They were clever.  They discovered the wind, and requisitioned an airplane. Twins.  No, triplets, but the extra one was sold on the black market at a very young age.  I heard the buyers were strictly alien.  I mean, quite extraterrestrial.  But that’s absurd.  So-and-so, they’re well enough off, high on the hog if you catch my drift.  Rock star plush, own their own bowling alley.  They don’t even bother to shop for the BMW, his-and-hers expressly delivered just in time for the holidays. You heard about the private zoo? Exclusive.  More like a resort.  For purposes of ‘experimentation’, of course. Since everything comes around, you know, that goes around.  With a sublime combination of savvy and luck, they may live to see the day, ripe old age and such, that ol’ #3 will find his way back, for a reunion of sorts, of genetic design.  Candles and cake albeit, telemetry, telepathy, a tight beer gut to go with the ill-fitting striped blazer.