Exit Sandman!

"Did we make it?" a weak voice asks in the infinite void.
"I'm...not sure." Says another. "What's the last thing you remember?"
"Getting my ass kicked by the Sandman. Dude, it wasn't pretty."
"Me too. That bastard rolled me up like a Home Depot rug." A soft glow illuminates Monday and Tuesday...each with a goodly assortment of gaping wounds, and massive contusions.
Wednesday drifts out of the blackness, a seriously large, and bleeding puncture wound near his clavicle.
"Hi guys." He says, "What's doin?"
"Oh, you know..." says Monday, "Just hangin' in the infinite void after getting our asses kicked by the Sandman. Whataboutchoo?"
"Huh." Says Wednesday, looking around the void. "I guess the same. Tho, I thought I knocked that fucker pretty good. I guess something funny happened."
"Yaknow," Tuesday speaks. "We three don't do enough thinking about what would happen if we could take care of that bastard. I mean, think about how much we could get done! Like Friday don't have to worry about sleep! He's always getting the benefit of the doubt. Problems? Take it up with Saturday."
"You might have something there." Says Monday, 'WAIT! WHAT'S THAT!?" He points into the black. (Right, left, north, up...directions don't really mean anything in the infinite void.)

A pair of headlights pierce the darkness. Then another pair, and another, and another. A pack of vehicles approaches. The rumble of high-horsepower engines shakes strange ripples through the darkness. The three float there, awaiting their fate. Then, a black Lincoln Town Car with dark windows, drifts past. Then another, and another. They surround them, above, beside, below.
"Fuck." Says Wednesday.

Then the black moonroof of the Town Car below them slides open. The torso of a man emerges, and produces a long brass trumpet. He blasts a few notes befitting the emperor in one of those old Hollywood Sweeping Epics. The door to the Town Car abreast of them opens. Thursday steps out dressed in the attire of a Roman General. A huge-nay-massive feathered plume on a shiny silver helmet, a gleaming brass engraved breastplate. It's pretty impressive.

"Hi guys!" Says Thursday. "Hop in, we've got somewhere to be."
"Wait," Wednesday demands. "What happened?"
"Oh, I kicked the Sandman's ass!"
"What about us?" Says Monday.
"You guys are cool. Jeezus! You think we don't know what you did? Now look. Friday's got something sweet planned, hop in!"

And he got back into his Lincoln. Around them doors opened mysteriously, and each took a separate ride. The motorcade drove off through the black. They formed into a line, and shortly came upon a huge deco-skyscraper, looking remarkably like the Chrysler Building, only removed from all context in the infinite void. One by one, the dark Lincolns disgorged their passengers, who pushed their way through sculpted revolving doors, and assembled in the marble-covered lobby. Finally, Thursday followed, his armor covered in a billowing red cloak, and carrying a huge metal spear, that pretty much capped-off his Roman warrior look. He glanced over the assembled weekdays.
"Gjod, you guys look like death warmed over." He snapped his fingers, and from hidden doors behind the marble, a crack team of medics, and stylists, and make-up artists went to work.

There was shoving and pushing, and the random command of "You can't do that yet! I'm not finished." Crowds gathered around each weekday, as at least twenty people tired to push their way through the throng, to do their appropriate task.

Finally, they were all done. Monday looked like a million bucks. Tuesday was immaculate, like a gjoddamn angel. Wednesday could have seduced a goddess. Thursday looked over the sixty or so odd humanids who had done the work, gathered back against the walls in a crowd.
"You all have performed magic tonight. Thank you so very much."

With that the crowd broke into a huge cheer! The sound echoed in the marble lobby. It would have made a politician proud. They cheered both at the praise, and the work that had been performed to make the three look, not only presentable, but stupendously wonderful to gaze upon. Thursday made a sweeping motion with his spear, and the others followed towards the bank of engraved elevator doors. Thursday lowered his spear, and deftly struck the "up" button with it's silver warhead. The button lit up with a small glowing yellow arrow.

The doors opened, and the four pressed into the elevator, where a man in the red-suit of an elevator operator, closed the doors. The car began to move rapidly upwards. Softly, and nearly imperceptibly the elevator music grew. It played, "Girl from Ipanima." And it was perfect.

Det-doot-doot-de-doot-de-toot-doo-de-doot...
Det-doot-doot-de-doot-de-toot-doo-de-doot
Det-doot-doot-de-doot-dooooooo...

The Weekdays, shocked from their experience in the void, their rapid transit in black cars, and overwhelming makeover, all felt themselves and each of their muscles, relax.

"The Lounge." Said the elevator operator, with practiced nonchalance. Then the doors opened.

Standing in front of the opened doors, was a very slim, and extremely attractive female. She wore nothing, but a mask around her face, which had an uncanny resemblance of a dark black beak. Around her torso were two black leather straps that held a huge costume behind her of a massive Peacock. Feathers that would put a Vegas Showgirl to shame stuck out at least eight feet in a the bird's fan shape. She opened her arms in an outreach that implied nothing but welcome. The muscles in her arms and shoulders contracted to perk her breasts up to the epitome of "How much do you desire these perfectly huge, and perky breasts." And then swung herself, her perfect breasts, and her feathered costume to the side in a sweeping bow.

Which revealed, directly behind her in a long hallway, The King of All Weekdays, dressed in a gray sharkskin suit, over which was draped a dark red silk robe. He looked...sort of like Ricky Ricardo at home with Lucy.

"Welcome, my friends!" He said. "This week, could have never been possible without you." He gave a wave and gesture with his left hand, (clutching the stem of a martini glass filled with a plum-colored liquid) and from various hidden spaces, four cocktail waitresses with excellent legs, in very skimpy dresses...so skimpy as to give "cocktail dress" a very dirty name, approached with a variety of beverages on trays. They all kneeled and raised the trays above their heads. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday all grabbed something that matched their desires.

"I've arranged for a suitable celebration." Friday continued, "Something I hope you'll find enjoyable." And then he stepped aside, unveiling a room full of lovely and interesting people, and windows that, instead of looking out into dark deep infinite blackness, revealed the skyline view of a massive, and glowing metropolis. The first three weekdays moved forth energetically to mingle, but Thursday stopped.

"This is pretty great Friday." He said.
Friday took a sip of his martini-glass, and in a humble voice, said,
"I could have never done it without you." He swept his cocktail laden hand at the other three who had already disappeared into the throng. "And I mean all of you."

Happy Friday.