some television shows. Legend says that repeating his name three times in a bathroom mirror causes mild headaches. Acts of God is his first published novel. Hey everybody, it's time for the credits. It's Story Time with Wil Wheaton was produced in 2026 by Traveler Enterprise Is Incorporated, who holds the copyright. Our producer is Harris Lane. Our story producer and director is Gabrielle Dicure. Our content editor is Michael Damian Thomas. Our podcast is edited, mixed and mastered by Alex Barton of Phase Shift av. Very special thanks to Wes Stevens and Christopher Black. Recorded at Skyboat Media in the magnificent San Fernando Valley, bordered to the north by the Santa Susana Pass, bordered to the south by the Santa Monica Mountains, on the east by the beautiful Burbank Valley, and on the west by the 405. None of that is true. I just made up all the geography of the San Fernando Valley. But I know that very few of you actually live here. I know that even fewer of you actually listen to the credits, and even fewer of you care about my San Fernando Valley descriptions. I do this to amuse my myself and Gabrielle, who is cackling on the other side of the glass, and Alex, who is rolling his eyes in a charmingly British style on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean. Thank you all so very much for listening. As always, I am your host and your co creator and that guy on the Internet, Wil Wheaton. You can find me@willwheaton.net we'll be back next time with another podcast for your listening enjoyment. I really hope you enjoyed this story. It was really fun for me. Thanks for being here everybody and I'll see you next time. Until then, take care of yourselves and take care of each other.