3 Cj: Night At The Museum

CJ stumbled. Jedediah caught him. The cowboy’s legs were gone now, just two stumps of dissolving resin. He lay in Jedediah’s arms, looking up at the vast ceiling of the British Museum.

The Egyptian wing was a disaster zone. The Tablet’s decay was worst here. A sphinx sneezed and crumbled into sand. A row of shabti figurines twitched and fell over like dominoes. And in the center, standing before a broken, unopened sarcophagus, was the man they needed: Merenkahre. But he wasn’t a wise old pharaoh. He was a ghost—a flickering, translucent projection of rage. night at the museum 3 cj

“He’s headin’ for the Egyptian wing!” Jedediah shouted. CJ stumbled

“Ain’t about leaving, pardner,” CJ said, smiling as a flake of paint fell from his lip. “It’s about the ride.” He lay in Jedediah’s arms, looking up at

Their first encounter was with Sir Lancelot, played by Dan Stevens. He was handsome, noble, and dumber than a bag of rusty nails. Lancelot had been awakened by a stray flicker of the dying tablet and was convinced that the “golden glow” (the rust on the Tablet) was the Holy Grail. He snatched it and bolted.

Larry knelt down, cupping his hands. CJ crawled into Larry’s palm. The warmth there was real—not magic, just human.

Behind him, Jedediah gasped. “CJ?”