Filler Episodes and Felonies

Let the record show: I was sabotaged.

After everything I’ve been through—surviving a world without commas, dodging goats in desert weddings, hiding in a caravan with three linguistic fugitives and a deeply cynical parrot—I deserved one win.

One flight.

One dignified moment of airship boarding without getting slapped by fate.

But no. The airship left without me. Not because I was late. Not because I tripped over a koi pond and got momentarily detained by a cow with a QR code on its udder.

But because of one single entity:

Edgar Allan Poe.

Because who else could orchestrate such a perfect inconvenience, if not the one and only patron saint of tortured narrators and boss of the Global Narrator Union? He always hated freelancers. Said they were “reckless with narrative integrity” and “prone to romanticizing punctuation.”

This is exactly the kind of poetic punishment he’d serve cold.

Force me to miss the airship, so I have to go crawling back to my narrator post. No more on-the-ground investigations. No more front-row chaos. Just quiet omniscience and the occasional weather metaphor.

Well guess what, Edgar?

Not today.

I’m not giving up just because my travel plans exploded in a cloud of literary symbolism.

I’m still a journalist. A professional. A documenter of the bizarre, the beautiful, and the bowel-clenching.

Yes, I missed the airship. Yes, the story is physically ahead of me. But that won’t stop me. Because I’ve got eyes everywhere.

Headlines. Social media. Vague eyewitness sketches. One grainy photo from a Peruvian man who insists the parrot is the true leader of the group.

They left India without me. But I still found them.

So buckle up, reader.

Because even though I wasn’t there—I saw what came next.

And it was absurd.

Possibly illegal.

Definitely hot spring-related.

But more on that in a moment.

Because this story isn’t leaving me behind.

Not now.

Not ever.

Not even if Edgar himself black-feathers my entire inbox.

Let’s begin.

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From what I’ve managed to cobble together, it appears the airship didn’t exactly take them where they expected, which is exactly what I expected.

According to one grainy newspaper clipping and a particularly aggressive Tumblr post written entirely in emojis, the trio landed in Chile.

Not the United States of America, mind you.

Chile.

Probably the airship’s autopilot confused “States” with “South,” and somewhere along the way, it just… stopped asking questions. The GPS went offline. The compass got Babelized. Or at least that's the theory.

And because this is them, they just went along with it.

Now, the Chilean locals didn’t quite know what to make of three half-burned, vaguely foreign strangers stepping off a futuristic airship with a parrot yelling, “Witness me!” in three languages. So they did the logical thing:

They assumed the trio were aliens.

Not the probing kind. The ancient gods kind. You know, the ones who return during language collapse and bring vague wisdom and a sidekick bird.

And so—logically—they were welcomed as kings.

They were paraded through town. Fed suspiciously fluffy empanadas. A man named Pedro claimed Kaito resembled a legendary spirit known only as El Confuso, the Wandering Typo of the Andes. There was a brief moment of worship. The parrot got a ceremonial hat.

And, of course, they were taken to something called "the sacred hot springs".

Because nothing screams “chosen ones” like being slowly boiled in volcanic water next to confused llamas.

Everything was going well. Until it wasn’t.

Reports vary, but it seems Kaito—who had finally begun relaxing after 78 hours of nonstop stress—said something along the lines of:

“Wow. I always wanted to see the country where the Incas come from.”

Apparently, the Chileans didn't like that.

There was gasping.

Someone threw a churro in rage.

Then the screaming started.

The headline I found summed it up beautifully:

“THREE TOURISTS NEARLY DROWNED AFTER ACCIDENTALLY CREDITING INCAS TO THE WRONG COUNTRY”

Well, it was something more along the lines of "THREE TOURSITS FORCE TO BREATHE NO COLD WATER BECAUSE SAYING INCAS IN CHILLE".

But you know.

According to another source, the parrot tried to defuse the situation by squawking “GEOGRAPHY IS A SOCIAL CONSTRUCT,” but that only made it worse.

The trio was forced to flee, soaking wet and chased by a group of angry locals with snorkels and history books.

How they escaped is unclear.

Some say a sympathetic hot spring vendor smuggled them out in a barrel of bath salts. Others claim Hana got angry after her glasses fell in the hot spring and then started beating everyone like she was in an action anime where talking with the villain was no longer an option."

Either way, they made it out alive.

Which takes us to the next place they popped up:

Peru.

Land of mountains, mystery, and—apparently—culinary experimentation involving the local bird population.

The trio’s arrival here was much less theatrical. No parades. No mistaken identity as gods. No ceremonial dipping into boiling mineral water. Just a quiet crossing over the border—possibly disguised as soap salesmen, possibly just riding on the reputation of “Definitely Not Those Chile Guys.”

From what I could find (a food blog, a tourist vlog, and one very intense Reddit thread), they ended up in a small Peruvian town known for its bizarre obsession with amusement parks.

Naturally, they were invited to the local attraction: Parque de Diversión de Palabras—a linguistic-themed amusement park built before the collapse and still clinging to hope. Half the rides didn’t work. The other half communicated only in error codes. But the people were kind, and the fried dough was abundant, so the trio stayed.

They were even convinced (read: emotionally blackmailed by Sota) to enter a team tournament.

A language-themed scavenger hunt.

Three hours. Five challenges. One broken mascot costume named Gramma-Roo.

Sources say Hana went full tactical mode. Kaito mostly cried into a churro. Sota was the only one who actually tried. And the parrot was nearly disqualified for “emotional unsportsmanship.”

Somehow—they won.

Their prize?

Dinner.

And this is where it all went downhill.

At a long table under a string of flickering lights, the trio was served a celebratory feast. Potatoes. Corn. Sauces of suspicious texture. And a mystery meat stew.

They took a few bites.

The parrot, curious and unusually quiet, hopped over to sniff a piece.

Then it squawked:

“IS THAT COUSIN?!”

Everything froze.

A waiter flinched.

The parrot flapped frantically. “THIS IS BIRD."

Someone at the table confirmed the dish’s name: Paloma con Salsa de Miedo.

Translation: “Pigeon in Sauce of Fear.”

Chaos ensued.

According to reports, the bird tried to start a hunger strike. Sota accidentally triggered a ride while trying to apologize. Kaito offered to pay for emotional damages with a fanny pack of leftover Peruvian sol. Hana tried to reason with the cook but was handed a second helping instead.

In the end, they left quietly, escorted out by the park staff and a man holding what may have been a feather duster in a threatening manner.

The parrot is said to have developed PTSD. But more on that later.

And so—once again—they fled.

South. Or maybe east. The sources get fuzzy after that.

But the next confirmed sighting?

Colombia.

Home of coffee, cumbia, and chaos.

And apparently, the setting of one of the most unnecessary side quests the trio would ever stumble into.

From what I could gather through a combination of hacked traffic cams, pixelated surveillance footage, and one guy live-tweeting from a churro cart, the trio ended up in a library.

Or what used to be a library.

Now it was an arcade city.

A neon-drenched, hyper-digital monument to games, snacks, and the slow decline of adulthood. The escalators had been replaced with trampolines. Every floor played a different genre of music. And somewhere, a fog machine puffed cinnamon-scented mist every ten minutes.

They were just trying to lay low. Get some snacks. Charge their devices. Maybe give the parrot a chance to emotionally reset.

Then Kaito saw the sign.

A Tournament.

Ten minutes later, he was registered.

His opponent?

A local teen named Benny.

Wore sunglasses indoors. Spoke only in gaming lingo. Moved like a guy who had strong opinions about energy drinks.

The game?

Typing of the Undead – a horror rhythm game that involved shooting zombies by rapidly typing words like “disestablishmentarianism” and “moist.”

The crowd grew as they played. So did the tension.

And somehow—somehow—Kaito won.

He didn't just win. He obliterated Benny’s score. Shattered records. Landed combos so fast the arcade machine began sweating.

And then, he got the smart idea to rub it in his opponent's face.

The crowd went wild.

Kaito stood up, panting like he’d just saved a princess.

Then someone tapped him on the shoulder.

Big guy. Black suit. Pinkie ring.

The following is the piece of dialogue as narrated by eye witnesses.

“Excuse me,” the man said. “Mr. Benny would like a word.”

“Uh… about what?”

“You just humiliated the nephew of El Contador.”

“No,” Hana said grimly. “The Accountant.”

Cue the next scene: Kaito, blindfolded, hands tied, being dragged into the back of a stretch limo with LED cupholders.

According to bystanders, Hana and Sota tried to intervene.

They were politely told no.

So they followed the limo.

In a go-kart.

Yes. An actual go-kart.

Police reports say that they have found a suspiciously stolen go-kart outside the residence of a well-known Cartel leader in the area. That finally gave them the reason to arrest the head of the Cartel and bring an end to the terror they had caused in the area.

Upon entry, the police found an unauthorized parrot demanding diplomatic passage and three foreign nationals tied to several ‘linguistic disturbances’ across Asia that were kept hostage.

All four were released after negotiations. The parrot requested immediate transit to Brazil.

That’s right.

The parrot demanded Brazil.

The document didn’t elaborate. But I didn’t need details.

This much I could guess:

They were moving toward water. Toward the coast.

Probably to reach the U.S.

So that’s where I’m going next.

After all, I may have missed the airship, but I haven’t missed the story.

And somehow, against all logic and literary decency, these three grammar criminals were still moving.

Still trying. Still surviving.

And me?

I was getting back in the game.

Next stop: Brazil.

And this time…

I won’t be late.