Michael Bluth was running the Bluth Company alone. Which is mostly what he'd done for years. Except he'd been running it with his girlfriend and CFO, Maeby. The girlfriend who was pregnant with his child, and now officially AWOL. As you might recall, Michael Bluth was always the doting father.

Michael had approached the back step, finding George Michael sitting dutifully with a bag in one hand and a fishing rod in the other, his eyes unable to lie.

"It's not happening, is it?"

Michael had grimaced. "Something came up."

Michael had stood in front of George Michael who was dressed in the suit Michael gave him for his birthday. "Enough business. In fact I got you another present, it's something I saw yesterday when I was out with Rita, it's time for us to start having some fun."

"I don't know, fun and failure both start out the same way."

In the staircar, Michael had sped rapidly toward the Mexico border, having left the girlfriend of his son in Mexico, George Michael beside him in a subdued panic. "She's going to be fine. We've just got to beat the sun. Hey, you think I'm happy about this? But, hey, we are getting that trip together we wanted, though, huh? And look, two exits to Legoland."

So being separated from her was beginning to take its toll.

Michael stumbled into work, his tie slightly loose around his neck, his hair ruffled.

"Mr Bluth." A sharp voice intonated from the conference room.

"Yep…ah…"

And a financial toll. So much so, Michael Bluth called in his lawyer, Bob Loblaw, to advise on whether missing an executive would cause consternation for the company.

"Nice you could make it. But I'm on the clock, so whether it's ten to nine, or ten to twelve, it's not my concern."

Michael glanced at the clock on the wall. "Wow, daylight savings."

"You're all blind…" Bob mumbled under his breath. "What can I do for you, Mr Bluth?"

Michael closed the conference room door. "I just had to ask, if an executive from this company just…disappears, does that open our liability? Limit it? Change it?"

"Well, say if a CFO just up and went, for no reason I could ascertain given the circumstances, I would say no. The constitution of your company isn't clear on who controls the finances, and your titles seem to be made up."

A Fat Computroller is apparently equal to a CEO in blind justice. Or a President. Or a Top Banana.

Bob continued. "It won't invalidate your loan agreements, for example."

"Then, who is head of the company?"

"Technically speaking there is no head of the company, because there is a clause in your constitution stating that the founder is the head for life. But since he is no longer a stockholder,"

As Michael had taken stock of his parents meddling,

"Either there is nobody, or there are two of you."

So Maeby was the boss of Michael in more ways than he knew.

"If Maeby was a stockholder."

"She is." Bob popped open his roller trolley on the ground, pulling out a wad of paper. "Is this not your signature on her employee agreement, stating she is part paid in stock?"

Michael sat back. "Yes, it seems to be."

"Then, yes. Your company cannot commit to any further agreements without both your signatures."

"Wait, doesn't that mean anything we had signed after removing the founder as a stockholder is now under question? Because it doesn't contain both our signatures."

"No, because as you've just reminded me, there's an absconsion clause in there too, if the head of the company disappears, no company agreements are valid unless they sign it."

Otherwise known as the George Senior goes to Mexico clause.

In the dark Mexican hotel room, Kitty had sat down at the yellow table, salting her boiled egg, the tense George Senior sitting behind her on the large bed staring ahead.

"Eggs. It must be my unconscious desire to have a baby. Oh, my God, can you even imagine how cute the combination of the two of us would be? I mean, we're all out of prophylacticos anyway. Somebody used the last two on his feet to walk across the bathroom floor."

"I've made a huge mistake." George Senior had muttered to himself.

Taking stock of anything to do with Kitty Sanchez would be a huge mistake.

Back in the conference room, Michael mused, "How is a clause that prevents a company from acting because the head as voluntarily left it legally enforceable?"

"We could test it, but given you've run through three hours of your retainer this morning..."

"Right."

"And your sister wasn't a professional nanny, and provided substandard services. So her hours didn't make much retainer."

She was more interested in the father than the child.

In Bob's office, Lindsay had thrown her arms down in exasperation. "Why won't you f[beep] me?!"

Sitting behind his desk, he had remained unmoved. "Look, I'm not blind. You're an attractive woman, and you've been dressing like a common whore."

"Well, I've been trying."

So Michael was in a bit of a hole. A financial one, a legal one, and an emotional one. And still had other holes to deal with.

Surrounded by the muddy pits and lorries of the stalled Bluthton building site, Michael heard his name being called out by a British voice.

"Michael! Michael!"

He turned, seeing his ex, Rita, running toward him away from a group of food lorries. "Oh hey, Rita, how are you?"

"Brilliant, how is my Michael?

"He's ah, holding up. How are you? Running a huge company, I see?"

"Yes, we're so close to the big fin-al-ee."

"What's happening then?"

"You know silly, Lindsay will be here with representatives from all the Native American nations to de-concrete-consin-consecit…the land."

"Do you mean consecrate?"

"Yes, that's what she said."

"And what else did she say?"

"They'll be lots of journalists."

"Sounds like whole lot of fun!"

But Michael really meant, sounds like quite a beat-up.

"She said everyone will know about Bluthon and the holes in the ground!"

"Listen, maybe, just maybe, we could pull the ceremony forward? You know, just a few days or so, I'm just thinking perhaps you need to get your people back to Big Britain, it would tie up so many loose ends on our end too. I'll tell Lindsay?"

"I'll ask Lindsay!" she whipped out her phone.

"No wait, why don't I do that, and you ask your crew, Mrs Fat Computroller." He winked.

"Yes, good idea Michael, you always know what to suggest!" She swiped her iPad. "Hrm, what was the name of the foreman on the site?" She wandered off.

"No, wait for me!"

A strange voice lilted "Mr F".

From behind him, Michael heard another familiar British voice.

"'ello there."

"Hi, Trevor, how's it going?" Michael shook his hand.

"Same old. You look terrible."

"Sorry?"

"Been following that whole saga on the television, where's she at the moment? Shouldn't she be looking after you?"

"What, Rita?"

"No, no," he leaned in, "you know who, it's been written all over her and your face. Surprised she's not up the duff yet."

Michael recoiled.

"Oh, now you've really done it." Trevor patted him on the back. "Good job governor, wish the situation were all Greek to me."

Michael took to his phone, seeking justification, then he looked up. "We're not technically rel…."

But Trevor was gone.

A strange voice echoing "Mr F" emanated from nowhere in particular.

As was any chance of Michael bringing forward the closure of the circus on site.

Rita returned triumphantly. "She said the computer said no."

Michael's face fell.

And Michael was about to see the cogent working relationship in all its glory.

"But isn't this just working so well?"

Michael inspected the scene of devastation around him, pits, mud, lorries, and holes near foundations. "Yeah, so well. But um, were we finishing up filming today?

"Lindsay said we could slow down, because she was booked up for a week. And it's not like you can do building until she's here!"

"No, no we can't."

Being away from his partner and her pregnancy gave Michael more time to muse over the minor details, including why his sister might have minimal time for Michael's business. Michael followed the mogul back to the sweeping moors of the estate, the harsh cloudy light falling on the wandering dirt, the hollow whisper of the breeze, set amongst the smatterings of kilts.

"Close to wrapping up, are they?" Michael remarked, strolling past the empty pits with dirty Brits, with Rita by his side.

"Oh yes, their wee goals are very close now!"

They stopped the director. "Take three hundred and twenty, and, action!"

Michael gestured to Rita to one side, "Wait, isn't this like a reality show?"

"They need bits for ads, Michael." Rita blinked at him.

"What is the rest of what they've been filming for three weeks?"

"Promos."

"What's the difference between an "ad" and a "promo"?"

"Oh, you know silly." She rubbed his shoulder.

And Michael knew they were no possibility of the end of works on his land that day, nor any day with small apprehension. So as Bluth, unbuoyed by the behaviours of his supped beloved, would return to the scene of blackened Bluth acrimony.

In the living room, GOB, George Senior, Lucille, Lindsay, and Buster peered into the big box on the floor of the penthouse.

"It may not fit with the theme." GOB pondered. "I have a vision, a high-class vision."

GOB was thinking of high-class, of another kind.

"It's not the budget, GOB, it's where you're gonna do it." Lindsay grizzled.

"I can't help it if I have star power. Pizzazz." GOB flipped his hands around. "People need to see the real GOB Bluth, it's how I'm gonna get my fame back."

Or gonna-something back.

"I'm not sure we have a high-class budget." Michael sighed. "Excuse me." He answered his phone. "Rita, hey. Ah, no. No, I can't. I'm just with GOB looking at a new trick. He's doing a show in a week."

"A show?" the voice replied.

"Yes, you know, magic."

"Is that Rita?" Lindsay grinned, a flash of the young Lindsay flaring, "Put her on loud speaker! Come on, Michael!" She went for his phone, wrestling it from him. Michael wound up the loser in this exchange, on the floor. "Rita!" She exclaimed. "It's Lindsay, we're all here!"

"Lindsay!" Rita replied joyfully. "Is that Mom and Dad and Buster?"

"Yes, we're all here." Lindsay spoke over as their mouths positioned to replied. "How is the TV business going?"

"Brilliant! Michael, I just had an idea."

Which was never a good thing.

In the foyer of the old model home, Rita and Lindsay, having returned from shopping, had discussed their haul with Michael in the model home hallway.

"You guys have these jackets on inside out?" Michael had asked.

"Yeah, that way you see the label." Rita had smiled.

"Yeah, I mean, that's what you're paying for, right? It's a great statement on fashion." Lindsay had added, flashing her label.

In her shared bedroom, Maeby had been hunched over the script in her lap on her bed, Rita standing next to her. "It doesn't have an ending. He's in L.A., she's in Japan. How do I get these two characters together?"

Rita sat next to her. "Maybe they could walk."

"Across the ocean?"

"If it's not too deep."

Over the phone to the crowd in the penthouse, Rita exclaimed, "BigBBC runs this big show every year making money for sick kids where everyone wears funny red noses. And we don't have a bit for the Americans yet. You could do magic!"

"I'll be on TV?" GOB grinned.

"He'll be on TV?" Lindsay's eyes bulged.

"For every American who has WeeBBC and BigBBC, yes!"

"Oh," they said in unison, Lindsay more enthusiastic, GOB deflated.

"We should have the whole family involved!" Rita exclaimed, "Michael can do an introduction."

The heap that was Michael Bluth lifted himself from the single chair, "Oh, that's not necessary…"

"All wearing red noses! It'll be brilliant!"

Lindsay swiped her phone,

And George senior wrapped his arms around his two sons. "Yes, yes it will be!"

But melancholy Michael mused the unmentionable, utterly mournful, whether his Maeby had made her bed with his son, George Michael. And so he moseyed to his son, an unscheduled visit making George Michael addressing him mandatory.

Michael opened the office door. "My son! May this Monday be meeting you with merriment?"

George Michael spun around in his chair. "What?"

"Sorry…What's going on?"

"Nothing. Why are you here?"

It was a very good question. Michael had avoided his son for months, and had now appeared being nothing but friendly.

"Just catching up with my favourite son."

"Well I'd hate to be your least favourite son then."

"Yeah…what have you been up to, lately?"

"Nothing."

The conversation was moving in ways Michael had not envisaged, which was interesting given Michael knew how much his son thought of him at that moment.

"Okay, well, I've been just working, working on getting the excavation work done so we can continue construction."

"Right."

"Yeah, so you're living with Rebel?"

"Yes."

"Still living with her?"

"Are you living with anyone?"

Michael considered his response, then continued, "Yes, yes I am."

George Michael gazed out the window, then headed to his desk. "I have a lot of work to get though."

"Okay, well, I'm sure I'll see you soon buddy!"

"Sure." George Michael muttered.

But Michael couldn't let go of where his other half might be, and kept looking for her, trying to pry his wiles on the bank.

In the slightly dumpy and dated bank, at the bank teller window, Michael tried to smile through his nerves.

"Hi, look, I don't know if you can help an American?"

The vaguely interested woman stood in front of the Greek Bank sign, behind the glass panel, and smiled back. "I'll do my best, sir."

"Greek bank? I didn't know they still existed?"

Maeby had chosen her bank on the fact that nobody would have thought they would exist,

"As if someone will try to use a keycard from a Greek Bank! You know what I'm saying?" She had laughed to herself, the teller appearing less amused.

Which had turned out to be true.

Maeby had stood in the shady Hollywood street, her hands in the air, as the dirty bum pointing a gun flipped through her purse with one hand. "Oh what, only thing in here is a Greek Bank card! Even I do better than you."

Making it one of the safest investments Maeby had ever made.

"We do okay." The teller shrugged, indignantly.

"My partner thinks her card is being used fraudulently, but we think it's a relative."

This would not be surprising for a Bluth.

A younger Lindsay had leaned back into the single seater couch on the old Model home. "And the caviar mask, and the Diamond earrings…yes, Dimondelle is the same, right? That much to ship? Wow, maybe you guys should sell houses at that price! Yeah, my name is May-ch-eel Bluth, spelled M-I-C-H…"

Later, GOB had kicked the Ottoman, the card revealing itself. "Ahh…" he picked up the phone, dialling. "Hello, I'd like to order the thirty-disk megaset. Overnight shipping."

At the bank, Michael leaned down onto his folded arms at the teller window. "I just need to know where the card was last used, I don't know if you can do a printout…."

"Well, she can come in herself, Sir, and we can see what records we can access here."

"That's the thing, she's asked me to be here."

"Okay. Well, is it a joint account?"

"No."

"How long have you been in a relationship?"

"Six months?"

"Not married?"

"Uh, no."

"Okay, well, you would need to be family, like a mother or father…"

"I'm her uncle."

The woman flinched, "You're her uncle, or her partner?"

Michael froze, "uhh…her uncle."

"Okay, well if she can't be back in town, maybe you can ask Mae's parents to come in?"

While telling Tobias might mean only the family would become aware of it, telling Lindsay would turn it into a news story and probably a missing persons.

"Would they need to be customers here too?"

"No, they would just need 50 points of ID. Sorry, what was your name?"

"Uh, Chareth. Chareth Cutestory."

Michael briefly considered shaving his head and donning a moustache, but decided that the bank knew enough about the uncle-boyfriend already, and would have a hard time explaining his connection to her, having given a fake name, one that was already in circulation with the law. It was one he'd used with Prosecutor Maggie Lizer in order to have a one-night stand.

In the dead of night, Michael had carried Maggie out of the sportsbar over his shoulder.

Needless to say, being somewhat misleading was one thing Michael wasn't particularly capable of,

Maggie had a coffee pot in her hand. "I thought you were, like, just into this one-night stand kind of thing."

Sitting in bed, he'd replied, "Come on. I took a blind woman home with no intention of dating her again. Please!"

A fact he already knew but had gotten caught up, yet again, competing with his brother.

In the wooden sports bar, Michael had told GOB "I'm not a one-night stand kind of guy. I don't like lying to women."

And conveniently, ended up dating the lawyer prosecuting his father. It wasn't going to look good if the District Attorney's office got the case of him fabricating his identity.

Michael walked out of the bank, into the mall, gazing back. "What was I thinking?"

He wasn't. But he was comforted that she wouldn't find out. Which she wouldn't, until she checked her email and found a log of the conversation from the bank. Away from the bank, away from Balboa bay, but caught hopelessly in the breeze, dolefully and directly drawn back upon the whispering wind.

Michael watched the multi-coloured butterfly, caught in the updraft, buffeted by passers-by, pulled left and right by the breeze.

The creature, long restrained in its desertous, dry coffin-like cocoon, had broken free, dancing with and against the currents that pulled it.

"Michael…Michael…"

Michael heard the voice echo all around him in the open-air mall, the other shop facades providing no clue as to where the voice was coming from. He shrugged and kept walking.

"Michael…where are you going?"

He once again, turned, scanning around the perimeter. Finding nothing, he kept on his way.

"Michael…You can speak…I can hear you."

He kept looking around, then shouted, "Hello? I can hear you too? Where are you, wait for me?"

But Michael heard nothing, and kept on his way. He returned to the apartment, finding it strangely empty- strangely as usually it was occupied with several gatecrashers, and empty as she wasn't there. He found himself moping, eyes mopping the corners of the room, until they spilled upon something of hers, a trickle of hope.

Michael noticed her iPad on her dresser, and went to wake it. Finding it flat, he plugged it in, until it booted.

But as she had left, the device would remain in mystery.

Michael found it asking for a code. He tried her birthday, his birthday, and the car's numberplate, and had soon been locked out for one minute. And soon, many minutes.

Michael put down the iPad. "What was I thinking?"

He wasn't. But he was comforted that she wouldn't find out. Which she wouldn't, until she checked her email and found an alert from Apple about unusual activity. But by 2AM, Michael retired to his bed, a listless tossing and turning of a night.

Michael lifted his head, the sound of the radio's beeps gnawing at his headache,

And he awoke to bashing the solitary clock radio on the sidetable. Scraping his heavy body from the mattress, body feeling like two tonnes, he swayed before the bedroom mirror. His eyes as red as a shepherd's warning, three bags full under each eye. Inside, the bleating pit of despair growing day by day, each morning harder to prepare for another day of not knowing, not seeing, but ever more feeling. His head rolled and churned, haunted.

From his phone, Living Waters by Phillip Glass filled the room with sorrow.

"Michael!" GOB shouted. "Where is my outfit?"

"Disappeared but for a moment, the costume is probably lost for all eternity, gone into a cold, lonely vortex, a parallel universe, of a distant galaxy divorced from this world." He mused.

"What?"

"I don't know." Michael shouted back. "Wait for me."

Michael ambled out into the amphitheatre to face the day.

Michael wandered through the circus that was his apartment, the bench strewn with jars of paints, unlabelled bottles of solutions, and tools. He took a mislaid sponge, trying to wipe some of the spilled paint before it stuck. And then, he found Tobias, dressed as a 50s cartoon chef, complete with toque, standing at the counter at a chopping board.

"In pants today?"

Michael wasn't game enough to ask any further.

"Yes, while I've enjoyed wearing a skirt with the air and freedom it has given my loins, I enjoy the protection of pants, and that it makes it less likely that a hot mishap might occur." He replied, in the penguin gear. "By the way, do you have any mints?"

"And you're cooking?" Michael watched with great scepticism.

Tobias continued to grate the root vegetable. "I'm making soup!"

"Don't you need water for soup?"

"Well…" Tobias considered Michael's reality, and chose to substitute his own. "Look what I got free at the checkout! It's a "Chef's Pal"- dicer-grater-peeler all in one, never need sharpening, dishwasher safe!"

"Wow, that's amazing."

"Michael, you missed a spot." Tobias pointed, drips of paint streaking down the jar.

Michael sighed, wiping up the mess, and placing the leaking jar in the sink. He turned the corner, seeing a crumpled mess of feathers behind the sofa.

"GOB, here's your…"

Michael hadn't set eyes on just what his brother was planning, and his eyes became alight.

Michael found the TV pushed back, the coffee table upended against the wall, and the middle of the floor four pylons almost reaching the roof spouting flames.

GOB threw his arms in the air. "With the power of Hephaestus, I command you!" He insisted, a puff of smoke, and a scrawny, weathered blond woman appeared on the opposite side of the trick. "Aw, come on!"

And it wouldn't be long until the building's eyes would be set alight too, and on would come the sprinklers.

Water gushed from the roof, the mighty flames of Hephaestus were extinguished.

A dampened Michael held out the soggy cloth in his hand. "I found your costume, GOB."

"Thanks, Mickey." GOB grinned, the water streaming down his cheeks.

"And what do you call this that's gonna have the fire wardens here in about five minutes?"

"This is Sparta. I mean, show business. Come on!"

The trick had a name, but Michael felt more invested in the waterlogged carpet than GOB's investment in his trick. GOB was farmed out to the muddy paddocks of Bluthton to practice.

On the side of the dusty hill slightly beyond the foundations of Bluthton, GOB's blazing trick with paint that had slightly run was set up, the pylons of fire semi-lit.

"With the power of Hephaestus, I command you!" He threw up his hands, a poof of smoke.

"I command you to bring me another tray of Yorkshire pudding!" shouted one of the crew from down the hill.

The scrawny, weathered woman again appeared in the wrong spot.

"I'm doing better than you losers, I'll be on BigBBC!"

The irony was lost on GOB. Thankfully, none of them would need to have much to do with one another, as Red Nose Day would appear before they all knew it.

Steve Holt in a Red Nose dashed towards the stage, grabbling the arms of GOB. "Dad, is everything set up?"

"Yes, but, I don't trust those control room people," he shook his head, "Out to stop the greatest return to magic in the OC since…well…A clown I guess. Here, press play when I tell you to." He handed Steve a boom box.

"Dad, thank you for including me, magic is so awesome, and it's great to be spending time together again!"

GOB plastered on a fake smile. "Yeah, sure, buddy." He headed over to his brother, along the way muttering, "This kid…so clingy…no wonder I ignore him." He patting Michael on the shoulder. "You ready?"

"Yep, yep." Michael sighed.

GOB disappeared out the back door, as Michael stood against the back wall, ruminating.

The room was bubbled with hubbub, the people moving and jockeying like mice with cheese. But for Michael, all he could see was the half empty glasses filled with what seemed Living Waters, dirty plates, the crumpled, abandoned napkins, and the broken petal off a centrepiece. He despaired for that petal, and pondered about how it could have come to pass. A lone suited woman shifted off the stage, drifting behind the elements. He wondered if any of the vermin in the room had done it. Gazing at his phone, he observed the time, and knew it was time for his closeup. He wondered to himself why he tried so hard but always lacked, for his days were grey and his nights were black.

Stepping in front of the crowd, the group continued in their nattering. Slowly, a few noticed him in front of them, their faces vacant, Michael feeling them talking without speaking, hearing without listening, the well his emotions had sunk into clutching its long boney fingers on him, drawing him in further to the well enveloping him, pressing him down between its hard, sweaty palms.

The railed cameras rolled forward, and a voice from the side shouted out with a thick London accent. "In five, four, three, two…"

In his red nose, Michael inhaled, as the jolly crowd went quiet. "Thank you. Ladies and Gentlemen, it is a pleasure tonight, to present a man who needs no invite," Michaels dark eyes retreated further back into his head, as pushing out every deadpan syllable was an additional effort, "a man of such skill and prowess, something which history has never addressed, for from all his feats his outcomes were jolly," The large screen behind him showed a sequence of pictures of the yacht 'Lucille' sinking through the smoke, and "to be near him when a punchline comes is never a folly," which changed to a picture of Tracey in a meringue of a wedding dress, the back of the skirt on fire, "Who brings joy and tenderness to all our hearts," a later photo from the wedding – Michael and the rest of the Bluths glaring at GOB, "who has reduced whimsy and mystical joy to its true art." A photo of a cheerful GOB with fire spurting from his sleeves opposite kids looking terrified as a bunny runs the opposite way, on fire.

A tarp of water which had been suspended from the ceiling gave way, dumping a torrent on the sullen Michael, and knocking into a horn which made a low bellow.

A gobsmacked GOB hissed at George Senior, "What the hell is that? That's not the slides?"

George Senior waved GOB away and grabbed the Microphone, addressing the mystified crowd. "Thank you, he's always such a card. And now, I give you the lovely assistants," out walked the strippers in the Greek outfits, "and cad, I mean, card, GOB Bluth!"

From the speakers bellowed 'Solid as a rock', with GOB shaking his hand, Steve Holt changing to 'The Final Countdown'

"Thank you, dad. The art of illusions, of magic, is so mystical, it goes back to the Gods of Greece."

The two women rolled forward the trick, a four-poster frame with mirrors hidden inside it for people to leap into to 'disappear', a stimulated amphitheatre curving around in the middle with a hollow rounded stone podium in the middle, none of it real stone, which was all over the puddle of water that had been left by Michael's drenching.

"A heat so raw, so powerful," he directed his hands in all sorts of angles, trying to trigger the fire in his wrists, sending fuel into the crowd. "It sets things aflame!" he waved his hands towards the four posts that rose out of the set, which remained extinguished. "Or really, really, aflame." He waved his hands again. "Really, so very much…" And they lit after a mighty flash from the fuel he kept flicking on them. He grinned, trying to cover it up.

Two or three people clapped from the crowd.

GOB waved his arms, breaking up the routine with patter, "With such power, comes such responsibility, to make the maidens, appear." He gestured towards the blond stripper, a puff of smoke appearing. "With the power of Hephaestus, I command you!"

She disappeared, and the brunette appeared behind him.

"Ah, but channelling the blacksmiths' power has been too strong." GOB waved his arms, as he jumped back, "Begone, by the power of Hephaestus!"

But she wasn't.

The woman stood behind him, both in the cloud of fog.

He leaned backwards, uttering. "You were meant to get into the back section." He flung his arms up, "And now, by Hephaestus, begone!"

And flames shot from the podium, a ring of fire like a gas burner.

"The heat, the heat, so hot." GOB kept improvising, his arms waving. Which then stopped. "Yes, down, fire! Down!"

Again, two people clapped.

He skipped around the set, waving his arms, and he clapped his hands. More smoke, and the two women appeared on the podium.

"Ohh ha, the heat, of Hephaestus!" He waved his arms around. "With the raw power of the Gods, I call for fire!"

Which did not answer.

"Fire!" He shouted, waving his arms around.

The flames flickered, then vanished.

"And there, we have the power, of Hephaestus." He waved his arms once more, his wrist fires coming alight briefly, turning to the crowd.

A further round of broken clapping ensured.

Back in the bright but slightly space-age studio far, far away, the pair turned to camera on the TV.

"And that was Michael and 'gob' Bluth, performing, 'The Heat of Hephaestus'." Peter Capaldi flicked his pen at the pad on the desk. "Very King Leah."

"What a brilliant pair of American clowns." smouldered Fiona Bruce.

"And I believe their sister is a Congresswoman?"

"Is that right? She will be very pleased with that performance."

"Oh she will, as a wise man once said, "If some cully can fire something up, that cully will pick the worst possible time to firing fire it up cause that cully's a cully.""

Fiona nodded. "Very sage advice there."

"And next, Rick Hashton …"

In the side room, George Senior and Lucille watched the TV coverage in horror.

"What did I just hear?" George wondered aloud.

It's true what they say, there are more p[beep] in England.

Lindsay shook her head in disbelief, as a woman with brown hair clipped back brushed passed her, Lindsay slipping her hand into her back and zipped her bag shut. "I am truly shocked."

The wet Michael "GOB!" Michael shouted. "The water."

"Fire, warden, mm." GOB tried hard not to laugh.

The drenched Michael wandered over to GOB. "Why, GOB, why?"

"Hey, that was going to be a foam, you got off pretty lucky." GOB pointed his finger like a gun. "I mean Michael, This is Sparta. I mean, show business."

"Speaking of show business, where is Maeby?" Lindsay questioned.

The group of George Senior, Buster, Lucille, and GOB all looked at him.

"She's not well today." He coughed.

Lindsay raised a brow and skulled her Champaign.

The deflated Michael shook his head and slipped away from the group, back to the control room. He stopped a passing waiter. "Did you see anyone in there?"

"A brunette woman with a clip in her hair, she was in a suit."

Michael gazed out into the crowd, seeing a woman like that talking to Lindsay. "How about that, huh?"

The huge crowd reminded Michael about how alone he was, and as the mixed fortunes of the night conclude, he wandered out into the bleak darkness, the dark clouds whipping through the sky like a bitter buckaroo, thunder the flailing thrashes of a sinking phoenix, lightening the embittered strikes of an angry god, the end of the chapter of GOB's magical debut to Big Brittan. As would be the end of one other chapter, as Michael saw most of the lights go off, in Bluthon- the chairs fold down, the tables collapse and carried back into the van. The slow finish to a long process, like the end of a long day. Having signed his life away, his eyes cast over the horizon, pondering that which overtook such a calamity that saw this catastrophe of cinematography.

Michael signed the contract attached to the clipboard, handing back the pen, the sprawl of dozens of muddy pits of promises.

He returned to the site of his life, their life over many years.

Michael entered the shabby, tattered model home in the nearby Sudden Valley.

But it would be what was broken that would bring back to him joy.

Michael noticed the remains of the shattered jade plate on the bench, and pawing over it, he looked up at the corner shelf, and something came back.

It had been a long day in Mexico, as Michael had taken George Michael, Maeby, and Bland down there to look for George Senior. George Senior's absence hadn't changed. But something else on the ride had.

Maeby had shrugged in the passenger side of the stair car, "I mean why does everyone have to date anybody?"

Michael nodded furiously in agreement, "Right, I mean isn't family enough for people? And you know, not to feel sorry for myself, but it's like I'm being forgotten here."

But time had not forgotten Michael, and from that single conversation, Michael had seen in Maeby what he knew was lacking.

Michael had told George Michael near where the shelves now stood, "That cousin of yours is one hell of a girl. Too bad you can't date her."

George Michael's eyes had widened in anticipation.

But not for his son.

"I'm not a bad guy after all." Michael mused.

She was fifteen at the time, but, for a lifelong puritan, the narrowing of his development of her appreciation left him with some comfort. Michael was going to need it, as he was due with his sister in Bluthton to de-consecrate the lot in fifteen minutes.

"F[beep]."

And Buster finally took to one part of the spread.

"Oh, you know, I've never tried tea."

"It's a staple." Insisted the production assistant in a strong northern accent, grabbing one herself joining in on the party, "How could you not have?"

"Oh, it's always a bit more at the store than a basic coffee. Oh, and mom won't ever let it in the house, says its far too English and we paid them enough tax two hundred years ago. So, where are you going next?"

"Boston."

Standing back among the mess, but slightly away from the waiting media, Michael watched his eager sister approach.

"Michael." Lindsay grinned from ear to ear. "No Maeby, I see."

"No, she's unwell." Michael sighed. "You do recall she is your daughter?"

"My little girl? How could I forget." Lindsay brushed off, noticing the WeeBBC rapidly approaching them. "Why don't you come by my office later today?"

"Sure." Michael shrugged. "Hi, I'm Michael." He shook hands with the tightly wound BigBBC exec.

So after many weeks of toiling in the dirt, Lindsay got her photo-op,

Lindsay smiled for the camera, trowel in hand, muddy pits spreading into the distance.

And Michael got his land.

The army of media trucks set about joining the thin, unsealed road.

And Michael returned to his other land, finding it still occupied.

Michael found Tobias at the kitchen bench again, still dressed as a 50s cartoon chef.

"What's cooking?"

"Micheal, I don't mean to have prematurely shot my wad yesterday, but I think when this soup is done, it will be a home run."

The same soup as yesterday.

"Far be it from me to criticise new activities other than, say, getting a job, but, why do you want to cook? You can't stand cooking?" Michael questioned.

"That's not true!" Tobias exclaimed and turned, grabbing a box of chocolate drink mix. "Why don't you let me fix you some of this Mococo drink? All natural cocoa beans from the upper slopes of Mount Nicaragua, no artificial sweeteners!"

Michael gazed around the room, the long week getting to him. "What the hell are you talking about?! Who are you talking to?!"

"I've tasted other cocoas, this is the best!"

Michael flailed like a fish on land. "What does this have to do with anything?" And left the apartment, at a loose end.

Tobias, as per usual was not talking to anyone, but was attempting to broaden his repertoire. As he'd become addicted to TV cooking shows, and thought,

Tobias had watched Rick Hashton toss barely chopped garlic and herbs into a pot. "You just whack it in there, bob's ye uncle."

Tobias stood over the shoulder of GOB, stirring the tiny pot of cold water, who ignored him. "And I thought, if a scruffy headed Brit can get us yanks to put bangers in our mouth, then me wearing only a big hat will certainly have a big gross audience!"

The daily grind barely grazing him, GOB sought to settle before the idiot box, watching whatever was put on for free, using the free or not-so-free mobile internet, which he did every day.

GOB walked past Tobias, and then in and out of Michael's bedroom, holding Maeby's iPad, and lazily settled in the sofa. He taps the first few numbers for the pin, then gazed up.

Or he would have, had he been watching the code he was entering, which had he looked, he would have known was slightly wrong.

"Oh yeah, how much those Tony Wonder boots were." He muttered to himself.

The iPad, having had the wrong code entered into it a number of times, shook the numbers, then the screen started to fade, GOB glancing down just in time to catch a glimpse of it fading to black.

And so everything must come to an end.

GOB held the iPad by both hands, as he rolled forward into it in frustration.

Although another thing wouldn't be, not for the foreseeable future.

Gazing down from the steering wheel, Michael's phone rang, and a familiar name flashed up.

"Hi, Goran, long time no hear?" Michael answered.

"I hadn't thought you'd be putting yourself on television."

"I don't shy away from the media, you know that."

"You'll want to answer my questions then."

"What would they be?"

"Why were you heard telling a bank teller that you had a niece and were in a relationship with her, while giving the teller a false name?"

Michael had several ways he could have gone in answering the question, none of which had obviously better outcomes than the other. All involved a level of being misleading or worse to the listener, and keeping that up was challenging at the best of times. The problem was the person who would have advised him which way to go wasn't around. So he had to take a crapshoot.

"Look, this is highly embarrassing, and I really wished I didn't have to talk about this."

"What is?"

"I think I left my card in a hotel somewhere, and, as it is a company card, it had several names on it, so I think I'd need authorisation from both myself and my CFO to cancel it, and I was just trying to get it done…quickly."

"Why didn't you take her along? You told the teller she is out of town?"

"She's taken a few days on break."

"Why?"

"She has, you know like how doctors write 'illness' on their notes."

"So she's sick."

Michael was successfully burying himself in ways his sister and father had never managed, and was feeling the deep pain of not only missing Maeby, but desperately needing her right then and there.

"Oh, um," He held his hand over the phone and shouted around him, "Yeah oh absolutely, mm, yes." And took his hand off the receiver, "Look, I gotta go…."

"You sound like you're driving."

"Yes, yes we can do that. Gotta go."

"Wh…."

And Michael kept digging, hanging up on a hungry journalist. It was not the best of days. Michael found himself with a night that had not yet ended, and with something from something he thought had.

Michael gazed into Maeby's office listlessly, then spotted, folded, in the middle of her desk, a note, atop of a phone message from a 'Ms Sanchez'. He unfolded the note, hearing a familiar voice read it to him in his head.

'Maeby, I hope this reaches you, because I can't do anything anymore but write everything out, and hope you come back to me.

Do you understand how it felt? Can you understand how it felt? Your touch, your taste, your scent…your hot breath, your soft pure skin, and your lips that tasted of honey. When you called out from me going down on you. The moment I had your naked body with me in bed.

But Maeby, I go to bed and close my eyes and see those moments of drunk making out on your 16th birthday, you laying there beneath me, your eyes smiling as you edged closer as I touched you. Because perhaps we weren't as intimate then, I knew you were closer to me, and we were closer to us.

Do you know the happiest moment of my life? It was the night of the Gala for G.V.H., when your dad's hair plugs were killing him and your mom thought she could make money off it. I remember you said to me, you had nothing to worry about with me. I just need one chance to make us work. I can make you the happiest you've ever been.

I don't know how much longer I can keep lying to myself, Maeby. I know you pleaded with me to stay with Rebel. I know I proposed to her. But I need you. That day we made love, and you told me you love Michael, I can taste in my mouth. I guess there was for me a silver lining the cloud. Oh and I, I wish that I could work this out.

Please, call me. Please. I beg you. I know you haven't been answering lately, I just need to hear your voice. Xxx, George Michael.'

Michael was wracked with guilt, his son pining for the woman he loved.

Michael pulled out his phone, clicking on her contact, her smiling face filling the screen. He held his thumb over the 'call' button for ages, then locked it.

The woman that had run away because of him. It didn't help, however, that Michael had never heard about Maeby, George Michael's Runaway Bride.

In the drab activity room of the hospital, the large group of geriatric patients had watched George Michael in his black-tie suit and Maeby in a wedding dress engage in a 'marriage' ceremony with a faux-official.

Maeby's head darted around in a panic. "I can't do this. I can't do this."

George Michael had started, "But, we aren't..."

"What am I doing?! We're not... We're not..." She lifted her skirt, revealing white running shoes, and had made a dash for the exit.

But from family member to family member, office to office, Michael sought out his less than subtle sister for the requested meeting at her office.

Michael waved backwards as he walked into Lindsay's office. "Thanks."

Lindsay spoke quickly over the phone, "And twenty in D. N. Quarry, yep, ok." As she walked from the bathroom in a tight suit. "Michael. Good to see you've come." She seated herself lasciviously.

"Yeah, have you heard from that journalist guy? I think he and the SEC might be working on something, I heard a voice talking to me in a shopping mall and he knew about me visiting a bank, and then Tobias…"

"No, I've not spoken to him. At all. In a long time." She interrupted.

She had been receiving regular emails, however.

"You wanted to discuss the Bluth Company?" He directed.

"I do. It could have a greater footprint in Orange County. It could be a lot bigger." Her eyes fell to places they shouldn't.

"What are you proposing?"

"There's a lot Bluths can do for each other."

"Like what?"

She walked to the door, locking it. "We can't have people walking in on such a sensitive conversation." She perched on her desk. "There are tracts of land that could be released by Washington. Tracts that could be earmarked for certain development, of which only a company with special abilities. Ones which could be developed quickly and inexpensively, if you knew what they were."

"What do you want for this?"

"A special partnership."

"What do you mean?"

She stood up, walked over to him, unbuttoning her jacket and unzipping her skirt, leaving a black lace lingerie with matching suspenders and black pantyhose with stilettos. "I want to know that you're mine."

Michael gasped. "Ah, what about Tobias, your husband? He misses you, he said only…two hours ago he did."

In his heart, Michael knew Tobias was thinking it.

She climbed on top of him, spreading her thighs over his legs. "I don't care about Tobias. The media don't care about Tobias. Nobody knows who he is, Lindsay Fünke can associate with any Bluth she wants. I want the CEO of the most powerful corporation in my district by my side. Admit it, you were always interested in me!" she reached for his buckle.

"I have a partner already, Lindsay! And how will the media not know we are related?"

"Don't you worry about the media. You worry about the future of the Bluth company, if you don't take this deal."

"We're continuing to grow, I'm not worried."

"Michael, you will believe in me, and I will never be ignored."

"Lindsay, you're going to be a grandmother."

The new grandmother swiftly responded with a palm across his face.

He gently touched the rapidly reddening skin. "That must be a Fünke response…"

"How could you knock her up?" she raged, pacing across the floor.

"I didn't…I love her, we want to have a family together."

"She's twenty five years younger than you, your niece, and the CFO of the family company!

"Twenty three, actually. Do you know her birthday?"

Lindsay's eyes darted the room. "That's not the point."

"It's September 22nd."

"Your son is her age!"

"I'm not pretending there weren't be a gap with George Michael's half sibling, but I always wanted to have more children, and it's happened."

"Have you lost your mind? Am I the rational person here?" the Congresswoman put her hands on her hips in her lingerie. "We can run rings around everyone else, I can do anything from this office, she needs someone her own age, and you need to not run this company into the ground." She thrust her finger in his face. "You knocked up my daughter. You know what you need to do."

And at that very moment, he did.

"So do tell, dad, how did this happen, did you forget, or she forget…?"

Michael shrivelled into the floor, incredibly bashful. "I don't know, she was responsible for it, I guess. We never talked about it."

"You were having sex with a woman her age, and yet you don't discuss contraception? Did you not learn anything at all from that lesson dad gave us?"

Near the swimming pool of their own home, with a prosthetic arm floating next to a face down realistic mannequin in the water behind them, Jay Walter Wetheral had held out a handful of condoms to the group of terrified Bluth teenagers.

"And that's why you always use protection."

That's enough of that story.

"I don't know."

"You have sex with my daughter, you failed to use protection with my daughter, and you knocked my daughter up! What were you thinking?!" Lindsay clucked like a mother hen.

He wasn't.

"Wait, wait…isn't this just history repeating? What is that that GOB…"

Michael raised his hands in the air like a shield, "Wait, wait, wait, let's not go there."

Michael really didn't. It was an inconvenient truth.

And he went in to shut the conversation down. "Not to change the climate here, and, not suggesting you wanted to weaken my bargaining position before I came here, but, I saw your staffer leave the AV room at GOB's big Magic show after the slide show had gone wrong, and I also saw them on the stage, you know, at the back, before the show. Okay?"

Lindsay rolled her eyes. "Agreed."

The meeting had left Michael aching, from, besides his cheek which still hadn't recovered, the gaping hole in his heart driving his mind to the limit. And neither would he pick up on the lesson from his next attempt to locate his CFO.

Michael entered the brightly lit store, with the islands of phones strapped to the centre displays, and the staffer staring at his screen from behind the desk.

"Hello Sir, can I help you?" the skinny man bubbled.

"Yes, I'm looking my partner's phone, I think she might have left it while we were on holiday?"

"That's no good. Where is she today?"

"She's not well, she sent me here."

"I'm sorry sir, we need to get her authorisation to speak to you about her account."

"Well ah, I'm her husband."

"Do you have ID, Mr Fünke?"

"Isn't her name on file, Bluth?"

"Why would it be?"

"We've been married for a while now."

The staffer could see the date of birth and was curious how long the probable scammer in front of him had thought they were married.

"Oh, six years?"

"I'm sorry, I can't tell you." The man shook his head, a burly security guard with folded arms joining him.

But they were able to tell Maeby, who was about to receive a message about someone trying to access her account. From the corner of his eye, though, Michael caught the ultimate cost of being free.

The rainbow coloured butterfly flapped wildly, its broad wings fraying at the edges as it hopped, edging forward across the pavement. He kneeled down, and it crept onto his finger.

Battered by the absolute freedom of its short life in the wind, Michael lifted the creature from its concrete existence, and into the final beats of its life.

He stood up, its wings slowing. He pulled out his phone from his pocket, snapped a photo, and typed, "There is so much beauty in this world" and sent it to Maeby.

Caught in the spectacle, he momentarily forgot the present predicament.

The creature fluttered, and through struggle, lifted into the air, a sudden gust of wind flinging it to one side, and away from Michael.

Seeking to throw off some of his own chains, Michael decided to try activities slightly less destructive.

Propped on the edge of his bed, Michael strummed the old guitar, staring at cords on the phone screen balanced on a chair.

"Life I have isn't what I've seen, sky's not blue and field's not green, Wait, for me…Wait, for me."

"Dad?"

He lifted his head, "Oh hi, George Michael."

"You've broken out the guitar?"

"Yes, I felt it was time to brush up. I was feeling a little rusty."

"Really?" George Michael's eyes crossed the room. "Rusty like when you broke up with Rita?"

"Yep."

"Where's Maeby?"

He gazed wistfully out the window. "She's meandering for some groceries to fill our empty pantry."

"What?"

He realised he was warbling. "She's shopping."

George Michael scrutinised his father, knowing he was lying. "While she's sick."

"Yep. What are you doing here?"

"The same thing you were doing visiting me."

"And it's so good to see you. Too."

And the father and son went onto enjoy each others' company, catching up on the many good times on which they needed to catch.

George Michael and Michael exchanged glances, shuffling awkwardly.

Michael propped the guitar against the wall. "Well, ah, I think I left something at the office."

"Me too." George Michael left the room.

And Michael returned from his vertical bed, to his horizontal bed, but would not find peace.

Michael lay back into his chair, drifting off, staring vacantly at the wall, until he was interrupted by a knock at the door.

"Oh hey, come sit down." Michael offered Rita a chair. "What brings you here to our insalubrious…place?" he coughed.

"I haven't ever seen the address that's on all those letters you send me." She smiled. "I had my driver bring me here."

It had taken Rita to some interesting places.

Rita had peeked out the window of the limo, eyeing off the enormous structure with its huge pillars.

Later, Rita had peeked out the window, seeing the casino with its flashing lights.

And more often, less interesting.

Rita had walked through the sliding glass doors, towards the wall of mailboxes. "Wow, these ones have the silver thingies! And black on top!"

"Are you alright, Michael?" Rita switched into a Scottish accent. "You look as grim as the moors of Scotland."

"Moors of Scotland?"

"It's something the crew keep saying to Buster. And Trevor. And me sometimes too."

He cleared his throat, "No, I'm okay."

"You don't look like you, I can send you to my doctor if you'd like? He made my b[beep] well."

"It's nothing a doctor can help with, I miss Maeby. She's been gone for two weeks now." He stared into the carpet. "I don't know what to do."

Rita hadn't heard the rumours, or rather, understood the rumours, that Michael and Maeby were dating. In her usual doe-eyed innocence, she presumed what most people wouldn't. Which she did a lot.

In her plush office, Rita had browsed the BBC website on her tablet, while Trevor stood back to the wall. "That's so nice they didn't make Prince Harry take a DNA test when they did testing for being related to the old king found in the carpark, they must have known Harry was scared of needles!"

"Then you must find her. Look in the mountains, in the sea, in the sky, on the moon!" She thrust her arms out, running in a circle like and airplane.

"The moon." He whispered.

Michael's mind raced back to before the family split, when a younger him and Maeby were packing the remnants of the company Christmas party into his car. This was after the bedroom incident, by the way. The day had finished and the night had fallen, and Maeby and Michael felt the sea calling.

They had leaned cross arms on the jetty railing, a full moon throwing cool blue light over the deep blue sea.

"That was awkward today." Michael had laughed, mostly to himself.

"I don't think most of them noticed, there was a fair bit of Christmas cheer going around."

"Maeby, where do you see yourself in ten years?"

"I have no idea. The mastermind behind KAOS? Making good John Travolta films? Sleeping in a pile of money?"

"Good ones?"

"The last good one was Swordfish. And you know it. Why, is this an interview now?"

Michael looked at the defiant teen, dutifully noting her calm measure and reaction to the situation that day, drawing an uneasy longing from within him that perhaps one Bluth might not Bluth it up.

He had had watched the sea throw beams of light across her strong features punctuated by freckles and soft ringlets, and had trouble trying to draw his words out.

"No. But you shouldn't ever undersell yourself. Don't forget that."

"Okay." The teen had turned back to the ocean, staring out.

And the moment they had consummated it all.

The moon high in the Phoenix sky, their lips had ravaged each other on the balcony.

So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

Rita smiled. "Did I make you happy again? It makes me sad when you are sad." She pouted.

"Thank you." He patted her on the shoulder. "You did."

Michael returned to their abode, eyes scanning for a glimmer of hope, of light, in his sea of stuff. Instead, he found his brother, seemingly just returning, and his stuff, strewn like debris from a ship whose boughs had broken.

Michael turned to his brother, in the kitchen. "Hey GOB, thought you were gonna clear the decks?"

"Oh, ah yeah, because I have a lot of time on my hands."

Michael noticed a lanyard around GOB's neck, reading 'Balboa Bay Mall'. "Wait, you have a job?"

GOB was not used to being recognised, and would become agreeable to anything if he felt it would make himself more popular with those who knew him as a magician.

GOB walked through the mall, past the Greek Bank.

A short, portly Greek man had shouted from its door, "The mighty GOB!"

GOB had turned around, grinning from ear to ear, "Yes, it is I." He struck his hands to his hips.

"I read you doing that trick in the church."

"It's ah, illusion, and yes, there was a twist." GOB had stammered.

The man had winked at him, "You good speaker, I give you something."

Which wasn't quite what GOB had in mind.

GOB had sat in the control room at the mall, microphone inches from his mouth watching the LCD screens, until he saw Michael. He'd leaned in, speaking to the microphone. "Michael…."

GOB threw up his hands in exasperation. "Who knew to beware of Greeks bearing gifts?!"

"Not common knowledge." Michael shook his head.

"And I can't quit, the guy is a fan." GOB shook his head in in frustration. "Who knew being famous was so hard?"

Giving up on the battle for his home, he slept in his home of the famous and wannabe famous, then returning to the place which had journalists chasing him.

Michael sat down at his desk behind his computer, tapping away on the keyboard.

It was easier than thinking, to do, all day, and then, all night. Physically, at least.

Later, Michael awoke at his desk, his stubble scratching his arms as he lifted his head. He stared mournfully at the screen, sighing, wondering about who would take over the actuary work on it. From the bottom of the screen, the text changed.

'1 USER LOGGED IN.'

He madly clicked on the text, and it pulled up the list of username and details currently on the system. Including hers.

He went to scroll down using the END key, mashing keys, and PRT SCN flashed in the corner of his screen. However, the web interface refreshed, and login details were gone.

He shook his head. "No, don't say that! No! No!". He returned to slumping over the desk, more dejected than before.

But Michael had a brainwave, of what PRT SCN meant. While Michael had usually skipped out on IT, the Bluths had always well used one functions in computers.

Leaking from every pore his gym gear, Tobias had continued to lean over the direction of the Kay-Pro.

"Hit Print screen, it'll print the screen." Tobias had told him.

An image then scrolled out of the attached ancient beast of a printer.

Michael tried to follow this logic by visiting all the printers on the level, but none had printed the screen. He returned to his desk, dejected.

"I wonder if I just [blank] it…"

Michael [blank]ed for Printscreen XP, and found out computers had gotten slightly more complicated since the Kay-Pro.

"Okay, so I go into paint…and I go…edit…paste…"

Michael had never been so glad he'd remembered something his brother-in-law had told him.

"File…print."

And this time, it did. Beside the login name was a series of numbers, which Michael had no idea what to do with. But he knew someone who could.

In the less than salubrious bar, GOB eyed the eyecandy at the bar, winking from a distance, with a poured drink beside him on the small bartable.

"Why are you asking me, Michael?" GOB asked.

"Because…you're the most well connected guy I know."

He was a little short of options.

"But you've gotta keep it on the low down, okay?" Michael added.

"Of course, brother."

"I need an IT guy to tell me what those numbers mean, and the rest of the family can't know about this."

"Absolutely. I'll help you Mikey."

So GOB called the IT guy he knew.

"They're an address for a computer. Who did you say this was for, by the way?" George Michael asked.

"Oh, just a guy, you wouldn't know him."

"It's a geographical location."

"Okay."

"Like an address."

"Yeah."

"It's coming up as…"

So GOB wrote down the city.

"Are you sure I won't know him?"

"Yeah, he's like top secret, a real man of mystery, wooo-ooo-ooo…I gotta go!"

"Wa…"

GOB hung up on him. Then put his next call to silent. And his next call. And his next call.

"This kid….so clingy…no wonder Maeby rejected him."

Then dialled again.

Michael gazed blankly at the office wall, his haggard body sinking into the weathered chair.

All Michael saw, and could feel, or could long to feel, was her soft lips, warm, supple curves, and brown, searching eyes. Those times when they vegetated on the couch together.

At Michaels's apartment, Maeby snuggled into his broad chest, her head resting on his shoulder. He slipped his arm around her, pulling her in closer, the scent of her hair wafting.

Those times when she enwrapped him while he made love to her.

In their bed, pieces of the plate Michael cared about years ago laid on the sidetable, Maeby's tired legs had wrapped around his torso, softly moaning into his mouth as she felt their bodies meet. "Maeby…Mmm…" He'd cooed, lost in how connected he'd felt to her.

Those times when he woke in the morning, and found her next to him.

His eyes had fluttered from the tepid Californian day drawing him out of sleep. He'd reached passed the strip of photobooth photos, switching off the alarm clock. Sitting up silently, he'd watching her as the light drew soft beams over her bare shoulder, cheeks, and curls, soft lips curled into a gentle smile as she sighed, content.

He was awoken from the illusions by GOB.

Michael answered his phone.

"Mickey, my brother!"

"Do you have it?"

"I might have it."

"What do you want?"

"I need a Tony Wonder's high increasing boots for my act."

"Done. Where is she?"

So Michael started his own mad dash to chase the woman he loved.

He threw himself into the leather seat of the Corvette. One hand turning the key, he texted franticly, "Wait for me."

On the next episode of Bluthton, George Senior continues to seek out alternative ventures, the company he founded still out from his grasp.

"Come on, dad, it's a way to promote the family name." GOB insisted.

"You kidding? That performance was a total [beep]."

"No, but, we could start again. Be the Bluths, of BigBrittan." He gasped George Senior's shoulder stretching his arm out into the distance. "A Commonwealth of Bluths, if you will."

And George Senior was desperate, really desperate, and for once listened to his son.

"Well, um, I guess Rome wasn't built in a day. Wait, where did I hear that?"

Unfortunately, the wrong son.