Filled with the Spirit: The conclusion

If you, dear reader, are of the artistically inclined approach to culinary adventures you will have, indubitably, attempted to separate an egg yolk from the egg white without using a  plastic marvel of the egg separating art but instead have chosen to suss out the bimodal internals of the chicken seed by using simply the shell itself.  Have you attempted this, as I am confident you have, you may have met with some startling early success.  Eventually however, as is the case with all egg separators, there will come a time when shifting the egg white from the yolked half of shell you will become blindly over confident.  You will reach for the stars in your haste and overtip the dominant hand to coax the belligerent globule of white into the waiting empty shell.  In that moment of carefree nonchalance maybe you will cry over your shoulder, "Oh yeah I do it this way all the time."  Or maybe shift your hips a bit to some smooth cooking jazz.  You are indeed the master of the universe. Then your confident heart freezes in doubt and terror as the desperate eggwhite, clutching precariously to the yolk strikes out with its sinuous membranes and the egg yolk begins to slip.  Your heart stops, time seems to freeze, you have lost all control of your hands as you helplessly watch the yolk slip into open air.  Thankfully it is going to fall into the awaiting open shell already filled with separated egg white.  You see it land unevenly on the edge of the shell, you attempt to tip the lower shell outward gently to preserve the yolk and your dignity.  Then, as by some cruel machination of oological malice, the yolk slips, falls, and breaks amongst the food waste and sullied dishes of your less than meticulously maintained sink.  The yolk seems almost whole but the streak of yellow racing towards the drain, old oatmeal like islands of mockery in the river of despair confirm to you that all hope is lost.  The shells remain frozen in your hands as the white also falls unnoticed by your dead eyes staring mindlessly into the distance.

The booking officer of the downtown police precinct was consulting with a sergeant when they both looked up to see Andromeda Crab enter the station under the cautious gaze of Officer Grizzly. 

"Public Intoxication for this one, was going to see the mayor," [guffaws all around], "Figured a few hours in the tank should clear things up for her."  The Sergeant returned to looking at the stack of papers in his hands as the booking officer prepared for a new guest at the cinder block motel.  "Going to save the world, she said, 'Extremely' important news for the Mayor's ears only."  With that the Sergeant looked up, expectantly, and curiously deep into Andrea's eyes.  This was the moment she had been waiting for, her one chance to let the truth out before wasting precious time in the drunk tank.  And the egg hit the sink.

The moment passed.  The Sergeant took his papers and returned to his desk.  The booking officer shuffled some papers.  Andrea pulled the trinket out of her pocket.  The shine and swirl was all gone.  Just a cheap trinket from the dollar store.