We at "Playing With Matches" know how hard it is to deal with this rabid rodent of a planet, what with their genocidal monkeys and boba tea and whatnot. However, we do advocate for anyone in the vicinity to consider Earth as an appropriate vacation destiny, as it can be a beautiful place during summer, especially if you are an exothermic lifeform. That is, if you can get past their weird customs, bizarre laws, and their insistence that pistachio is an appropriate ice-cream flavor. 

Pistachio is not an actual flavor, just a topping, and that's a hill we are willing to die on. 

That's why we shall be providing small life-hacks and fun facts to make your next trip to the third rock from Sol the most memorable of your life, provided you are not currently dead for tax purposes.

We are legally required to inform you that this chapter is sponsored by the "Squid Overlord Tourism Bureau." We are also legally required to say that the events regarding the accidental death of two Sarlacians during Easter Week when two human children threw water balloons at them, dissolving them to the bones, was an isolated incident, and that water balloons are now illegal under penalty of death. 

Surprising absolutely no-one, the Mime-resistant Ambush-protected Vehicle that was made for the rough Middle-Eastern terrain wasn't precisely fit to travel uptown American suburbs, what with the other cars and the people running for their life and whatnot. 

What would surprise anyone not a resident of Earth is that Superintendent Lennin was in every right to plow through the streets with a war machine if she so chooses, thanks to a New Orleans law that allows any possible vehicle to be owned by a civilian as long as they're no more than 102 inches long, which the Mime-resistant Ambush-protected Vehicle cleared with flying colors. 

Flying colors, fun fact, is illegal to do in New Orleans' territory, as it constitutes an act of piracy, which is also illegal, unless you are given a letter of marque, making you a privateer — a legal pirate. Which takes the fun out of being one, really. 

But even if you are a privateer, able to steal and plunder at your leisure, it would still be illegal for you to steal another person's alligator, according to New Orlean's Resolution 14:67.13, even if they are tied to a fire hydrant, which is also illegal in New Orleans. It is only legal to confiscate an alligator if it is brought less than 200 yards of a Mardi or Zombie Gras parade. We don't know why everyone would do so, but there we go.

And don't even think of being a swashbuckling privateer with a goatee, as you have to pay a special license fee to be publicly seen in one. Wear it in your own home. But if you do get sleepy in your indoors goatee, be sure to lock every window and door before taking a nap, as snoring is also illegal.

The moral of this story, aside from that being a pirate is a terrible life choice, is that New Orleans has a stupid set of laws that make no sense in an intergalactic society, so keep them in mind during your next visit.

But no law prevented Superintendent Lennin from actually running down the highway on the MRAPV — except the laws of physics. You see, according to Dr. Schoml ver Aganomin, professor of physics at Calliope University in Alfa Centauri, the Mime-resistant Ambush-protected Vehicle was being held back by the "Yo-Momma" law, named after Alfred Yo-Momma, the first person to be steamrolled by your mother when he got in between her and an all-you-can-eat buffet. BURN!

Yo-Momma law states that, the bigger the body, the more energy it needs to generate to move using a mathematical formula of: Yo-Momma's body mass × Kilograms of Cake consumed/Minute ÷ Friction of her thighs. Unlike normal momentum, the Yo-Momma law doesn't factor in acceleration, as Yo-Momma's speed is always a constant. 

But Yo-momma needs cake in the mix to generate said energy, which the Mime-resistant Ambush-protected Vehicle didn't. As such, it needs double the usual energy to move nearly fast enough to catch a running man, or zombie, which it also didn't have, being designed to go as slow and as powerful as it can, turning it into an unstoppable object, like Yo-Momma. 

In an interesting turn of events, the tank became under the influence of the reverse Yo-Momma law, which is the speed at which she stops her movement when she realizes halfway through her run that the cake she was running towards is a  gluten-free, vegan carrot cake with Splenda, Yo-Momma's greatest weakness. 

The Mime-resistant Ambush-protected Vehicle's carrot cake was none other than Marraine D, laying on the sidewalk like a fish out of water, which, if she were a fish, would be illegal to pick up under New Orlean law.

The tank screeched to a halt mere inches from her face, so far as to let her smell one of the Jambalaya-flavored bubble gums stuck to the tank's wheel. It was her favorite. 

"Uh, Marraine D?" asked Chuck at the old crone laid on the ground as she picked the gum off the tank's wheel. "What are you doing?" 

"What does it look like, Monsieur Sorry? I'm resting. My back hurts."

"I see," said the eyeless Chuck. "But why?" 

"Because I am an old woman," said the crone, putting the old gum in her mouth. Her three remaining teeth needed exercise, after all. 

"No, I mean, why are you laying in the middle of the street?"

"Because my back hurts, and I want to rest." 

Chuck was glad he didn't have a brain, because knew he would have a headache right about now. 

"Trevor," said his zombified body, also taking a rest next to the old crone. Even zombies need a rest every once in a while. 

The tank's hatch opened up, and a redheaded freak with a soldier's helmet half the size of her head popped from it.

"Stand up, gypsy!" yelled the Superintendent from her megaphone. "It is illegal under New Orleans's law to lay down on the banquette and obstruct other people. Not to mention, it's rude!"

"Is it true?" she asked under her breath. "How odd, to find a new law to break in my old age when I thought I already broke every law in the book!" 

Chuck, however, wasn't having it. You see, back when he was deciding whether to go into law or medicine, he decided to go to the library and inform himself by reading law books and medical texts. Every time he thought he decided on what to study, he went on to read another text, just to be super-duper sure.   

Since Chuck's nature is to fundamentally avoid making any decision, ever, he fell into a loop of reading material from either side, just in case he was close to reading that one thing that will make him decide law or medicine. The police found him a month after he started after someone reported a book hobo living among the library stacks, only feeding on the glue between pages and toilet water. He went as far as reading alchemy books and the hammurabi code just to find material to make his decision. 

As such, Chuck was quite knowledgeable in weird laws, and obscure medicine, neither of which he ever used as a film critic. Interestingly enough, it was not illegal for him to live in a library, as it doesn't violate the law. What did him in was that he printed something in color instead of black and white, which is a Library capital offense. 

"Well, no, it is not," said Chuck. 

"How so?" asked the crone. 

"Just repeat after me, and I'll get us out of this." 

They were interrupted by Superintendent Lennin, which was politely waiting for her to stand up. Since politeness didn't work, she did what any other cop would do in her place: indiscriminate violence. 

"Gypsy! If you don't stop breaking the law, I'll have to use the law to break your legs!" 

Marraine D simply waved her cane in the air in a very rude way, as a rude person like her would do. "Ah, mon chérie, it is only illegal to lay down on the banquette while drunk, oui? I'm as sober as a midnight duck," she said, repeating what Chuck was whispering in her ear, which we shall omit for brevity. 

"I see you are a gypsy of culture that knows the rules of this city," said Superintendent Lennin while also rudely pointing at the old woman, "so you should already know I have all the authority to use extreme force and prejudice against you in the name of the law." 

Marraine D giggled like a girl trice her junior, waving her cane in an amused 8-shape. "You can do nothing of the sort, mon petit fille. You of all people should know that no woman is allowed to drive a car in New Orleans without her husband waving a flag in front of it. And I don't see a husband." 

Superintendent Lennin blushed as deep a red as a freshly picked apple, bathed in the blood of whoever tried to steal said apple. "Drats, you're right!" yelled the Superintendent. "But I can still have you squashed like a bug you are!"

"By who? Your husband?" asked Marraine D. "The one gurgling that can of Dr. Pepper, even though it is illegal to gargle in public?" 

Trebor with a B was indeed gurgling Dr. Pepper. To him, since it tastes like medicine, it could also help him with his sore throat. We have to remind our readers that Dr. Pepper is not a certified physician, so disregard any medical advice it gives you. 

"Joke's on you, old coot. He is in his car, which is private property! And gurgling in private property is very legal."

"Is that your personal car?" asked Marraine D without skipping a beat. 

"No. This vehicle is the property of the New Orleans Police Department!" said the Superintendent with two proud taps of the roof to show her pride. Unbeknownst to her, those two taps on that particular spot on the vehicle discovered a critical percussion failure that deactivated the gearbox, making it unusable. "Ain't she a beauty?" 

"It is," said Marianne D. "Very shiny. But it means that this vehicle is paid for by us taxpayers. It is public property, then?"

The Superintendent ruffled her red-hair. Two cigarette butts fell from it. She wasn't the one who smoked them. "Well, it is? I mean, you, the public, can't use it, so it ain't that public. But you did pay for it as a valuable taxpayer, as gypsy as you are." 

"Bien sûr, mon cherie!" said the old woman in her mystic language. 

It was Trebor with a B, peeking his head out of the window, that cleared the misunderstanding once and for all. "Y'see, y'ain't getting the whole pic'tur. It do be true that this here tank belongs to the people, but it also be true that it am privately administered by the state through us po-lice. Kinda like how we control when parks open or close." 

Superintendent Lennin kicked the man from inside the vehicle, making him drop the rest of his Dr. Pepper on his lap. "Get your head inside the Mime-resistant Ambush-protected Vehicle, you dillhole! And always wear your protective headphones. I don't want you to get attacked by Loebers!" 

"Loebers?" asked the old woman, waving her cane around like an obscene number we won't mention here. "What are Loebers?"

"Don't play me for a dillhole, dillhole!" yelled the Superintendent. "You gypsies and Loebers are natural enemies! Like Leprechauns and Loebers, it Witches and Loebers, or Unicorns and Loebers." 

"They sound nasty," said Marraine D, not bothering to respond to her other accusations. "And what do they do?" 

"They eat earlobes!" yelled the Superintendent. "Swee, sweet earlobes!"

"Mon dieu! They seem like nasty little branleur!"

"They are whatever that means," said the Superintendent. "You don't even know half of it, sister. I'm hunting them down as we speak."

"I am not a woman of the cloth, and you are correct in saying I don't know half of it, mon fille," said the old woman. "But if you're looking for one, may I make a suggestion?"

"Speak, gypsy." 

"Why don't you hit the cemetery? Fresh earlobes, no-one to bother them. It's like Christmas in July for a Loeber." 

"Or Halloween in May!" yelled Trebor with a B.

Superintendent Lennin scratched her stubble — which she grew only to appear pensive and sophisticated — clapping her hands twice in delight. "You are onto something, gypsy. I knew it was a good idea to try and capture you. I was going to kidnap you and use your body as bait for vengeful Loebers, but you have served me well. I, Superintendent Winifred P. Lennin--"

"Communiss!" yelled a woman from an unseen place.

"...will grant you a swift death."

"I would very much like that," said the woman. "But you will fail."

"Let's test that, shall we?" said the Superintendent. With a swift kick, she signaled Trebor with a B to start the engine and continue with her rampage, sans Marraine D's existence.

But all she got in response was mechanical sounds, the smell of burnt oil, and a busted clutch. 

"It ain't moving no more," said Trebor with a B. 

"What do you mean it ain't moving?" yelled the Superintendent. "Floor it!"

But she was met yet again with generic and cartoonish busted sounds. You know the ones. 

"You're doing it all wrong! Gimme here." 

She pushed Trebor with a B out of the driver seat, trying herself to get the vehicle moving. 

"Oh, she's driving without her husband waving a flag in front of her!" said Marraine D. "You're gonna get arrested!" 

"Shut up, you old dill! When I get this thing started, I'll run over you!" 

But Marraine D didn't listen. She simply stood up, lit up a new match to lure Zombie Chuck, and walked away from the Mime-resistant Ambush-protected Vehicle as if nothing had happened, disappearing down a dark alley, never to be seen again. 

If by never you mean this paragraph, in which case, she was seen a few seconds later by us. Hello!

"What a stroke of luck," said Chuck. "I can't believe that worked."

The old crone looked in his general direction, only, her eyes were completely blank and devoid of any recognition. "What worked again?"

"You, on the sidewalk. The whole laying there bit."

Marraine D sucked the diamond-end of her cane before giving Chuck a soft cackle, which amounted to a hard giggle, or a medium chortle. "I was just resting my feet, dear. That's the elder's law: if it hurts, just lay there and complain. It will eventually sort itself out. Now, let's make haste. We already wasted enough time on this chase scene." 

With New Orleans being the human food capital of the world, one would believe that the people visiting it would have a modicum of taste and class when it comes to choosing things to put on their faceholes. If you ever went there during Zombie Gras you would be sorely mistaken. 

Drunk people dressed like zombies roam the streets with drinks in their hands, with men being thrown Zombie Gras teeth-necklaces if they flash their nipples, and just puking everywhere. It is an affront to moutholes everywhere. And there is nowhere worse than the French Quarter to see the worst of humanity. 

For every cultural powerhouse like Café Du Monde, there are ten Tropical Isle® Bar, the worst of the worst there is to offer. Their biggest sale is a drink called "The Hand Grenade®," a drink made out of Melon juice and regret, served in a translucent, green container that resembles a grenade. It is cheap, tastes like mildew, and according to their official website, "Will cause females to flash their breasts for beads," which is so wrong in so many ways. 

The only good thing about the Tropical Isle® Bar is that it was crawling with drunks, weirdos, and party animals 24/7, which also made it the perfect place for people of all walks of death to walk in and out without much thought, blending in with the crowd. 

Nobody would've thought that under the Tropical Isle® Bar rested the supernatural underbelly of the city's safe zone.

The trio stood outside the Tropical Isle® Bar as people came in and out with their cheap Melon poison, all the while Chuck shivered his lumps in a technicolor fashion. 

"There are too many people here," he whispered, even though nobody else but Marraine D could hear him. 

"It tends to be crowded outside your room, oui?" said the old crone as she examined the matchbook in front of her. 

"I'm allergic to the outside."

"Trevor?" 

"No, not Trevor," said Chuck. "Outside. Out. Side. Can you say outside, you useless waste of oxygen?"

"O...ou," began to stammer the zombie.

"Yes, yes, continue," said Chuck, floating around the zombie for encouragement.

"O...u...Trevor!" said Zombie Chuck with a goofy smile. 

Chuck deflated to the size of a chocolate chip pancake, but 20% more gaseous. "Sweet cello of Lars von Trier, you're a useless husk of a pathetic human aren't you?"

"Trevor," said Zombie Chuck with a tiny bit of sadness in his voice.

"Chilrren, play nice," said Marraine D, waving her cane thought Chuck. "We are here." 

"I'm sorry, but this is not the place," said Chuck, exercising his wonderful powers of obvious observation despite not having eyes. "The name of the place is Black Mass Bar And Grill, not Tropical Isle® Bar." 

"And that is not a Leprechaun entering the bar," said Marraine D, pointing at an impossibly small man entering the bar by scurrying between the legs of the patrons who, too drunk to notice, mistook it for some sort of vermin. "And I'm Marraine D." 

"Point taken," said Chuck. "Still, not the Black Mass." 

"Trevor," quipped Zombie Chuck, as poignant and timely as ever before stumbling inside the bar.

"Wait, stop!" yelled Chuck, not realizing that wait and stop amounted to the same thing. It is one of the language quirks humans often fall on, alongside stating the obvious, and telling people you are going to the bathroom for no apparent reason other than to overshare.

Zombie Chuck, not being totally human, disregarded the humanity inherent in Chuck's voice, and walked it anyway. 

"Well, he's not allergic to being inside, Monsieur Sorry," said Marraine D. 

"I'm also allergic to being inside a place with a lot of people."

"There are no people where we are going," said Marraine D. "You can either go in, or stay out. Your choice, Monsieur Sorry. But the only place you will find answers to your condition, and someone that can break the curse, is inside. Your call."

And with that, she waltzed right in. 

"But I'm also allergic to being outside!"

But it fell on deaf ears. Marraine D had given Chuck the most devastating blow she could ever deliver: forcing him to make a choice. 

Chuck bagpiped his disco-ball existence for a few seconds while pondering the conundrum he was in, which nobody particularly noticed because they were already plastered off their minds. Outside, Chuck thought, was full of people and unpleasant smells. But the inside was equally filled with people and unpleasant smells, not to mention obnoxious music that commanded him to shake what his momma gave him, which he didn't have at the moment. 

However, there were also birds and breezes and other things that started with a b, like bees, and that was Chuck's least favorite letter. But that was also could be applied to being inside, because it was a bar, which also started with a b, and he could Be inside the Bar, which would be a double b, and now he realized that "be" and "double" also had b, although double didn't start with a b. It was a very stressful situation for him, which made him choose the worst situation possible, which was to sink into the ground, as the letter g was the opposite of the letter b. The letter p, before you ask, is just a b in disguise 

What Chuck didn't account for was the fact that beneath the French Quarter, just outside the prying eyes of the drunk tourists, was an expansive underground bar full to the brim with magical creatures so bizarre that would be hard to convey in writing, so we won't, at least not yet. We could very well explain what Chuck saw, but we would have to double the description when Zombie Chuck and Marraine D enter it as well, and that wouldn't be smart writing. You can thank us later. 

Chuck, coming face to face with an underground bar, which had the letter g and b, realized that this was better than being inside or outside. He took a deep, inflated breath to prepare himself.

In the Hero's Journey, the only thing keeping Chuck sane at the moment, the next point after "Meeting the Mentor" is "Crossing the Threshold." In which the hero — he, in this case — has to leave the world he knows and step into the unknown. Of course, it is not an actual threshold, but a figurative one. He never would've guessed that the threshold of his journey would be so literal, and that it would lead to a bar, of all places. 

But with that, he crossed the doors into the bar, catching up with the trio. 

Nobody paid attention to them as they made their way to the back of the room, to where the bathroom was supposed to be. Instead, they were faced with a door with a keypad.

"Now, what was the password again?" whispered the crone, her boney finger hovering above the keypad. She slowly but surely entered each digit, pausing them to remember the next. 

The passcode was 0000.

The door rumbled for a few seconds before opening up with a bang, or a wham, depending on who you ask. Marraine D walked into the small room, beckoning the pair to follow them. 

"No, thanks. I'm allergic to seedy bar bathrooms," said Chuck. 

"Where we are going, we don't need bathrooms," said the woman with a warm smile. "Now, get going. We don't want to catch the last call."

5 HOURS AND 20 MINUTES UNTIL SUNRISE