> Pythia looked at the scrap of paper in her hand. It was crumpled and smudged,
> and she had found it in the cookie jar where DRI usually stored their petty
> cash. There was only one sentence, well, question on it: "Why is sweetmeat a
> kind of bread while sweetbread is made of animal innards?"
> She turned the paper over, but the other side gave no clues either. She
> shrugged. Sibyl was sure to think of a way to get a reply (and an invoice!) to
> this mysterious customer.
> Pythia got busy finding an answer to the question.

The question, of course, was: what the hell happened to all the petty
cash? There should have been at least fifty bucks and some change in
that jar, but when Pythia turned it over and shook it a couple of times,
the only things to fall onto the counter were a bus token from the Mt.
Olympus transit system, a couple of pomegranate seeds, and the severed
head of a Barbie doll.

Something was very very wrong. Pythia knew of only one
pomegranate-eating, bus-riding pervert with a Barbie doll fixation, and
he didn't belong here. Zadoc.

Pythia shuddered. She knew what could happen if the mythos' crossed.
Like "The Fly", only much much much worse, as if Jeff Goldblum were a
Neanderthal with a spiky club and yelping "Auntie Ora! Help me!" Cassie
mixed with Lisa, Sybil with the body of Thag.... she had to stop it, but

There was only one place to turn. Pythia picked up a pen.

"Oracle most wise..."