Mr. Potts could only describe it as a scheduling conflict, what left with him with a spare twenty-seven minutes on September sixth. Whatever the details or impetus of the discrepancy, it was those very twenty-seven minutes that brought about his second Terrible Boredom.

He stifled a yawn at the door step of Brookshire & Join. It was here that he realized there was time to spare. He would walk. He browsed the stores on Sunder and Hope Street, but he found the people boring, the vandalism tame, and the stores over-priced yet shoddy. His Boredom was growing unwieldy.

At last, he came upon Dimping Street, which was little more than an alley. He sauntered into the dark of the black, brick walls. It was there that he startled a homeless man, cowering beneath tattered rags, bits of paper, and his own feces, muttering to himself.

Mr. Potts felt, within, a ragged thirst struggling against the lethargy. “Boredom doesn’t suit me,” he announced. He rushed the man, arms out, and prepared to dispel his Terrible Boredom.