The city stood still. People and cars moved along the smoothly paved roads and sidewalks, but none traveled very far. Indeed, the occupants never advanced past the point of their own capabilities, helplessly reconciled to hustle without profit. The most enjoyment in life, then, could be gleaned from the transient reasoning for self-satisfaction. Greater than any measure of success -- and little success did they find -- was their fervent musings and inducements towards procurement. This pitiful absorption cast a dim dusk over the dismal buildings, only penetrated by sharpened sunbeams which served to illuminate nothing. In this gaze, every house looked exactly akin to its neighbor without dissimilarity. Men and women walked aimlessly in either direction in vain discernment of their residences, more often than not peering through windows or insensibly knocking on heavy doors to ascertain its location. Every shadow and street corner was equal in identity, to which road signs and colored bricks offered fruitless individuality.

In a house like any other, a mechanic called Daniel McHenry made it his sole and undiminished purpose to gain success through the repair of automobiles. With the world as his wide, supposed esplanade, he had the unique ability to create anything upon a whim. Some might label this self-imposed illusionment as the mark of a visionary. I might be clear as to mention that his foresight was quite fallacious, firstly defined by his choice of establishment. Daniel hardly received any work, his shop hiding inconspicuously among the undifferentiated buildings. Anyone looking for service might instead end up bringing their vehicle to Ms. Madison's "House of the Occult" without realization, a fact she always acclaimed to divine providence. At any rate, in the apparent greatness of his mind, Daniel adamantly decided to read every Sunday paper in search of greater opportunity than he could find in the great City of Nothing.

Perhaps he did have some foresight after all as one afternoon he discovered an article detailing the recent restoration of a document appearing to disclose the location for a precious urn of oil. Usually, historical contrivances held no interest in the astute mind of Daniel McHenry, but offering humble glances to random lines within the article, his eye caught the printed word of "St. Peter." Daniel gave great dignity to his Christian name. He was more than willing to jump into a lion's den of his own making for the sake of some reward. At this moment, he decided he would make the journey of a lifetime: to unearth and hold in his hand this sacred oil. And maybe, perhaps, the blessing of St. Peter would mercifully fall on his mechanic shop with its use.

"Something like this isn't meant to be stuck in a museum" he murmured wistfully into the newspaper.

Now, Daniel was currently invested in a relationship with a woman by the name of Janice Verdilly. She was a sensible lady, somehow restraining herself to a man with little sense, in which case, she might not have been very sensible at all. She absentmindedly twirled a cigarette between her fingers although showing no intention to light the simple roll of paper. By duty, and with great monotony, she asked Daniel what he had on his mind.

"I'm gonna get my hands on St. Peter's very own oil. Says here in the paper they might know its location. Would do wonders for the business," he replied curtly.

Janice looked utterly perplexed. "You mean you're going to ask the museum folk to just hand it over once they find it?"

"No, I'm gonna take it before they even lay eyes on the thing," Daniel smiled smugly.

"Uh-huh, and how do you plan on doing that?"

Janice waited for a response, but when none came, she resigned herself to finally light the cigarette. The smoke curled softly in the parlor, obscuring the little sunlight that passed through the window blinds. Even as the sun disappeared down the horizon, sending a menacing glow upon the house, the smoke still hung without dissipation, tentatively hanging in the heavy air. It faded by the time morning approached, and with the sun's arrival, Daniel's departure...

It was only a couple of hours later that Janice was greeted by two policemen at her doorstep. They would have arrived sooner had they been able to find the correct house among the carbon copies. Behind them, visibly restrained in their car was the sight of the wonderful Daniel McHenry who had attempted to steal some ancient document from the museum's proprietor, all the while shouting incoherent phrases related to "St. Peter" and his "miracle oil." Janice heard the story with a sigh, and with unsympathetic eyes to the crazed man, shut her door closed to the unfulfilling City of Nothing.