“Keep dreaming, sunshine. They’re getting ready to insert you. That pal of yours know how to run the Stink Missile yet?”

“You ready?” asked Coop.

“Yeah,” Morty’s voice said. “It’s just like driving a big truck. I’ve done it a million times.”

“We’re ready.”

“Strap in, smart-ass,” said Nelson. He signaled to the flatbed, and it began to tilt upward. It took a good thirty seconds to get the bed at a high enough angle that the Stink Missile slid off the back into the canyon sewer system. There wasn’t another vehicle in the world like the Missile. It moved at a staggering two miles an hour and resembled a matte-black stealth lobster with a titanium drill at the front and little pushing feet at the back.

All with three trapped rats in the middle.

Once it settled, Morty hit the power and the Missile ground forward. He bounced off the tunnel walls a few times before he got the hang of the controls, but then they smoothed out and crept along at a steady clip.

“How are we doing, Morty?” said Coop.

“Piece of cake,” he said. “Now that we’re moving, all I need to do is watch the screens. Most of it’s running on GPS autopilot.”

“Where do we start tunneling?”

“Here,” said Morty, pointing to a sewer map. “The pipe narrows as it gets near Babylon’s place. We punch through the sewer wall and dig our way straight through to his basement. Good plan, Coop. Simple as apple pie.”

“Of course, it sounds simple,” said Phil Spectre in their heads. “All plans sound simple at first, then shit hits the fan. Or in this case, us.”

“Hey, Phil,” said Morty. “I didn’t know the ride came with in-flight entertainment.”

“Don’t get him started,” said Coop.

“I’ve got one for you,” said Phil. “Knock knock.”

“Who’s there?” said Morty.

“Stephen Hawking.”

“Stephen Hawking who?”

“Stephen Hawking who, if he was here, would be smart enough to steer us away from those DOPS cocks to somewhere safe and warm.”

Morty looked at Coop. “You’re right. He’s a riot.”

“You heard the man, Phil,” said Coop. “We’ve got a bomb on board. We can’t run very far underground in two hours.”

“Are you happy with yourself right now? Proud of your life choices?” said Phil. “You know what they call this thing we’re in?”

“Nelson said Stink Missile,” said Morty.

“That’s the nice name. It’s usually Turd in a Tube. The Brown Bullet. Mocha Express. I can go on if you like.”

“No, thanks,” said Morty.

“Ignore him,” said Coop. “He probably made up most of those himself.”

“Supersonic Suppository. The Flying Nun.”

“Okay. You definitely made up that last one,” said Morty.

“But it’s a good one. Admit it.”

“It’s all right. I might have gone with Roto-Rooter Rocket.”