Sissy-boy Johnson sat back and enjoyed the radio, while his fabulous new Bolus Impacta cruised along the desert highway. He - rather, it - had been driving for days, while he blissed out in the back seat. Suddenly, as if the car knew where it was going (which it did), it stopped. The radio stopped, too, and he sighed and got out.
In the arsenal of information he carried in his job as a private investigator, there was one weapon that was so powerful and so precious and so rare that he had never dared to use it. He still had misgivings about using it even now, but She had talked him into it. She was very persuasive when She wanted to be. He looked out over the silent dunes and prayed that it was still where it was supposed to be, and that the highway would still be there when he returned. Tucking his supply of time roaches into his backpack, he headed off over the sand.
After he had found the right dune, he still had hours of sifting and searching to do, but finally, it paid off. He had found it. He was a bit hungry now, and this was one task he didn't relish the idea of performing on an empty stomach, so he pulled out a notebook and, following the instructions therein carefully, traced mystic circles and runes in the sand. Shortly thereafter, a teenager in the pointy-hatted uniform of Swayback's Mystickal Pizza appeared. He paid the delivery boy, who promptly vanished in a puff of smoke. He ate almost the entire pizza; the two remaining slices he folded up and put in his pocket for later. It was time. He placed the single precious grain of sand in his palm and stared at it.