At first, they look weird, but then, skipping rows of waiting citizens at the counter, they pretend they have a dying woman in the ambulance.

I watch from the passenger's seat with bulging eyes, unable to gaze back at the corpse in the back of the ambulance. How did the Pillar turn into such an irresponsible whack? Moments like these, I have no doubts he killed those people for reasons of utter and undeniable insanity.

"Please," the Pillar says to the girl over the counter, his hands stretched out. "In the name of the Three Stooges." He flashes the sign of trinity in the air, so fast no one even registers he said "the Three Stooges." His dramatic acting distracts disbelievers from what's going on, and entertains those bored with their lives, looking for entertainment. "I'm Dr. Marshmallow Nuttinghead, and this is my male nurse assistant, Fourgetta Boutit. We are from the Queen's Renowned Hospital for the Deliberately Poor and Forsakenly Unhealthy Disease Center." I don't even know how no one laughs or comments on his nonsense. I guess he has crept in with such a sense of urgency and panic that he entranced the whole smoking crowd of Muffit N Puffit. In particular, the girl over the counter. Come to think of it, they are as mad as the Pillar, eating in here in the first place. "We have a dying woman in the ambulance." I slide deeper into my seat as the crowd turns their heads my way. "She is divorced, pregnant, and dying of loon cancer." The crowd sympathizes deeply. "All she asks"—the Pillar holds the girl's hands and looks pleadingly into her eyes—"is to have one last Meow Muffin and Spit Burger before she dies."

Instead of the crowd laughing, or thinking this must be some Candid Camera joke, they start urging the girl to grant the loon cancer victim her last wish.

"What is loon cancer?" an old woman with glasses and a cane asks.

"It's the cancer you get in the loons," a middle-aged man in blue overalls informs her. "How can you be so insensitive? Does it matter which cancer you have?"

"I'm sorry." The woman lowers her head but stubbornly feels the need to ask again. I can't blame her. She might be the only sane person in there. "But I didn't know I have a loon organ. What does it do?"

"It's in a sensitive place, old lady." A middle-aged woman punches her to save her the embarrassment from not fitting in the crowd. "It's right down near the..." She whispers in the old woman's ears. Her eyes widen.

As the counter girl prepares the meal for the Pillar, the store's supervisor offers it for free. The Pillar kisses the girl's hand. She blushes as he prays the Three Blind Mice to reward her a place full of "Danish cheese with no holes" in heaven.

And so, the Pillar and his chauffeur did the same at every food chain we stopped by for two hours, until the back of the ambulance was stuffed with every snack or junk food available in Britain.

Speechlessly, I watch the Pillar gorge on every high-calorie, unhealthy, and greasy sandwich he obtained. He and his chauffeur eat, chew, and spit like the Cookie Monster from Sesame Street.

"Can you pass me the ketchup, Alice?" the Pillar asks with a mouthful.

"Why are you doing this?" I manage to put a sentence together.

"The food is delicious. Addictive. Frabjous. Remember the way you felt addicted to the muffin in the morgue? I feel the same about this." He points at the snacks in his hands. "Besides, I'm a caterpillar. In order to become a cocoon, I have to eat. A lot!"

"Are you deliberately stalling our visit to Drury Lane?" It's the best conclusion I can put together.

"Of course not," he says. "We're on our way. But first, we have to stop at Harrods to buy you a dress."

"Why a dress?" I neglect the fact that we have to stop again. I haven't worn a dress like a normal girl since...well, I don't remember since when.

"We're going to see an important play in a theatre." The Pillar wipes his mouth and stops chewing. It's time to tell me what's going on. "When I researched Drury Lane, I found nothing of interest that could lead us to the Muffin Man. All but the Theatre Royal on Catherine Street in Westminster, London. Also known as the Drury Lane Theatre. It's one of the most prestigious theatres in history. A dress code is required. That's why you need a dress."

"Why do we have to go?"

"Because the Muffin Man will be there."

He has my full attention. "And how do you know that?" I inquire.

"Because the only thing in Drury Lane connected to Lewis Carroll is the Drury Lane Theatre." He swoops what's left over from his sandwich out of the window, then he claps his hands clean. The leftover glues with its sticky mayonnaise on the front shield of a silver Bentley driving by. An elegantly dressed lady rolls down the window and swears at us. It's surprising how vulgar she is. The Pillar ignores her, and wipes mayo from his lips.

I wait until he finishes his childish acts, thinking about how he refused to shake hands before when he was worried about germs. Whether he is simply messing with me, or all this food binging is some kind of message I am supposed to read through, I can’t seem to understand the contradiction. I lean forward in my chair, fishing for more answers. "You're serious about that, right?" I lace my hands together. "How is Lewis Carroll connected to the Drury Lane Theatre?"

"That"—he raises a mayonnaise-stained finger—"I will explain to you in detail after we get the dress." He licks his finger and sits back. "Now be the insane girl you're supposed to be and stick your head out of the passenger's window."

"Why would I?" I grimace.

"To say, 'Wee-woo, wee-woo,' since my chauffeur's mouth is stuffed with carbs, sweets, and saturated fats."

"No, I won't." I muster an expressionless face like he does most of the time, and lean back again. I even cross my legs to feel relaxed.

"And why would that be?" He is curious, and excited with my behavior.

"Because it's 'woo-wee,' not 'wee-woo,'" I tease, then I start to wonder if there is actually a real science to nonsense, like Jack said before.

Chapter 29

Lady's department, Harrods, London

The Pillar stands outside my fitting room, fluff-talking to the young girls selling all kinds of expensive outfits. I am inside the booth, resisting the urge to pull the curtain and warning the infatuated girls of him.

The working girls are all ears. They are so into his stories.

He is dressed in his regular blue tuxedo with horizontal golden stripes. His gloves are a shiny white, and he is wearing a magician's hat with a golden ribbon on his head.

Although he looks much paler, and his skin seems to be worsening—slightly peeling off day by day—the girls don't pay attention to such turn-offs. I understand they are young and naive—I am young myself, though days spent in an asylum make me feel older—but I am amazed at their infatuation with the short, sneaky man.

The Pillar enjoys entertaining them, messing with their heads. He starts by predicting what they like the most, and what kind of guy they would love to date. His predictions are always right.

The girls ditch most of the customers at Harrods and circle the Pillar while he brags about his adventures in the Queen of England's palace. The Pillar, unbeknownst to me, claims he'd been the one of the many personal advisors to the Queen of England at some point. With a doctorate in philosophy, he says he had been very useful.