"Could you be more specific?" asked Dahlia.
"Your book," answered Johnny. "Your sword."
"How could you possibly know about that?" Dahlia asked.
"About the book you're writing?" he asked. "My whole religion is based on it."
This statement made her feel like her worst fears were being realized. She was precipitating an apocalypse, enabling terrorists. By writing this book, she was giving in to the alter ego they had foisted upon her.
"You finished your book already?" asked Donald
"No."
"It's okay," said Johnny. "I'll wait."
"What about the sword?" asked Donald.
"Yes, I'll need that, too."
"What sword?" asked Dahlia, agitated.
"Your sword, I told you."
"I don't have a sword."
"Yes you do."
"She said she doesn't have a sword," said Donald, half-shouting. "How are we supposed to get it?"
"Take it easy," said Johnny. "You're much bigger than all of this. Soon enough, you'll be taking care of business and not sweating these fine-tuned adjustments on the material plane." He paused to let Donald speak, but Donald didn't say anything. "Even now, your indignation is a little forced. You know you should feel angry, or despondent, or something, but against all of that is a tide of satisfaction. Part of you knows that everything's going to be all right. Your daddy is bigger than my daddy. Your daddy is bigger than everybody's daddy."
"You have no idea how I feel right now."
"Of course not," said Johnny. "Why don't you start with the book and see what happens from there? Now, I'm sure you two want to discuss strategy and all that, so why don't we call it a day?"