Two weeks later, John, Bill and Mischa arrived back in the United States. Having swum from Antarctica, they were very tired and had all contracted rather nasty cases of hypothermia, so they were understandably looking forward to warm, comfy beds.
The first thing they did upon their arrival was to seek out a hotel. They found one relatively quickly in a nice little hamlet they spotted, though Bill did hold them up a bit, what with his insistence on talking to and singing for everyone they passed.
When they arrived at the hotel, they found that, tragically, they only had enough money to buy one room; and this one room had only two beds. You do the math. It’s pretty simple math. I mean, I could do it, if I wanted to. But I don’t.
“No, no, NO! There is absolutely no way I’m going to sleep in the same bed as Bill. I’d rather die,” protested John, not exaggerating at all.
“But Comrade, I must have a bed to myself! It is my tradition,” argued Mischa.
“Tradition? That’s the worst, most poorly thought out lie I’ve ever heard! Oh, fine, just forget it; I’ll sleep on the floor,” said John.
Bill, now jumping vigorously on the bed, said, “Are you sure John? It’s really big!”
“So is my brain, but you don’t see me sleeping in that with you,” retorted John. “Let’s just get through this night so we can fly back home tomorrow.”
“But we don’t have wings!” argued Bill.
“You’re an idiot.”
“Oh, shut up.”
Bill and Mischa woke up the following morning at 8:00 - but John was already up, because a strange, oddly familiar dream had kept him lying awake all night.
Against his best judgment, he decided that he would tell somebody at breakfast. Eating his bowl of gruel (this was a cheap hotel), John turned to Mischa.
“I had an interesting dream last night,” he said.
“Really? What happened?” asked Bill, to whom John clearly wasn’t talking.
Turning to Bill irritably, John said, “I was visited by a ghost.”
“Was it Flapjack?” asked Bill. “He comes to me all the time! Just yesterday he told me to –”
“No, Bill, not Flapjack! Flapjack isn’t real. There’s no such thing as ghosts. But yeah, this ghost I dreamt about? I think it was the real thing,” replied John. “Remember how I told you my father was the King of Denmark, but then he died mysteriously and my Uncle Claudius took over?”
“No,” said Bill.
“Yeah, well, he did. Anyway, the ghost that visited me last night was my father. He told me that Uncle Claudius is the one that killed him, and that I have to get revenge,” said John.
“Comrade, do you really think the ghost of your father actually came to you?” questioned Mischa. “I mean, you said yourself that it was a dream.”
“Indeed I did, Mischa, but if I know one thing (and I’m pretty sure I do), it’s that my dreams are always accurate. Well, there’s no evidence to support that, actually, but I’m sure it's true. Regardless, I think I should go to Denmark anyway just to check this situation out,” answered John. "If nothing else, it'll move the plot forward. You're welcome to come with me, Mischa.”
“What about me, John? Bill?”
“Is your name Mischa?”
“No, I’m Bill. Bill Williams! I’m a garbage –”
“I KNOW WHO YOU ARE! I was just feigning sardonic ignorance to emphasize the fact that you aren’t welcome to come with me,” yelled John.
“ –man,” finished Bill.
“Oh, fine, you can come too,” said John five minutes later, nobody having done or said anything since.
He stood up, dropping his spoon into the now empty gruel bowl. Mischa and Bill followed suit, both seemingly ready to follow John wherever he might go. Suddenly, Mischa had an epiphany.
“Wait, what about Josiah Malum?” he asked.
“Who?” asked John.
“Josiah Malum! Secretary of Evil! You know, the man whose plans we were trying to thwart?”
“Oh, I don’t care about him anymore. To Denmark!”