Chapter the First
In Which Lottery Sauce is found in a Bank Vault
Jensy was in search of the perfect chicken dipping sauce. 72 year olds enjoyed dipping sauces, and that's a fact. They also liked furry red boots.
Jensy lived by many philosophies. One of them was that chicken-dipping sauces (like steaks) must marinate. The second was that chicken-dipping sauces often marinated in bank vaults.
One day Jensy visited a bank and declared that someone brought her to the nearest vault holding marinating chicken dipping sauces.
Frank Finklewadz worked at the bank in question. He had no tolerance for chicken dipping sauces, but the cane Jensy had looked almost lethal.
"Someone shall be with you soon, ma'am," Frank said, eyeing the cane cautiously.
"Thank you," Jensy said, chewing on a ginger snap. Jensy bit into something hard and pulled out an old padlock key that looked like it belonged to the bank.
"That the key to vault 752," Frank said after close examination with mystique.
"Can you take me there?" asked Jensy.
Frank Finklewadz (keeping a space in between the cane and him) took Jensy to vault number 752. When opened, the vault appeared to be empty, but then they noticed a single platter of chicken fingers next to a purple dipping sauce.
Leena was a young girl, no older than 14. She loved ginger snap cookies more than anything in the world (except for certain things she liked more.)
One day, Leena and her best friend, Fiddle, went to a diner. Fiddle ordered chicken fingers with varieties of dip. Leena just ordered three ginger snaps.
As Leena reached the middle of the cookie, her teeth hit something, much like the day at the bank when Jensy ate the ginger snap.
It was a note.The Answer is in the Bank Vault…
"What's that?" Fiddle asked in between bites of chicken.
"I don't know," Leena responded. Taking her mind off the mysterious note, she pointed to a purple sauce on Fiddle's plate. "What type of sauce is that?" she asked.
"Hmm…let's see." And without further ado, Fiddle dipped a fresh tender into the mysterious dark purple sauce. "Mmm…yummy!" Fiddle exclaimed, immediately double dipping. "I need more of this sauce!" He pulled a waitress aside. "Can I have more of the purple chicken dipping sauce?" Fiddle asked.
"I'm sorry, no sauce," she replied.
"You're all out?" Fiddle asked, obviously crestfallen after hearing this dipping sauce news. "When will you get more?"
"No, you misunderstand me," the waitress said. "We don't stock any purple dipping sauce here. We never have, and chances are we never will."
"Huh?" Fiddle asked, and before he could show her proof, the waitress had turned her back on him.
Jensy stared at the chicken fingers and slowly, cautiously, walked into the vault. She dipped the chicken in to the purple sauce and let it touch her tongue. Her taste buds sang. It was the most delicious thing Jensy had tasted in all her life. But, before she could swallow it, the chicken slipped from her fingers and fell.
The platter, chicken, and (most importantly) the heavenly sauce were gone, and Jensy was alone in the dark vault.
Leena went home that day and found a mysterious package on her doorstep.
The Lottery Saucers? Leena thought. Who's that?
Leena tore open the package and found one small, beige box. The cover was made of wood and was ajar. She opened it up and found a plethora of sauces, including the purple one the Fiddle ate at the Diner. A note was attached.
I noticed that your friend enjoyed this sauce at the Diner. Be careful, though. There is more to this box than what meets the eye. Don't let it fall into the wrong hands.
The Lottery Saucers
Leena looked at the box. How did they know that Fiddle loved the sauces? "Hmm...mysterious..." Leena said. "How did they know where I live?"
"Mom! I'm home!" Fiddle called. The house was silent. Fiddle walked into his living room and saw a man...a man with incredibly shiny, glossy eyes.
"Fiddle," he said in a smooth monotone. "How nice to meet you at last."
"Who...who are you?" Fiddle asked nervously.
"I'm your friend." the man said. "You don't have to be afraid, Fiddle. I'm right here. I'm here for you."
Fiddle crossed over to the other side of the room and held up an umbrella. "What are you doing in my house?" he asked.
"That's not important, Fiddle. Not important at all..." the glossy eyed man said as he crossed over to Fiddle, his face inches from his own.