Harris and Katz got to the curb just in time to see a tall lady getting grabbed and whisked away in a Rolls-Royce Silver Phantom. As the door closed an empty bottle of 1858 Croizet Cognac bottle slipped aout and cracked on the pavement. A local TSA agent was immediately on the phone and a tracking drone was sent to follow the Rolls Royce . . . which as the intrepid duo noticed had changed into a dark purple Cadillac Escalade as it went over the overpass leaving the airport.

"That is a bottle of one of 2chairs 7 favorite cognacs," Harris said. "He must be in that Rolls. .er . . caddy!"

"And I bet that was JF he grabbed! Quick get a cab! We have to stay in touch with them!"

"How can we do that? You saw how that car changed just like that," Harris emphasized with quick snap of his fingers.

Katz turned with a sly smile. "If JF is with 2chair and sjurat and especially ceasari, we can track them just by the GPS on ceasari's phone! All we have to do is keep getting those tweets from #1timenc and we can pinpoint their exact location, and those tweets come out about every 15 seconds!"

They dove into the next taxi and with a deft translation into Kenyan for the taxi driver they were off to shadow the now combined group.

Unfortunately for Harris and Katz, their driver was Laotian. Katz snapped his fingers.

"Still Laotian," said Harris. "And we are not following JF's car anymore."

"Where are we going?" shouted Katz. "No!" Katz said "follow that cab" in Klingon.

"Uh oh," said Harris. "And apparently 'follow that cab' in Kenyan sounds like 'take me to JF's favorite gay bar' in Laotian."

"Why do you say that?" asked Katz. Harris nodded towards the bar. "Oh! It's a costume party! Hey! Look at all the Village People!" exclaimed Katz.

"Fifty dollar!" demanded the cab driver. "You guys crazy."

Harris handed the driver an autographed photo of caesari looking at his computer screen when he won the NC.

"That's our best offer!" yelled Harris as he ran from the cab.

"Here's $60.00," said Katz. "Y-M-C-A" hummed Katz as he walked to the bar.

Just then, BHaz and Oriole pulled up in the car Steve McQueen drove in Bullit. Oriole was wearing a Yankees cap and baggy jeans.

"Let's see," said BHaz. "We don't have the code; we have lost sight of JF; it hasn't occurred to anybody to go to WIS, and we have left several plot lines hanging. What else could go wrong???" His phone began saying "Click on the Ad banners! Click on the Ad banners!" - which is BHaz's ringtone. BHaz answered.

"Heeeeeeyyyyyyyyyy!!!!!!!!!!!!! It's 2chairr!!!!! JF is trying to kiss Joe Namath!!!"

"My gosh," exclaimed BHaz. "Who's driving?"

"NOBODY!!!!" yelled 2chair. BHaz could hear everyone roaring with laughter. And caesari yelling "1timenc!!!"

"Holy cow," said BHaz to Oriole, "I am concerned they have reached a potentially dangerous level of inebriation."

"This reminds of the night we wrote the code for 3.0," replied Oriole. "Let's go find Harris and Katz. I love it when a plan comes together!!!"

Bump - for some New Years reading.

It felt like it had been only a few minutes, but in fact, two years, 10 months and eight days had passed. Where did the time go? I looked at the 75-year old Oriole fan sitting beside me in his 1969 Volkwagon Beetle. "Now what?" I asked.

The old man chuckled to himself. "I think I went potty in my pants again."

"You're not Oriole_fan!" I exclaimed, in shock as the sudden realization came upon me. "You're... you're... you're MOJOLAD!"

The old man looked at me quizzically. "Am I? Now that you mention it, I do recall having used that name. That would explain many things."

I leaped from the car and began running. I had no destination in mind, and in the two plus years that had passed in the last few minutes, I had forgotten where I was, anyway. I spotted a phone that I instinctively knew was a hotline to an editorial do-over. Well, maybe it wasn't instinct, but the large sign over the phone marked "DEUS EX MACHINA" and a neon arrow pointing at the phone. "It's a darn good thing I know at least one Latin phrase besides e pluribus unum," I said to myself. Quickly, I picked up the phone and dialed "2-C-H-A-I-R-9-1-1"

A muffled voice picked up on the other end of the line. "QuarterChair here," it announced. The voice was weak and raspy.

"I'm looking for 2Chair. This is bhazlew--" I started, only to be cut off.

"THERE IS NO 2CHAIR! I haven't eaten a damn thing in 2 years, 10 months, and nine days now. Why? Why? WHY DID YOU ABANDON US?" There was sobbing on the other end. I could only try to picture what this shell of a once-proud interviewer had become. I started to protest, thinking that there had been others who could have taken up the mantle. Others who could have carried the torch. Others who could have done some metaphorical thing to continue the tale. But I could not stand this sound of desolation.

"It's not too late," I whispered. "I- no, WE can still make this right. Meet me at the Taco Truck on 45th and Vine."

I was standing at the Taco Truck on 45th and Vine. "Give me 500 more tacos," I said to the man. "And make them a little hot. Not too hot."
'Que?" said the man selling the tacos.
I realized that the man selling tacos did not speak English. I would have to use my fluent Ugly American to buy these tacos. I held up several $500.00 bills from my wallet with my right hand while holding up my pants with my left hand. Due to my weight loss, let's just say that my pants were not tight. Holding up the money, I yelled at the man standing across the counter.
"EL FIVE-O HUNDRED-O EL TACOS" I said.
"Oh, you give me $500.00 tip," said the man grabbing one of the bills.
So. He did speak English. Crafty. Very crafty.
"No, I said, I want 500 tacos. Then I'll give you a tip."
"Give me the other $500.00," he said, "and then you will have your tacos."
Not having eaten in two years, ten months, however many weeks, days and hours, I had no choice. This man was brilliant.
He returned with a low fat organic salad with tofu dressing and organic farro for protein.
"I ordered tacos!" I exclaimed.
"I have deemed it better that you eat this crap," said the man. His cellphone rang. "Joe Conte," he said when he answered.
I ate my salad with my right hand while holding up my pants with my left hand. Fork? No! Forks are for losers!
"No!" exclaimed the man calling himself "Joe Conte." "NO! Why would I rig Northern Iowa in my favor? Who cares about Northern Iowa? Not even the people at Northern Iowa care about Northern Iowa!"
Seeing my chance I vaulted the counter. Well, more accurately, I tried to pull myself over the counter but in my weakened condition, I fell several times. Finally, I got a running start, and using my 1/2 inch vertical leap, I was able to get my torso on top of the counter. When Joe Conte turned to see me, I threw the farro salad in his face. He screamed like a little girl. "My eyes!" he moaned. "My eyes!"
I opened the door behind the counter like a man who had not eaten in two years, ten months, and some number of weeks, days and hours. I shut the door behind me. There they were. Tacos. Chicken tacos, beef tacos, pork tacos and no vegetarian or tofu tacos. Lettuce, sour cream, shredded cheese and mild salsa. You may think I only gorge myself on Chocolate Thunders from Down Under. No sir. The maximum number of tacos I can eat in one sitting has never been determined since there are never enough tacos available to determine my limit. Opening an all you can eat taco place within 10,000 miles of me would be dumber than going into business with Donald Trump. With reckless abandon, I let my pants fall to the floor. I began dressing and eating tacos like a raging Taco-aholic who has not eaten in two years, ten months, etc etc.
The door opened behind me. I probably should have locked it. Fortunately, when I dropped my pants, my tightie whities had fallen as well. I say "tightie whities." After two years, ten months, blah blah blah, my underwear were more like "loosie brownies." Yes, that image should make you sick to your stomach. Your nausea leaves more tacos for me.
With the door open, I could hear Joe Conte arguing about Northern Iowa over the sound of me gorging on tacos. Standing at the door was Bob Hazelwood looking like someone from Duck Dynasty with a blindfold.
"Why the blindfold?" I asked Bob.
"Looked in a mirror lately?" he asked me.
"Heck, no," I said. "I'm not THAT stupid. Would you like a taco?"
Bob's eyes appeared to fog up behind his blindfold. "You...you...you would share a taco with me?"
"They didn't spice the chicken quite right," I said nonchalantly, as I handed him a chicken taco.

Instant classic.

The Taco Truck at 45th and Vine was in disarray, with tofu salad strewn about. 2Chair - or at least, the shell of what 2Chair had become - had beaten me there. The man I knew as Jose Conte was yelling into his cell phone, something about Northern Iowa. "Not good," I said under my breath.

I knew 2Chair was inside the Taco Truck. My keen powers of observation had noticed the door was slightly ajar. Plus, the truck was swaying back and forth like it was in the middle of an earthquake, and the noise coming from inside sounded like a pack of wild jackals tearing apart the flesh of a herd of zebras.

I put on a blindfold and a pair of nose plugs, knowing that I would lose my breakfast if I saw (and smelled) what was likely to be on the other side of that door. Gingerly, I peered inside... until I realized that I wouldn't be able to see anything with the blindfold on, and threw the door wide open.

"Why the blindfold?" At least that's how I translated the noise coming from inside. It sounded like someone had stuffed 125 tacos into their mouth at once.

"Looked in a mirror lately?" I asked.

"Heck, no," was the reply. "I'm not THAT stupid. Would you like a taco?"

It must be 2Chair. The emotion was overwhelming. "You...you...you would share a taco with me?"

"They didn't spice the chicken quite right," he said nonchalantly, as he handed me a chicken taco.

He was right. It tasted like they had used oregano instead of chile powder. One bite and I wanted to puke.

"Are you gonna finish that?" 2Chair asked, swiping the remains of the taco from my hand.

"No, you can have it." I mumbled. "When you finish here, we need to talk. There are rumblings coming from What If headquarters. I think the Taxi Driver clones have finally reached their expiration date." We knew the clones had a limited lifespan. It's why the Clinton campaign was burning through their Hillary clones at an alarming rate. "If the clones are gone, that means the game code is unguarded. Yatzr is ready to upload his replacement, but we need to secure the area first." I wasn't sure that 2Chair heard me, as the feeding frenzy looked something akin to a pack of piranhas making short work of a giant Brazilian Yak. "They, uh, have pizza there," I offered.

2Chair grabbed me with a hand covered with sour cream. Or at least, I hoped it was sour cream. "Let's go!"

BHaz was making less sense than an Alex Jones video. Realizing that little or nothing had changed in two years, ten months, etc etc, I pulled BHaz away from the taco truck.
"There's something I have to do first!" he exclaimed. BHaz ran over to El Joe-o El-Conte-o and wiped sour cream all over his face.
"That better be sour cream!" yelled Mr. Conte-o as we walked away.
"Hold up," I said after three steps. I reached into the left front mid distal lateral pocket of my pants and pulled out a Chocolate Thunder from Down Under. "You hold up my pants," I told BHaz. "I will eat this on the way."
"Wha...whe...how...where did you get a Chocolate Thunder from Down Under?" asked BHaz as he held up my pants.
"You always mocked me," I retorted, "for carrying two years and eleven months worth of Chocolate Thunders From Down Under in my auto refrigerated pants. Who's laughing now? Huh?"
"How...but...wait. How did you lose all this weight?" asked BHaz as I finished my first and reached for the second.
"I've only had 12 per day," I replied. "It's been unbearable." We walked in amiable silence until we reached our destination.
"This isn't WhatIfSports," said the always observant BHaz.
"I'm famished,' I replied. "We can deal with the bots or whatever that was later. We have to enter from the back though." I led BHaz to the rear of the building. "You're not dressed appropriately," I told BHaz. "But I can get you in."
"Oh, I'M not dressed appropriately," he replied with snark and sarcasm.
I walked into my personal dressing room at the rear of the restaurant. I hadn't had a shower or shave in two years, ten months, etc etc, and I needed five minutes to change. When I emerged, I was wearing an expensive tailor made suit, was clean shaven, had my hair slicked back, and a wad of parmesan cheese in each cheek.
"They call me 2Chairleone here," I said in my perfect Marlon Brando voice. "Let's go inside."
Hesitantly, BHaz followed me. Al Pacino walked past us, went into the men's bathroom, and pulled a gun from the toilet.
"Wait, is that? Whoa - hold on. We shouldn't -" stuttered BHaz.
"You didn't see nothing," I said as Al Pacino walked back to his table. I was greeted warmly by my old friends and family who immediately sat us at my favorite table. They brought me enough spaghetti and meatballs to feed an army platoon or serve as my appetizer. I began eating. BHaz started to pick at his toasted ravioli when Al Pacino stood and murdered his two dinner companions.
"I'm going to Sicily," he said as he walked past.
"Safe travels, son," I replied. I continued eating. BHaz was staring at the corpses. They had been shot in the stomach and head.
"You...you're...now? Of all times? You're eating spaghetti and meatballs?" sputtered BHaz. I had to hold my napkin over my plate to keep his spittle off my meatballs. Robert Duvall came to our table. "Would you like another plate of spaghetti and meatballs 2Chairleone?"
"No," I replied. "Thank you. Now let me speak me with BHaz privately please."
"Whatever you say, 2Chairleone," said Robert Duvall. Everyone was enjoying their meals - except BHaz.
"You seem a little up tight," I said to him. "A little stressed. Perhaps we could talk some business. Or I could do you a favor - "
"No!" He exclaimed, his panic rising.
The police walked into the restaurant and observed the corpses. Mojolad followed behind them.

Apparently, 2Chair was on some kind of guacamole-induced delirium. He dragged me into the back of a Cracker Barrel and started mumbling something about "2Chairleone". He called a stuffed armadillo "Al Pacino" and a waitress who reminded me of Flo from the old "Alice" TV series "Robert DeNiro". The odd part about it was the waitress took it all in stride, as if this were some kind of common occurrence.

Mojolad walked into the room, flanked by katzphang88 and harriswb3. "So, despite the fact that it's been two years, ten months, and 10 days since there was any meaningful activity on this thread, it appears that nothing has changed" they chanted in unison. That is as creepy to hear as it is to describe. I chastised them for breaking the fourth wall with "this thread" reference, and pointed at 2Chair, who had begun emptying salt shakers into his left cheek, and pepper shakers into his right cheek. He looked like a rabid squirrel had attacked a zebra. "This madness has to stop!" I cried.

"We will take care of 2Chair," they chanted."You must return to the path of your true calling."

"Burlesque?" I asked, and suddenly it hit me. "Mojolad - weren't you just playing a 75-year-old Oriole_fan a few scenes ago?" This was a setup!

"Budget cuts" they chanted, as they dragged 2Chair out the front door.

About that time "Flo DiNiro" returned with 622 platters of scrambled eggs and bacon. "I hate it when he eats and runs," she muttered. "Poor thing has never been the same since he used that coupon code for a free season of Hoops Dynasty." I excused myself, and walked out the front door. Remembering my previous troubles with taxi drivers, I decided to call for an Uber ride.

As I walked out with Mojo, Katz & Harris, I asked about BHaz.
"Did he seem stressed to you?"
"Yes, 2chairleone," they said. "We will take care of him."
Just as they finished speaking, caesari pulled up in a sedan with bullet holes and apparently wearing nothing but an overcoat.
"Come with me if you want to live!!" he screamed.
"Are you from Uber," asked BHaz. "And would you advertise on Guess Reports?"
Gunfire erupted from down the street. "Get in the car!" bellowed Caesari. BHaz did. Caesari sped off in a smoky cloud of burning rubber.
Katz, Harris and Mojo had all shielded me from any gunfire.
From the direction of the gunfire came a large man who had once been a weightlifter but whose body had gone to seed. He was now chasing caesari.
"Who is that?" I asked.
"The Oriole-nator" they said in unison.
"The Oriole-nator?" I said in disbelief.
"Yes. Somebody hired him to take out BHaz."
"Oh. Well, what can you do? Hey look! Farm Burger! Who wants bacon cheeseburgers and mint chocolate milkshakes? Answer - me! Let's go."
"After you 2chairleone," intoned Mojo, Katz & Harris.

"Was that caesari?" I asked in my perfect Marlon Brando Godfather voice.
"Yes, 2chairleone," said that trio in unison.
"Did he ever win another GD championship?"
Katz, Harris and Mojo all doubled over laughing. Reassured that nothing had changed in two years, ten months, ten days, etc, I walked into Farm Burger where I was greeted warmly.
"2chairleone," said that attractive woman behind the counter. "Your usual? 80 bacon cheeseburgers and 200 mint chocolate milkshakes?"
"Yes, please," I replied. "But bring kale cole slaw instead of fries. I am watching my weight."

My Uber driver turned out to be a middle-aged soccer mom who was also an aspiring stand-up comedian. She told me she started driving Uber because all of her friends got tired of her trying out her new material on them. After listening to her routine for a while, I could understand why. I offered up a few courtesy chuckles, but it quickly became apparent that her comedy plateau was somewhere along the line of obscure posts in a little-read forum.

"We're here" she announced. "How can that be?" I asked. "I hadn't decided on my destination." "Well, then, how do you know I'm not right?" she replied, in a bit of logic straight from every woman's playbook. I paid her, and stepped out of the car. I was standing in front of an abandoned In-And-Out Burger in Barstow Arizona. I turned back to ask the driver what this meant, but the car, like my inspiration, had suddenly vanished. Shaking my head, I carefully ventured inside the ramshackle building.

As BHaz opened the door of the ramshackle and abandoned In-And-Out Burger, he was struck by a thought. "Wait a minute......Barstow is not in Arizona! Barstow is in California! It's halfway between LA and Las Vegas!" BHaz ventured a bit further into the abandoned restaurant. "I wonder if I intentionally placed Barstow in the wrong state to send some sort of hint to 2chair, or if reading his posts has turned my brain into total mush."

BHaz grabbed his flashlight from his Bat Belt and shone it around the empty restaurant. Empty tables. Empty chairs. Cash register open and empty. Nobody in the kitchen. All movable appliances gone. Dust everywhere. "Yes," concluded BHaz, "this restaurant is definitely closed. Maybe I should have gone with 2chair's Terminator reference."
BHaz called mojolad.
When mojo answered, BHaz heard mojo sucking down another delicious Farm Burger milkshake.
"Mojo," said BHaz. "I'm at In-and-Out Burger."
"In-and-Out Burger!" exclaimed mojolad. "2chairleone likes In-And-Out Burger but prefers Farm Burger."
"That would explain why this In-And-Out Burger is out of business," replied BHaz.
"You shouldn't be there."
"It's caesari's fault," replied BHaz. "Totally caesari's fault. He's probably out of gas in Death Valley now."
"You were supposed to go to The Rookery," said mojo.
"The Rookery?"
"You know, 2chairleone's favorite place to eat a burger. It's in Macon, GA. The Allman Brothers used to eat there in the late '60s. Great burgers, cold beer, and Abita Root Beer. That stuff is great even if you get the kind with no liquor in it. The Rookery."
"How do I get from an abandoned In-And-Out Burger in Barstow, California to the Rookery in Macon, GA?"
"You're in Barstow, Arizona," said mojo and hung up.
"Wait a minute," said BHaz under his breath. "If there is no Barstow, Arizona...then I'm not really here. Yes, that's it! Sure, I could call mojo back and remind him that Barstow is in California, but how dumb would that be? No! I will solve this mystery." BHaz pulled his UV light from his Bat Belt and scanned the restaurant again. "Aha!" exclaimed BHaz. "There is no blood! This is probably not a crime scene. Yes, this mystery gets more and more curious."
Suddenly, caesari crashed through the door in a green two door Cadillac El Dorado. He screeched to a halt.
"Come with me if you want to live!" he bellowed again. He was wearing a raincoat and identified himself as " Sergeant Tech-Com, DN38416, assigned to protect you!"
"That's pretty funny," said BHaz.
"What year is it? WHAT YEAR?"
"2016? 1984? What year do you need it to be?"
"Get in! The T-800 model Oriole-nator is coming for you! I will protect you! Hurry!"
"Yeah," drawled BHaz. "And Barstow is in Arizona. Aren't we supposed to be in Cincinnati with some beautiful redheads?"
"Did you say Barstow is in Arizona?"
"Yes," said BHaz, "but I was being sarcas-"
"OH, NO!" bellowed caesari. "Get in the car!"
BHaz looked around. There was nobody else visible. Nothing else visible. Clearly caesari's brain was permanently and irretrievably ruined from multiple appearances in 2chair's posts.
"Get in the car, now!" yelled caesari. "Or I will tell you a joke."
"Go ahead," said BHaz defiantly. He pulled his noise cancelling headphones from his Bat Belt and started to put them on.
"Why did the spider cross the road?" yelled caesari quickly.
BHaz rolled his eyes. "Okay," he said. "Why?"
"It was stapled to a chicken!!"
BHaz placed his noise cancellation headphones onto his head and jumped into the car before caesari told any further jokes.
"We are in a time warp," yelled caesari as he backed the car out of the restaurant and drove away at top speed. "Barstow will be in Arizona at some point in the future - a future we don't want. A future we must stop! And for some reason, getting the future we want requires saving the WIS GD code. Are you with me?"
Caesari turned around and saw BHaz with his eyes closed as he happily hummed along to the Milli Vanilli song playing on his headphones.
Caesari turned around. "Uh, oh," he said softly. He stopped the car. Lord Humungus, Wez, and their entire gang The Road Warrior had just appeared from over the horizon.

"STOP!" I yelled. "Stop it right this gosh-darned moment!" Realizing I was starting to sound like a bad Sarah Palin imitation, I knew I had to press forward quickly. "First, caesari, no more jokes. I am sure you broke at least fifteen state and local ordinances with that. B, what is it with all the mixed movie metaphors? That sounds like something I would have seen on the screen while waiting for the previews to start at my local cinema. Tres, we have GOT to get some continuity here. We've already botched a perfectly good Eagles reference by going to a non-existent Barstow Arizona instead of Winslow Arizona. Caesari keeps shifting from a soccer mom to either a Kyle Reese wannabe or a rejected recurring character on the Howard Stern show. And finally - those aren't the Road Warriors. The Road Warriors are Hawk and Animal, from the WWF. I have another point to make but I can't make it, because I said "finally" on my last point!"

"That's a great Sarah Palin" said Caesari. "And you're right - that's not the villains from Mad Max 2 - that's Negan and the Saviors from The Walking Dead!!"

"Seriously?" I asked. "We're going there?"

Caesari shrugged. "Game of Thrones is in its off-season, and I was desperate for a pop-culture reference. As my grandma always said, you have to strike while the iron is hot."

"Was she a blacksmith, or just a purveyor of cliches?" I wondered aloud.

"Neither," replied Caesari. "She was a seamstress in a child-labor Nike factory in Indochina. When the irons got too hot, the workers all went on strike. The Yakuza came in and threatened everyone until they went back to work."

"The Yakuza are Japanese," I muttered. Our fact checkers were doing an awful job. I had to get a handle on this thing before it spiraled completely out of control. Before that, however. I had to get something to eat. Hanging out with 2Chair was starting to rub off on me, and not in a good way. "Look, just turn the car around and take me to that place in Macon, Georgia that 2Chair likes so much."

"He insists on being called 2Chairleone," caesari said. "Nevertheless, in the words of Shakespeare, we will 'get thee to The Rookery.'"

"It was a nunnery, not The Rookery" I sighed. "Hamlet, Act 3, Scene 1."

"What do I know?" caesari replied. "I'm just a soccer mom driving for Uber." He began humming Wagner's "Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg" as we drove into the night. It was going to be a long ride.