After the ground shook, the morning mist lifted to reveal an inner-city neighborhood.
Cyrus pulled into a parking place in front of Little Dick's Tavern. None of the other shops - Ricky'n Tikky's Tats, Frederick's Funeral Parlor, Barbara's Baby Farming - showed no signs of life. He'd driven to Little Dick's Tavern using a "no left turns" route; three times as long and shorter by 45 minutes. Two black, twenty-something Guido's greeted him with laughs. Their low-hanging jeans and knit caps shook as they watched Cyrus drop his backpack.
"Who you laughin' at?"
"He ain't open. He's out coaching glee club." Tyrell flashed the horns. His buddy grabbed his crotch. "You ain't so smart Sherlock. We'll sell your stuff when your headless carcass comes rolling outa the bar like the other tubesteaks who come here." At that moment, a blond superhero in sleeveless spandex shirt and thigh-exposing, lace-up tights opened the door of the bar. The Guido's melted into quaking lumps of hysterical flesh at the sight.
"I warned you two, quit yakking up guests," he yelled at his would-be guardians before extending his arms to Cyrus. "I trust you've had an insightful journey, grasshopper." They embraced.
"I learned much on the path, master." The Guido's burst into giggles. Cyrus ignored them. "The journey's everything, the destination hollow."
"Only the path leads to enlightenment," the bartender answered. Gales of laughter erupted from the Guido's.
"All paths lead here," Tyrell mumbled.
"Ignore them, grasshopper. They'll never be more than drones, laboring in drudgery." The ground shook. The morning mists returned.
The scene faded to the interior of the real Little Dick's Tavern; Dick the bartender stood screaming at one of his patrons. "Hey Salvatore, quit shaking the ant farm and if you ever put another praying mantis in there, I'm ripping your nuts off."