You really want to find that treasure, and you don’t know of any other way to get to the Epcot center, so it looks like you’ll have to play a game of "I Spy Inside Dix’s Pants."

You spend a few moments mentally preparing yourself for what is sure to be a tremendous, and lifelong trauma. Finally, after spending about five minutes in your happy place, you tell Dix that you’re ready to take a look in his trousers.

"Terrific," he exclaims. "Just give me a moment to whip ‘em out."

You close your eyes and grit your teeth, as you hear a zipper being unzipped. In the corner of your mind, you can barely make out the words, "here they are…"

Well, no time like the present, you think to yourself. You open your eyes, expecting to see the worst.

"What do you think? Can you fix ‘em?"

Dix is holding a pair of pants before you with the zipper down and a good-sized tear in the backside. "Never really been much of a seamstress myself. If you can patch these up, I’ll be more than willing to give you a lift to the Epcot center. Why, I’d even be willing to make you an honorary homeopath!"

Something about the way he said that last part makes you feel uncomfortable. Especially since you’re holding onto his pants. Regardless, you tell him that you can fix his pants, no problem. Although your last attempt at sewing ended with you choking on a bobbin and putting a needle through your thumb, you’re almost positive that this time will be different.

You get started right away. Fortunately for you, you kept that thumb-piercing death needle with you ever since that fateful day, and there’s plenty of loose string coming off of your own crummy clothes. You grab some thread and start trying to thread the needle (of doom). Trying to get the thread through the eye of the needle is hard enough as it is, but it’s even harder now that you’re careening down the highway at breakneck speeds.

It is then that you realize that Dix is still holding the pants, instead of watching the road. Or holding the steering wheel, for that matter. You casually mention to him that he should get back to driving, and he does so, just in time to swerve into the next lane over to avoid a fast-approaching minivan. Once he composes himself, Dix asks you if you want to get something to eat. You barely hear over the grinding of your own teeth as you prepare your twenty-third attempt to thread the damned needle, but you do manage a nod. This sewing business really takes it out of you.

"Alright, how about McDonald’s? There’s an exit coming up a few miles down… THERE!? Oh crap! Hold on!"

Dix grabs the wheel and turns with all his might in the hopes of making it to the last McDonald’s for at least two miles. You don’t hear his warning because you are too busy celebrating the fact that you have finally threaded the needle that had wronged you so in the past. You are thrown into Dix as he makes the turn, and as soon as he finishes it, he roughly shoves you back, causing you to brace your arm on the window and inadvertently drive the threaded needle through your ear and into your brain. "Damn you needle," you think to yourself. "You wounded me back then, and now you’ve finished the job!" In your last moments, you hear Dix talking to himself:

"Damnit, now I’ll have to find another drifter to fix my trousers."

YOU'RE DEAD! SEW WHAT? START OVER!