What Is Not for some reason.

            "Schuldig," Crawford said calmly.

            Schuldig, at the other end of the small table, looked up.  "What?" he said.

            Crawford held up his hand for patience, sipped his coffee, set it back down, looked at Schuldig.

            "Duck," he said.

            "What, right now?  Or do you wanna give me a signal when-"

            The window behind him shattered, and he instinctively threw his arms over his head, nose to the tabletop.

            Crawford caught the offending baseball and rolled his eyes.  "Don't be so dramatic, it's not a rain of bullets."

            "How the hell was I supposed to know that?"  Schuldig grumbled.  He snatched the ball from Crawford's open hand and hurled it out the now glass-free window.  Someone on the ground said 'ow'.

            "Serves you right, you little bastards!"  He shouted.

            "It's not as if the glass wasn't already cracked in a million places," said Crawford.  He was setting his watch, which already had the correct time (in twenty-three world capitals).

            "I know, 'cause of those goddamn kids!"  Schuldig suddenly shouted in the general direction of the window.

            Crawford stood with the serenity that only a megalomaniac dressed like a car salesman can possess and stared out the window, hands clasped behind him.  He cast Schuldig a sneaky glance.  "Ah," he said loudly, "there's that flying pig I foresaw."

            "Oh yeah?" snarled Schuldig, who had for no reason become angry enough to snarl, "Well I looked in your head and saw that flying pig, so I knew it was coming too!"

            Crawford laughed because he was lying about the pig.  "I laugh because I was lying about the pig!"  He grinned like a perfectly sane person.  "There is no pig!"

            "Of course there isn't," countered Schuldig, "that would be absurd!"

            "Right!"

            "Right!"

            At that time Nagi, who had been hiding under the table the whole time unbeknownst to anybody because that was what he always did during lunchtime (although, admittedly, it was not lunchtime), said: "So then you're both in agreement."

            They nodded.

            "I'm not!"  Shouted Farfarello, who was nicely locked up in his room because the author thought that he was too ugly to be in her story, but decided somebody would call her on it if she didn't give him a line.

            Just then Aya burst in to smite that all with the sharp side of a baseball bat, because the Hand of God was busy painting the Fingernails of God.

The righteous end.