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This Mean This

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Woodruff crouched next to Bob in a muddy wash, the roots of a mighty tree jutted out of the ground between them.  They fought, in vain, against their panting breaths as quietly as they could.  Woodruff’s hair was matted to his head in a sweaty mess, while Bob’s face and neck was covered with mud and grass.

“Just leave me, Bob, I’m not going to make it.”

“Don’t say that.”

“It just all went wrong.”

“I know.”

“It’s my fault.”

“It’s not your fault.”

Bob slowly peeked over the berm behind them, out at the deathly still field that stretched out to a distance tree line.  He slumped back down and closed his eyes.

“Did you see anything?”

“Nothing.”

“We’re in trouble.”

“Yeah.”

The acknowledgement of the cold hard truth hung in the air.

“Bob?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m scared.”

“How’s your leg?” Bob asked, unable to speak his own fear.

“I’ll live, I think.”

Woodruff lifted his bloody leg out of the sludge, his pant leg torn right down the middle to reveal the painful gash.

“Can you run?”

“I’m not sure.”

Bob grimaced and turned himself around to face the protective wall of grass and black clay.  He stretched his neck up and peered out over the field.  There was no sound and nothing moved outside of the blades of grass shaking slightly on the breeze.

“I don’t see them anywhere.”

“They’re out there.”

“Maybe they left.”

“Why would they do that?” Woodruff demanded, with his attention on his wound.

“I don’t know,” Bob replied.  “It’s 4:30, maybe they went home to watch People’s Court.”

“Yeah, Bob, I’m sure that killing machines, bred for stealth and destruction, paused from their ongoing mission to annihilate mankind to watch People’s Court.”

“It’s riveting television, that’s all I’m saying.”

“We need to focus, or neither of us is going to make it out of this alive.”

“You’re right, we need a plan.”

“Maybe we could wait them out,” Woodruff suggested.  “It will be dark soon, we could try to sneak out under the cover of night.”

“No good,” Bob said.  “If we move they’ll be able to sense the tremors of our footsteps on the ground.”

“What if we lure them out?”

“Are you crazy?  That’s like challenging Mike Tyson to a game of Rock ‘em Sock ‘em Robots.”

“Is Mike Tyson good at Rock ‘em Sock ‘em Robots?”

“I assume.”

Woodruff shrugged and nodded along.  Bob drew in a deep breath through his nose and sighed.

“We’ve only got one choice.”

“Surrender.”

“No!” Bob exclaimed.  “An all-out frontal assault, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid style.”

“Don’t they die?” Woodruff asked.

“The freeze frame finale is unclear.”

“Which one of us is Butch Cassidy and which one is the Sundance Kid?”

“I’m clearly Butch Cassidy.”

“Even though I called dibs on young Paul Newman if my life story is ever made into a movie.”

“How would that even be possible?” Bob asked.  “He died, like ten years ago.”

“CGI,” Woodruff replied.  “They did it with Peter Cushing, with Jeff Bridges, they’ve been doing it with Rob Lowe for years.”

“Fine, you can be Butch Cassidy.”

“Alright then, it’s settled.  Kill or be killed.”

“If I’m going to bite the dust, I’m glad it’s with you.”

“Me too,” Woodruff said.  “It’s been an absolute pleasure, like our super bowl party.”

“Those bowls were super.”

“And soup-er.”

“My favorite was the stainless steel punch bowl.”

“Don’t forget about the finger bowls.”

“Or the spice bowls.”

“Never forget the spice bowls.”

“Woodruff, it’s been an honor.”

He shined a smile on Bob, as tears pooled in the corners of his eyes.

“On 3,” Woodruff said, clearing a tickle in his throat.  “1, 2…”

“Wait, is it go on 3 or 1, 2, 3, go?”

“Doesn’t matter, pick one.”

“Fine, let’s go on 3.”

“All right, 1, 2…”

“I changed my mind, 3 and then go.”

“Okay,” Woodruff drew in a deep breath and scowled at Bob.  “1, 2…”

“What if we count down from 10?”

“Bob, you’re stalling.”

“I’m not stalling, I’m…uh, I’m styling?  Stoking?  Staging?”

“What are you two do’n in the ditch?” a raspy voice called from above them.

Woodruff and Bob looked up at a scrawny old man in a straw hat and a pair of bib overalls.

“Get down, Farmer Brown,” Woodruff said.

“Hey, that rhymed,” Bob’s voice chimed.

“What happened to your leg?” Farmer Brown asked, as he climbed down into the ditch.

“Stepped in one of their holes as we were escaping,” Woodruff explained.

“Escaping?” the farmer asked.  “Escaping what?”

“Them,” Bob said and pointed toward the open field.

Farmer Brown lifted his straw hat and scratched at his thin gray hair as he looked out over the field.  He pursed his lips and shook his head, as he turned back to Woodruff and Bob.

“I hired you boys ‘cause ya said you could git rid of my problem.”

“They proved more ferocious than anticipated,” Woodruff replied.

“They’re gophers,” the farmer sighed.

“Ferocious gophers,” Bob added.

“We tried playing music, because gophers don’t like loud noises,” Woodruff said.

“Who told ya that?”

“Wikihow,” Bob replied.  “But they must not be Fleetwood Mac fans because it just made them angry.”

“It ain’t that hard, ya goobers,” Farmer Brown said, as he shook a burlap sack in the air.  “Ya just get some dog droppings and put them ‘round their holes.  They’ll bugger off if they think there’s a predator about.”

“Dog droppings?”

“But we don’t have a dog?”

“Well, most any critter would do,” Farmer Brown said.

“You know, they may not be leaving because they think there’s a predator,” Woodruff said.  “Maybe they’re leaving because you put poo on their doorstep.”

“That’s why Uncle Charles left us.”

“I thought you said your Uncle Charles died?”

“He did,” Bob said.  “He slipped on a frozen turd on the doormat.”

“I can’t believe ya’ll wasted a whole morning on foolishness.”

“That’s nothing,” Woodruff replied.  “We once wasted a weekend on malarkey and hogwash.”

“Haha, yeah,” Bob said.  “Who knew lemmings were such followers?”

“That’s it,” Farmer Brown said.  He took off his straw hat and hurled it down into the mud.  “I’ll take care of these varmints myself.”

With the burlap sack in one hand, the old farmer took hold of the tree roots on climbed up out of the ditch.

“Be careful,” Woodruff said.  “They’re really riled up.”

“Shoulda known when they asked to be paid with pie,” the old farmer muttered.

He shook his head and disappeared over the grassy berm.  Woodruff and Bob waited anxiously for sounds of conflict.  After several minutes of silence, they heard the pounding footsteps of the old farmer and the chatter of an army of ground dwelling rodents in the distance.  Farmer Brown came tumbling back into the ditch with his overalls covered in dog droppings.  Bob plugged his nose and Woodruff held his breath.

“This means war,” Farmer Brown said.

“No it doesn’t,” Bob said.  “This means this.”

“What are you blabbering about?” the old farmer demanded.

“This doesn’t mean war,” Bob replied.  “War is a state of open armed conflict between two hostile groups.”

“He’s right,” Woodruff said.  “This is used to identify a specify thing or a situation just mentioned.  This cannot mean war, this means this.”

The old farmer’s mouth fell open and he looked above Woodruff and Bob with terror in his eyes.  They turned around to see a gopher standing atop the berm with a menacing expression on his furry face and a turd in his little paw.

“They’re hostile and they’ve armed themselves!” Woodruff yelled.

“Run for you lives!” Bob shouted, as they turned and scurried out of the ditch.

Nothing But Nest

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“Is that the last McGriddle?” Woodruff asked.

Bob dug through the wadded up napkins in the greasy bag, until he found the bottom.  He looked at the breakfast sandwich, wrapped in yellow paper, and then back at Woodruff.  With a solemn nod of his head, Bob confirmed the awful truth.

“I’ll play you for it,” Woodruff said as he waved his putter at Bob.

“Oh, now you want to play golf,” Bob said.  “Two minutes ago you were all ‘You can’t play golf in Central Park, Bob.’  And now…”

“No, I said there’s not golf course in Central Park, Bob.”

“Ba!” Bob scoffed.  “That doesn’t matter.”

“Uh, I think it does.”

“Look at all this grass,”

“And people.”

“And trees.”

“And people.

“It even has water hazards.”

“And people!”

“No problem, before you hit the ball just give one of these,” Bob said as he turned and cupped his hands around his mouth.  “Fore!”

Several pedestrians ducked and look frantically in Bob’s direction.

“Would you knock it off,” Woodruff said.  “You’re going to give somebody a heart attack.”

“You can’t give somebody a heart attack,” Bob said.  “You can cause a heart attack.  I’ve done that.  Six times.”

“You’ve caused six heart attacks?”

“That depends, are we talking strictly about people or are you including raccoons?”

“Let’s include all living things with hearts that can be attacked.”

“Oh, then I’ve cause eight heart attacks.”

Woodruff shook his head at his friend, who sat next to him on the park bench.  Two blonde women jogged by in matching pink outfits and smiled at Woodruff and Bob.  Woodruff waved at the joggers as Bob began to unwrap the McGriddle.

“Hey!” Woodruff protested.

“What?”

“We haven’t decided who gets to eat that.”

“You were serious?”

“Yeah, I’ll play you for it.”

“You know the old adage,” Bob said.  “Never mess with a lumberjack when pancakes and sausage are on the line.”

“But you’re not a lumberjack,” Woodruff replied.

“Ancestry DNA says I’m 0.000017 percent lumberjack.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

“Your funeral.”

“How is losing a breakfast sandwich my funeral?”

“Have you ever been to a funeral?” Bob said.  “There are zero breakfast sandwiches.”

“True.”

A brisk breeze blew an empty coffee cup down the cobblestone walkway until it lodged between the curb and the bench across from Woodruff and Bob.

“Okay, we’ll go shot for shot until somebody misses,” Bob said.  “I’m going across the cobblestone and into that cup.”

“Deal.”

Bob squinted one eye nearly closed and lined up his put.  He drew in a shallow breath and struck the ball.  It danced across the old stones in the sidewalk and slid right into the cup.

“Boom!  That’s how it’s done!”

“Calm down,” Woodruff said.  “Watch this.”

Woodruff produced a florescent orange golf ball and placed it at his feet.  He surveyed the cup for a moment and checked for passersby before he looked back up at Bob.  With a grin and a wink, Woodruff smacked the orange golf ball, while keeping his eyes on Bob.  The orange blur went shooting across the cobblestone and careened into the Styrofoam cup on top of Bob’s ball.

“Daaaaang, Woodruff!”

“That greasy McGriddle is as good as mine.”

“All right,” Bob said with a bow.  “After you then.”

They let a second pair of joggers pass by and retrieved their golf balls from the cup.  Woodruff hurried up the walkway with Bob on his heels.  They stopped at a fork in the path.  One fork led out to a large pond and the other bent back toward a grassy knoll.  A mischievous smile spread across Woodruff’s face.

“Time to take this game up a notch.”

“I’m ready.”

“Okay, down this path, off that turtle shell, and up into the trash can.”

“No way.”

“Watch.”

Woodruff dropped his ball and hit it before it came to a rest.  The ball raced down the path, straight for the turtle that was resting on the bank of the pond.  There was a loud crack as the ball bounced off the shell and looped back into the trash can.

“Whoa!”

The startled turtle began to retreat into the pond.

“Yeah, the turtle’s leaving!” Bob cried.

“You’d better hurry then.”

“That’s not fair.”

“All’s fair in love and pancakes.”

Bob quickly squatted down and placed his ball on the ground.  He plucked a blade of grass and dropped it gently in front of him to gage the wind.  The turtle had just reached the edge of the water when Bob stood up and whacked the ball down the path.  It slowed in the mud only slightly before striking the turtle shell and popping up and in the trash can.

“Booya!  Beat that!”

“That was impressive.”

“Impressive?  I hit a turtle fleeing into the water.  That’s nearly impossible.”

“Nah, I once shot into a kangaroo’s pouch at a hundred yards, and she was hopping away from a dingo.”

“Why would you shoot a golf ball at a kangaroo hopping away from a dingo?”

“Everyone knows an adult dingo cannot swallow a full sized golf ball,” Woodruff explained.  “She used it as a choking hazard and got away.”

“Clever girl.”

“Your turn.”

After retrieving their golf balls, Bob followed the path that led around the grassy knoll.  He picked a spot just clear of a grouping of large maple trees and held up his fingers to form a square.  Bob peered through his finger square and panned from one end of a long walking bridge to the other.

“Over the bridge, off the park bench, nothing but nest.”

“Let’s see it.”

Bob settled over the tiny white ball and swung his hips from side to side.

“Be the ball,” Bob whispered.

With a deep breath, he closed his eyes and drew back his club.  A swing and a clack sent the golf ball flying into the air over the gothic bridge.  The sound of a ping echoed back under the bridge as the white sphere hit the iron park bench and flew high up into the old maple tree.  It landed softly in an abandon nest of twigs and leaves.

“Nice shot!” Woodruff said.

“Thank you,” Bob replied with a deep bow.

“That’s going to be tough.”

“Tougher than hitting a hopping kangaroo at a hundred yards?”

“No,” Woodruff smiled and dropped his ball in front of him.

“Hey!” a deep voice shouted as Woodruff drew back his club.  Woodruff looked up at the shouting man, who wore a suit that matched his jet black hair.  His swing sent the ball flying toward the man in the suit.  The man ducked and the ball hit the lamp post behind him and flew over the bridge and up into the nest.  “What are you doing?”

“Uh, playing for the last McGriddle,” Bob said.

“And you totally yelled in my back swing.”

“Yeah, uncool.”

“You can’t play golf in Central Park,” the man in the suit protested.  “Your gonna hurt someone.”

“You really should have yelled fore, Woodruff.”

“My bad.”

“You guys are nuts!” the man in the suit waved his arms in disgust and walked back under the bridge.

Woodruff and Bob shrugged their shoulders and wandered into the grass.

“Okay, my shot.”

“Nuh uh, you lost.”

“Did not,” Woodruff argued and pointed up at the old maple tree.  “Nothing but nest.”

“Over the bridge, off the park bench, nothing but nest.  Not over the yelling guy, off the lamp post, over the bridge, nothing but nest.  Doesn’t count.”

“Well last round you hit the mud before you hit the turtle.”

“So we’re both disqualified then.”

“Fine, so who gets that delicious breakfast sandwich?”

Bob looked over at a row of park benches.  An old man, with holes in his shoes, was sleeping under a newspaper.  Bob looked back to Woodruff, who gave an affirming nod.  Gently, Bob nudged the sleeping man with holes in his shoes.  The old man stirred and sat up.  He looked down at the yellow wrapper in Bob’s hand.

“Excuse me, sir,” Bob said.  “Would you hold this for me while I race my friend down to the pond and back?”

Woodruff turned and bolted up the path.

“Winner gets the McGriddle!” Woodruff shouted.

“Cheater!” Bob cried.

The man with holes in his shoes watched as they raced away from him.  When they were out of sight he unwrapped the greasy sandwich and took a bite while he perused his paper.

Raiders of the Last Gardyloo

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A white mist covered the top of the waters as the skiff sailed forward.  Even without the fog, their visibility would have been limited by the thick leaves crowding the narrow waterway.  Woodruff leaned over the bow and peered through the haze.

“You ever wonder what they do with the sleeves from sleeveless shirts?” Bob asked, leaning comfortable on the boat’s dormant motor.

“What?”

“The shirt sleeves, what do they do with them?”

“On a sleeveless shirt?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t think they were ever there.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“How come?”

“Because shirts have sleeves.”

“Not sleeveless ones.”

“Sleeveless what?”

“Shirts.”

“Exactly.”

“What are you talking about?”

“What’s the difference between pants and shirts?”

“You where pants to cover your legs and shirts to cover…”

“Your arms, right?”

“And your torso.”

“But your pants could cover your arms and torso.”

“No, there’s no hole for your head, no collar, and the legs aren’t cut to fit your arms.”

“But your shirt could cover your legs?”

“I guess, as long as it had sleeves.”

“Exactly, so a shirt has to have sleeves.”

“I’m not following you, Bob.”

“All’s I’m saying is that if it didn’t have sleeves, ever, it shouldn’t be called a shirt,” Bob replied.  “It should be called a torso covering with arm holes.”

“I’m not going to argue with you,” Woodruff said.

“Because I’m right.”

“Because you’re crazy.”

“You’ve never wondered what happens to the sleeves from a sleeveless shirt?”

“No!”

Bob slumped his shoulders and pouted.  Woodruff shook his head and turned back to the bow.  The gentle sloshing of the water and the distant chirping of insects was the only thing cutting through the silence, which loomed as thick and heavy as the fog.

“We should open a sleeve shelter,” Bob finally said.  “Where we find loving homes for unwanted sleeves.”

Woodruff turned around and opened his mouth to speak, but words failed him.

“We could call it Forsaken Sleeve,” Bob continued.

Woodruff just stared blankly at his friend.

“Our slogan could be Tanks for your chari-Tee.”

Before Woodruff could respond, the skiff crashed into something and flung Woodruff overboard.  The off balanced vessel also tossed Bob into the murky water.

Bob quickly rescued his brown fedora from the drink and swam to Woodruff.  He held his head up out of the water and paddled back to the boat, with Woodruff in tow.  They both grabbed hold of the side of their watercraft and looked to see what had struck it.  Rising out of the mist was an ancient stone wall with green moss growing through the cracks.

“We’re here,” Woodruff said.

“So cool.”

With Woodruff pulling from the bow and Bob pushing from the stern, they followed the stone wall to a grassy bank and climbed ashore.  Woodruff squeegeed his wet pants while Bob shook water to all sides like a dog.  The mist dissipated as they climbed the stone steps that led up the hill, next to the towering wall.

“How do you know it’s here?” Bob asked, as he flopped a sopping wet fedora on his head.

“In the tenth century the Queen of Sheba traveled to Jerusalem to seek the wisdom of King Solomon,” Woodruff began.  “Her son Menelik is said to be the fruit of that meeting.  The legend says when Menelik left Jerusalem, to return to the country of his mother, he and his party took the ark with them.  It is said to have rested here ever since, guarded by celibate monks who vow to protect the ark for as long as they live.”

“Wow,” Bob said.  “Where did you learn about all that?”

“Wikipedia.”

They were met with a rod iron gate at the top of the hill, where the mist parted and the sun shone down on the structure like a heavenly spotlight.  Beyond the gate was a beautiful garden, surrounding a circular structure made of wood and stone.  A lone figure in a dark robe approached them.

“I am Father Haile Silas,” the man in the dark robe said.  “How may I help you?”

“Hi, I’m Woodruff and this is Bob.”

“We’ve come to see the ark.”

Woodruff shot a reproving look at his over anxious friend.  Bob raised his arms and, with his mouth opened slightly, shook his head back at Woodruff.  The monk stood silently and did not address Bob’s declaration.

“Yeah, um, we…” Woodruff struggled to recover in the face of the hooded gatekeeper.

“You know, the one that was on Indiana Jones,” Bob continued.

Woodruff again turned back to Bob with an earnest non-verbal petition for his silence.

“Do you get movies out here?” Bob asked the monk.  “You know, Doctor Jones.  Adventure archeologist.  The whip, the fedora.  Nazis.  Nothing?”

The monk gently removed his hood and peered at the two visitors.

“I am the guardian of the ark you speak of,” Father Silas said.  “Only those who have been anointed and taken an everlasting oath to protect it are permitted to see the ark.”

“Cool, I’m down.”

“Bob, he’s serious.”

“So am I.  This isn’t our first everlasting oath.  We signed that non-disclosure with Crayola and they don’t mess around when it comes to protecting their color palette.”

“The anointed have been brought up and prepared for the express purpose of bearing this glorious burden, passed down for thousands of years.”

“So that’s a no?”

The monk simply stared back at Bob with a resolute expression on his face.

“Bob, we should go.  Sorry to have disturbed you.”

“You’re giving up, just like that?”

“You heard him, we are not permitted to see it.”

Woodruff turned back to the monk and bowed.

“Again, we are sorry to have disturbed you.”

“Yes, totally.  Sorry to disturb, but could we use your bathroom before we go,” Bob said.  “That wat I had for breakfast is not agreeing with me.  Ya know, curry does a number the old bowels.”

The monk raised an eyebrow and examined Bob carefully.  Woodruff grinned uncomfortably as the trio stood in silence.

“You know, the little explorer’s room?” Bob explained.  “The restroom.  The outhouse.  The water closet.  The powder room.  The John.  The toilet?  The loo?”

After another long pause Father Silas produced an old skeleton key from beneath his robe and unlocked the gate.  He pulled it open and gestured for Woodruff and Bob to enter.  Once inside, the old monk closed and locked the gate and led the way down a small footpath, away from the circular stone church.

“What are you up to?” Woodruff whispered.

“I’ve got a plan,” Bob spoke through grit teeth as he smiled at the monk, who momentarily turned to observe them.  “I’ll distract him and you run over to the church and get a look at the ark.”

“I’m not going to do that.”

“Fine,” Bob whispered.  “You distract him and I’ll go.”

“Bob…”

The monk stopped in front of a small wooden structure and gestured into the dark opening.  Bob bowed as he passed by Woodruff and entered the outhouse.  Inside, he discovered a long rectangular window at the back of the facilities.  Bob tossed his fedora through the window and quickly squeezed himself through the opening and let himself down the back side of the outhouse.  There he found the old monk waiting for him, with Woodruff standing off in the distance with his arms folded.

“Oh, uh, yeah, funny story,” Bob stammered, as he scooped up his fedora.  “I was, uh, just…”

“We have guarded the ark for over three thousand years,” Father Silas said.  “You think you’re the first one to try the old bathroom ploy?”

“Can’t blame a guy for trying,” Bob grinned sheepishly and fidgeted with his hat.

Father Silas escorted Woodruff and Bob back to the iron gate and out of the sanctuary.

“Again, so sorry for all this,” Woodruff said.

“Do you have like a gift shop where we can buy a survivor or something,” Bob said.  “You know, just to prove we’ve been here.”

The solemn monk turned, without a word, and began to walk back toward the old church.

“It could be anything really,” Bob said loudly.  “A brochure, a commemorative coin.  The latch of your saddle, the sleeve of your shirt.”

Father Silas turned back and smiled.

“Under these robes we do not wear shirts,” the old monk replied.  “We wear a torso coverings with arm holes.”

“See?” Bob said.  “These monks get it.”

Ho Ho No

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“So you’re saying they weren’t even there?” Bob asked.

“Scripturally speaking, no,” Woodruff replied.

“And the camels?”

“I’m afraid not, they are most likely representations that the men came from foreign lands to the east.”

“I feel so betrayed.”

“The nativity is really a combination of the New Testament account in chapters two of Luke and Mathew, but the shepherds are the only ones that we know who were actually there on that night.”

“What about the donkey?”

“There were most likely livestock, as the manger that the baby was laid in was for feeding them.”

“You’re blowing my mind.”

Woodruff and Bob continued to walk down the snow covered street, between the snow banks from the road and the recently shoveled driveways.  Bob fidgeted with one of the bags in his hands and Woodruff looked up at the starry sky.

“We don’t actually know how long it took for the wise men to find Jesus, after they saw the new star,” Woodruff continued.

“So Jesus didn’t actually get any gifts on His birthday?” Bob asked.

“After the angels left the field, the shepherds came and found the baby and worshipped him,” Woodruff said.  “The gold, frankincense, and myrrh came later with the wise men.”

“When we get home I’m going to put those three kings in the bathroom.”

“Why the bathroom?”

“I can’t think of a more foreign land than the bathroom.”

“Good point.”

The homes on the street were adorned with bright, multi-colored lights, wreaths, and snowmen.  Woodruff and Bob stopped in front of the only house on the street with no decorations at all.

“This is the place?” Bob asked.

“Yep, this is him.”

“You ready?”

“Let’s do this.”

Woodruff and Bob crouched down and snuck up the walkway to the darkened doorway.  Bob placed the bags on the porch next to the doormat.  Woodruff and Bob reached in together and pulled out a box, wrapped in bright red paper.  Woodruff nodded to Bob as they set the box gently in front of the door.  Bob checked to the darkened windows to the right and left of the door, and rang the doorbell.

“Run!” Bob whisper-yelled.

Bob ran back down the walkway and across the street, without looking back.  Woodruff scooped up the bag and followed quickly behind him.  When they were safely on the other side of the street they slid behind the snow banks and peeked back toward the old house.

“Do you think he’s home?” Bob asked.

“He’s home,” Woodruff said.  “He almost never leaves.”

A faint light from a lamp switched on inside the house, beyond the curtains.

“See,” Woodruff said.  “This is it.”

The front door opened and a skinny gray-haired man pushed open the screen door and looked down at the bright red box.

“This is usually where they try and stomp out the flaming bag,” Bob whispered.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

The skinny gray-haired man bent down and picked up the box.  He looked out toward the snowy street and scanned from one end to the other.  The box began to shake and the skinny gray-haired man placed it back down on his porch.  He tore off the wrapping paper and pulled open the box.  Out popped a brown and white puppy, which jumped into the skinny arms of the gray-haired man.  The puppy licked the skinny old face of the gray-haired man, as he gently caressed its brown and white head and scratched behind its ears.

“This is what it’s all about, Bob.”

“Yeah, this is way better than a flaming bag of poo.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Woodruff and Bob lay in the snow, behind the cover of snow, until the skinny gray-haired man took the puppy and the box into his home and closed the door.

“Now he won’t be lonely anymore,” Woodruff said.

“How do you know he was lonely?”

“For all the years I’ve lived across from him, I’ve never seen him have a visitor.”

“That’s sad.”

“I’ve invited him to dinners, and parties, and game nights, but he’s never come.”

“Maybe he doesn’t like you, or maybe it’s that shampoo that makes your hair smell like walnuts,” Bob said.  “It’s confusing and unsettling.”

“I know,” Woodruff replied.  “But I don’t think that’s it.”

Woodruff stood up from behind the snow bank and Bob joined him.  Woodruff led the way up his brightly lit walkway to his front porch, which was ablaze with blinking multi-colored lights.

“Do you think it’s because you’re so tall and he got a look up your nose?” Bob said.  “That happened to me once and I’ve never been able to look at you the same.”

“No, that’s not it,” Woodruff said.  “I think he’s agoraphobic.”

“He’s afraid of acorns?”

“No, he doesn’t like open spaces or big groups.”

“Oh.”

They turned and looked back at the house across the street.  The silhouette of a skinny gray-haired man and a prancing puppy could be seen through the lamp-lit curtains.  Woodruff reached into the bag and pulled out a box, covered in shiny green paper with a red bow.  He handed it to Bob with a big smile.

“Happy Christmas, Bob.”

With a twinkle in his eye, Bob pulled the top off the box and pulled out a glimmering glass snow globe.

“Hey,” Bob said, looking inside the glass ball.  “It’s us.  Is that?”

“Yep,” Woodruff said.  “That’s us, standing on top of Devils Tower.  I had it made.”

“Cool,” Bob said.  “I love it.”

“I know you were disappointed we didn’t have a close encounter.”

“If I’m gonna climb to a laccolithic butte, carrying a keyboard, I expect to see some aliens.”

“I know,” Woodruff said.  “But it was a pretty epic day, anyway.  Like every day since we met.”

Bob smiled and they nodded at one another.  Suddenly, there was a prancing and pawing sound on the rooftop.

“A clatter,” Bob whispered as they both looked up at the ceiling of the porch.  They followed the sound of boots clomping across the roof, toward the chimney.  There was a whooshing sound down the chimney to the fireplace and a loud crash.

“Ho, oh, ow!” a cry came from inside the house.

“What was that?”

“Remember on your list, where you wrote you wanted to meet Santa?”

“Bob, what did you do?”

 

Woodruff threw open the door and turned on the lamp,

To find a stranger flailing, and dangling, with his foot in a clamp.

 

His world upside down, he looked jolly and weird,

From his chubby old ankles to his snowy white beard.

 

The blood rushed to his face, which was red as a cherry,

And he squirmed when he yelped, like a dog on the prairie.

 

His sack had exploded and burst on the floor,

As two friends stood gawking, by the chilly front door.

 

“Woodruff, meet Santa,” Bob boldly declared.

As Woodruff’s mouth fell open, half delighted, half scared.

The Twelve Days of Cajoling

Posted on by Aaron Blaylock | Posted in BlogTagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , Leave a Comment on The Twelve Days of Cajoling

12 Fun and Easy Ways to Support An Author.  Pick one or all 12!

List and links at the bottom.

On the first day of cajoling an author begged from me
A nomination for the Whitney’s (Nominate Crooked Top Mountain for a 2018 Whitney Award)

On the second day of cajoling an author begged from me
Two Facebook ‘Likes”, (“Like” my Facebook page or share it with your friends) and
A nomination for the Whitney’s (Nominate Crooked Top Mountain for a 2018 Whitney Award)

On the third day of cajoling an author begged from me
Three shared books (Share The Land of Look Behind, The Unsaid, and Crooked Top Mountain)
Two Facebook ‘Likes”, (“Like” my Facebook page or share it with your friends) and
A nomination for the Whitney’s (Nominate Crooked Top Mountain for a 2018 Whitney Award)

On the fourth day of cajoling an author begged from me
Four ebook’s read (Read one of my free ebooks or check out Crooked Top Mountain for just $0.99 cents)
Three shared books (Share The Land of Look Behind, The Unsaid, and Crooked Top Mountain)
Two Facebook ‘Likes”, (“Like” my Facebook page or share it with your friends) and
A nomination for the Whitney’s (Nominate Crooked Top Mountain for a 2018 Whitney Award)

On the fifth day of cajoling an author begged from me
Five Star Reviews (Review any of my books, it means the world to me, whatever the rating)
Four ebook’s read (Read one of my free ebooks or check out Crooked Top Mountain for just $0.99 cents)
Three shared books (Share The Land of Look Behind, The Unsaid, and Crooked Top Mountain)
Two Facebook ‘Likes”, (“Like” my Facebook page or share it with your friends) and
A nomination for the Whitney’s (Nominate Crooked Top Mountain for a 2018 Whitney Award)

On the sixth day of cajoling an author begged from me
Six tweeps retweeting (Follow me on Twitter, like, reply, or retweet to one of my tweets)
Five Star Reviews (Review any of my books, it means the world to me, whatever the rating)
Four ebook’s read (Read one of my free ebooks or check out Crooked Top Mountain for just $0.99 cents)
Three shared books (Share The Land of Look Behind, The Unsaid, and Crooked Top Mountain)
Two Facebook ‘Likes”, (“Like” my Facebook page or share it with your friends) and
A nomination for the Whitney’s (Nominate Crooked Top Mountain for a 2018 Whitney Award)

On the seventh day of cajoling an author begged from me
Seven fans reviewing (Review/Recommend my books on Goodreads)
Six tweeps retweeting (Follow me on Twitter, like, reply, or retweet to one of my tweets)
Five Star Reviews (Review any of my books, it means the world to me, whatever the rating)
Four ebook’s read (Read one of my free ebooks or check out Crooked Top Mountain for just $0.99 cents)
Three shared books (Share The Land of Look Behind, The Unsaid, and Crooked Top Mountain)
Two Facebook ‘Likes’, (“Like” my Facebook page or share it with your friends) and
A nomination for the Whitney’s (Nominate Crooked Top Mountain for a 2018 Whitney Award)

On the eighth day of cajoling an author begged from me
Eight new readers (Read the misadventures of Woodruff and Bob)
Seven fans reviewing (Review/Recommend my books on Goodreads)
Six tweeps retweeting (Follow me on Twitter, like, reply, or retweet to one of my tweets)
Five Star Reviews (Review any of my books, it means the world to me, whatever the rating)
Four ebook’s read (Read one of my free ebooks or check out Crooked Top Mountain for just $0.99 cents)
Three shared books (Share The Land of Look Behind, The Unsaid, and Crooked Top Mountain)
Two Facebook ‘Likes”, (“Like” my Facebook page or share it with your friends) and
A nomination for the Whitney’s (Nominate Crooked Top Mountain for a 2018 Whitney Award)

On the ninth day of cajoling an author begged from me
Nine pins on Pinterest (Pin one of my books, blogs, or pics, and/or follow me on Pinterest)
Eight new readers (Read the misadventures of Woodruff and Bob)
Seven fans reviewing (Review/Recommend my books on Goodreads)
Six tweeps retweeting (Follow me on Twitter, like, reply, or retweet to one of my tweets)
Five Star Reviews (Review any of my books, it means the world to me, whatever the rating)
Four ebook’s read (Read one of my free ebooks or check out Crooked Top Mountain for just $0.99 cents)
Three shared books (Share The Land of Look Behind, The Unsaid, and Crooked Top Mountain)
Two Facebook ‘Likes”, (“Like” my Facebook page or share it with your friends) and
A nomination for the Whitney’s (Nominate Crooked Top Mountain for a 2018 Whitney Award)

On the tenth day of cajoling an author begged from me
Ten friends a-sharing (Watch my book trailers on YouTube and share with your friends)
Nine pins on Pinterest (Pin one of my books, blogs, or pics, and/or follow me on Pinterest)
Eight new readers (Read the misadventures of Woodruff and Bob)
Seven fans reviewing (Review/Recommend my books on Goodreads)
Six tweeps retweeting (Follow me on Twitter, like, reply, or retweet to one of my tweets)
Five Star Reviews (Review any of my books, it means the world to me, whatever the rating)
Four ebook’s read (Read one of my free ebooks or check out Crooked Top Mountain for just $0.99 cents)
Three shared books (Share The Land of Look Behind, The Unsaid, and Crooked Top Mountain)
Two Facebook ‘Likes”, (“Like” my Facebook page or share it with your friends) and
A nomination for the Whitney’s (Nominate Crooked Top Mountain for a 2018 Whitney Award)

On the eleventh day of cajoling an author begged from me
Eleven people talking (talk with me about my books, or better yet, tell somebody about my books)
Ten friends a-sharing (Watch my book trailers on YouTube and share with your friends)
Nine pins on Pinterest (Pin one of my books, blogs, or pics, and/or follow me on Pinterest)
Eight new readers (Read the misadventures of Woodruff and Bob)
Seven fans reviewing (Review/Recommend my books on Goodreads)
Six tweeps retweeting (Follow me on Twitter, like, reply, or retweet to one of my tweets)
Five Star Reviews (Review any of my books, it means the world to me, whatever the rating)
Four ebook’s read (Read one of my free ebooks or check out Crooked Top Mountain for just $0.99 cents)
Three shared books (Share The Land of Look Behind, The Unsaid, and Crooked Top Mountain)
Two Facebook ‘Likes”, (“Like” my Facebook page or share it with your friends) and
A nomination for the Whitney’s (Nominate Crooked Top Mountain for a 2018 Whitney Award)

On the twelfth day of cajoling an author begged from me
Twelve reservations (Reserve my book at your local library. Not there? Request it from your friendly neighborhood librarian)
Eleven people talking (talk with me about my books, or better yet, tell somebody about my books)
Ten friends a-sharing (Watch my book trailers on YouTube and share with your friends)
Nine pins on Pinterest (Pin one of my books, blogs, or pics, and/or follow me on Pinterest)
Eight new readers (Read the misadventures of Woodruff and Bob)
Seven fans reviewing (Review/Recommend my books on Goodreads)
Six tweeps retweeting (Follow me on Twitter, like, reply, or retweet to one of my tweets)
Five Star Reviews (Review any of my books, it means the world to me, whatever the rating)
Four ebook’s read (Read one of my free ebooks or check out Crooked Top Mountain for just $0.99 cents)
Three shared books (Share The Land of Look Behind, The Unsaid, and Crooked Top Mountain)
Two Facebook ‘Likes”, (“Like” my Facebook page or share it with your friends) and
A nomination for the Whitney’s (Nominate Crooked Top Mountain for a 2018 Whitney Award)

The Bobber They Are

Posted on by Aaron Blaylock | Posted in Woodruff and BobTagged , , , , , 1 Comment on The Bobber They Are

“I’m Ashley Baker with Channel 10 Today and we’re here with a pair of record seekers, who set out to do what’s not been done before,” a tall blonde woman with long eyelashes spoke into a black microphone.  “What is your name, sir?”

“Sir?” Woodruff said.  “That’s very fancy, like a knight or Elton John.  Uh, my name is Woodruff, and that guy up there is Bob.”

Woodruff pointed over his head and the camera panned up to see a man in a harness, dangling from the end of a crane.

“Bob!” Woodruff shouted.  “Wave to the pretty reporter!”

Bob waved enthusiastically as he swayed gently in the breeze.

“Her name is Ashely!” Woodruff yelled.  “She’s with Channel 10 Today!”

“Hey there, Ashley!” Bob shouted back.  “Hi Channel 10 Today!”

“So, whatcha got going on up there?” Ashley asked and stuck the microphone into Woodruff’s face.

“Oh, uh, well,” Woodruff stuttered as he ran his fingers through his hair and rubbed the back of his neck.  “We, uh, are building the tallest tower of bacon in the world.”

“Woodruff!” Bob shouted down.  “Tell her about the tower!”

“I just did!” Woodruff yelled up to his dangling friend.  “And she can see the tower!”

Ashely giggled as she pulled the microphone back to her.

“And what made you want to build this bacon tower?”

“Woodruff!  Tell her it’s made of bacon!”

“She knows!” Woodruff shouted.  He turned back to Ashley and continued.  “We’re going for the world record.”

“Tell her about the record!”

“I just did!” Woodruff said.  “I got this!”

“Okee Dokee, Artichokee!” Bob yelled as he swung toward the tower and placed a crispy piece of bacon on the top.

“And what is the world record for a bacon tower?”

“Well, Bob figures the tallest one he’s ever built is about a foot and a half,” Woodruff said.  “But that was just him looking for a more efficient bacon delivery method.”

“And how tall will this tower be?”

“We’re going for fifty feet.”

“For gosh sakes!” the reporter exclaimed.  “That’s a ton of bacon.”

“Actually, it’s more like half a ton,” Woodruff said.  “It really lightens up when you fry it and blot the grease on a paper towel.”

Woodruff pointed over to a white canopy where a bearded man in a red beanie was frying bacon on a Coleman camping stove.  Next to him, a short stocky woman with a wispy mustache blotted the bacon on a paper towel.

“That’s Kenny, he’s a pro baconeer,” Woodruff said.  “And Carmela blots the bacon and gets it to Ruth to take it up to Bob at the top of the crane.”

The short stocky woman handed the blotted bacon over to a white and gray seagull, who flew to the top of the crane and delivered it to Bob.  With a big smile, Bob waved the bacon back down toward the camera.

“Oh for cute,” Ashley said.  “How’d ya train that bird?”

“Ruth?” Woodruff asked.  “She’s not trained, as far as I know.  She’s just helping us out.”

“Well I’ll be.”

“Yeah, she’s a good friend.”

“That’s quite an operation ya got there,” Ashley remarked.  “So Kenny’s a professional cook?”

“Nah, he’s a vagabond American,” Woodruff said.  “But he’s a bacon enthusiast, like me and Bob.”

“And Carmela?”

“She just loves to blot things.”

“Woodruff!” Bob shouted.  “Tell her about the gravy!”

“The bottom of the tower is solidified with bacon gravy,” Woodruff explained.  “We needed a foundation that would sustain the height but wanted to maintain the total bacon integrity of the tower.”

“And Martin County is just the perfect place for a bacon tower,” Ashley said.

“Well…”

“Did you tell her about the gravy?” Bob shouted.

“I told her!”

“It’s like cement!” Bob shouted, swaying back and forth.  “Made of gravy!”

“She knows!” Woodruff said.  “Anywho, Kenny has a cousin up here in Minnesota who let us borrow his camping stove.  So it kinda made the decision for us.”

“But Martin County is the bacon capital of the US of A, dontcha know.”

“It is?”

“You betcha.”

“Well, we didntcha know that,” Woodruff said.  “We didntcha know that at all.”

“How long ya been working on this tower?”

“Uh, we started on Tuesday,” Woodruff said.  “The first couple of days were slow going until we found out Bob had enacted the one for one rule.”

“What’s the one for one rule?”

“Oh, you know, one for the tower and one for Bob,” Woodruff said.  “Once he promised to stop eating the bacon our progress nearly doubled.”

“Woodruff!” Bob shouted.  “I feel sick!”

“And who’s fault is that?” Woodruff shouted back.

“Mine,” Bob said after a short reflective pause.

“Don’t you dare blow bacon all over this nice lady, and her cameraman!” Woodruff warned.

“I won’t,” Bob said, contritely.

“Uff da,” Ashley muttered.  “Um, when will the tower be completed?”

“How much further do we have to go?” Woodruff shouted at his skyward friend.

“About eight bacon lengths!”

“We should be done by dinner.”

“And are you planning on eating this tower?”

“It’d be a shame to let all this glorious porky belly go to waste,” Woodruff said.  “We figured we’d share it with the good people of Martin County.”

“How didya put the word out?”

“Oh, we figured it was like a Field of Dreams kinda deal,” Woodruff said.  “Ya know, if you build it they will come.”

“You’re just expecting people to find your tower of meat in a meadow in the middle of Martin County?”

“Well, you found us didntcha?”

Ashely looked back into the camera with a smirk.  “He’s got me there.”

“Hey Woodruff!”

“What?” Woodruff shouted.

“Look over there!” Bob pointed out beyond the white canopy.

Woodruff and Ashley turned around and the camera panned out over the tree line to their left, following the flight of the white and gray seagull.  A long line of cars could be seen in the distance, exiting the highway and turning onto the road that led to the meadow.

“Well I’ll be,” Ashley’s voice said, off-camera.

“We’ll all be, Ashley,” Woodruff said.  “We’ll all be, enjoying this delicious monument to meat.”

“Ruth!” Bob shouted.  “You better start toast’n that bread!  We’ve got company.”

“Jeet yet Martin County?”  Ashley said as she turned to face the camera and held the microphone directly in front of her smiling face.  “‘cause it looks like we’re gonna have an old fashion feeding frenzy with our new friends Woodruff and Bob.  I’m Ashley Baker with Channel 10 Today…”

“I’m Woodruff,” Woodruff said, leaning into the frame.

“And I’m Bob!” a voice called from above.

“Reporting live from the Martin County Bacon Tower, while it lasts,” Ashley signed off and the cameraman lower the camera from his shoulder.  “Thank you, Woodruff, that was great.”

“Thank you,” Woodruff said.  “I really enjoyed it.”

“Me too.”

“Hey,” Woodruff said, rubbing the back of his neck and looking sheepish.  “Do you have any plans for dinner?  ‘cause we’ve got all this bacon and…”

“Are you asking her out?” Bob shouted.

“No!” Woodruff shouted back up.

“Cause it looks like you’re trying to ask her out!”

“Well I’m not!”

“But you’re doing that thing where you nervously rub the back of your neck!”

“I have an itch!”

“Okay, my bad!”

“Anywho,” Woodruff continued.  “If you, and your cameraman, wanted to stay and eat with us, that’d be cool.”

“I think I’d like that,” Ashley said.

“If you’re not going to ask her out, can I?” Bob shouted as he swayed on the breeze.  “She’s cute!”

“She doesn’t want to go out with you!” Woodruff shouted.  “You smell like bacon and cheese!”

Woodruff looked back at the reporter and rubbed the back of his neck.  “Sorry about him.”

“No worries,” Ashley said.  “It’s kinda cute.”

“Maybe she likes bacon and cheese!” Bob shouted.

“She doesn’t!”

“Did you ask her?”

“Yes!” Woodruff shouted.  “She’s lactose intolerant!”

“Cheese curds!” Bob swore as he shook his fists at the heavens.

Woodruff grinned and the reporter and she smiled back.  “Right this way, I’ll find you a nice seat on one of the bacon coolers next to Carmela.”

“I have to go to the bathroom!” Bob shouted.

Woodruff ignored him and led the reporter, and the cameraman, back toward the white canopy as Bob continued to dangle from the crane.

“Woodruff?” Bob shouted.  “Woodruff?  I’m serious!  I need to go to the little Bob’s room!  Woodruff?”

Ruth flew over the crane and out beyond the tree line toward the long line of approaching cars as the sun hung low in the bright blue Midwestern sky.

“Never mind,” Bob’s voice echoed from the distance.

Gobble Bobble

Posted on by Aaron Blaylock | Posted in Woodruff and BobTagged , , , , , Leave a Comment on Gobble Bobble

Bob hung over the rail of the ship and tossed his cookies into the choppy ocean waters that rocked them back and forth.

“Are you gonna make it?” Woodruff asked.

“No worries,” Bob said.  “I think that was the last of them.”

“Good, those cookies were making the turkeys crazy.”

“Gama’s triple peanut butter, walnut, pecan delights have driven lesser fowl to the brink of insanity.”

“You can say that again.”

“I didn’t say that in the first place.”

A rumbling of gobbles drew their attention back to the crowded deck of the creaky old ship.  Woodruff and Bob turned to face the rafter of turkeys that spread from aft to bow and port to starboard.

“This is our best idea yet,” Bob said.

“You said it.”

“No I didn’t.”

“We’ll just stay out at sea for the weekend and then nobody will be able to eat these birds,” Woodruff said.  “It’s foolproof.”

“It’s fowlproof.”

One of the turkeys flew up to the top of the mast and perched atop the old crow’s nest.

“Harold, get down from there.” Woodruff called.

“You named him?” Bob asked.

“I named all of them.”

“There’s got to be a hundred turkeys here.”

“One hundred and sixty-three turkeys.”

“And you named them all?”

“Yep,” Woodruff said proudly.

“What’s this one’s name?” Bob asked as he pointed to a plump bird with a long red gizzard.

“That’s Charlene.”

“And this one,” Bob pointed to the next closest turkey.

“Turtle.”

“Turtle?”

“Yep.”

“Turtle the turkey?”

“He prefers just Turtle, ‘the turkey’ was his father,” Woodruff said.

A particularly rough wave rocked the ship and Woodruff and Bob had to grab hold of the rail to keep from falling overboard.  Harold glided back to join the rafter with a thud.  Woodruff shook his head chidingly at the adventurous gobbler.

“Without the cookies, do we have enough food to last the long weekend?” Bob asked.

“Oh yeah,” Woodruff said.  “We’ve got two hundred pounds of cranberries, and three hundred pounds of pumpkin seeds.”

“Is it the best idea to stuff the turkeys we are trying to keep from being eaten with cranberries and pumpkin seeds?” Bob asked.

“I didn’t think about that,” Woodruff said, scratching his head.  “The only other thing we have is a mix of dried breadcrumbs, onions, celery, and sage.”

“Let’s go with that,” Bob said.  “Better sage than sorry.”

“Beh gah!” Harold shouted.

Woodruff and Bob ran to the wildly pointing turkey on the starboard side of the wooden sea vessel.

“What is it Harold?” Woodruff asked.

“Beh gah!” Harold repeated.

“Pirates?” Bob said.  “Where?”

“Beh, gah!”

Woodruff pulled a monocular from his sash and extended it toward the starboard horizon.  The white sails of a giant ship came into focus, hurtling toward their position.  Flapping in the wind off her stern was a black flag with a skull and crossbones at the center.

“They’re pirates all right,” Woodruff said.

“Hoist the main sail!” Bob ordered.  “Stand aloft!  Look lively!  Batten down the hatches!”

“They’re turkeys, Bob.”

“Well, what do we do?”

Woodruff furrowed his brow as he studied the approaching ship.  He looked around at their feathered shipmates and back to Bob.

“We’ve got to hide the birds,” Woodruff said.  “Help me get these turkeys below deck.”

Woodruff and Bob worked quickly to herd the gobblers down the stairwell into the hull.  They pushed the last turkey out of sight as the pirate ship pulled alongside them and a grappling hook hedged into the railing.  A short stumpy man with an eye patch swung on board.

“Argh,” the stumpy pirate shouted as he waved his hook at Woodruff and Bob.  “Avast, I hereby claim this ship and all her booty.”

“You’ll never touch my booty,” Bob said.

“And who be you?” the pirate asked.

“I be Bob,” he replied.  “And who you be?”

“Black Friday’s me name,” the pirate said.  “And there ain’t noth’n more heinous on heaven or earth.”

“No argument here,” Woodruff said.

“Now, I’ll be taking your ship,” Black Friday said.  “And you’ll be walk’n the plank.”

“You can’t have the Aprilposy,” Bob said.

“Aprilposy?” Black Friday questioned.

“It’s a Mayflower tribute boat,” Woodruff explained.

“That’s ridiculous,” Black Friday said.

“You’re ridiculous, Black Friday!” Bob shouted.

“Avast, ya scurvy dog,” Black Friday said as he unsheathed his cutlass.  “Meet me saber, Monday.”

“Meet my pan flute, Sylvia,” Woodruff said as he hurled the wooden cylinders at Black Friday.  With only one good eye, the pirate lacked the depth perception to judge the distance properly and took the pan flute right in the eye patch.

“Ow!” Black Friday yelped.

“Now!” Bob shouted.

Woodruff and Bob charged forward and grabbed hold of the pirate.  Woodruff fastened the grappling hook to Black Friday’s pantaloons as Bob unfurled the main sail.  The momentum of the ship pulled Black Friday off the deck and sent him off the edge.  The pirate ship sailed away with its captain dangling from a rope just above the waves that lapped against her hull.

“Huzzah!” Woodruff and Bob rejoiced in unison.

“No booty for you, Black Friday,” Bob said.

“Beh gah?” Harold squawked as he poked his head above deck.

“He’s gone, Harold,” Woodruff said.  “You all can come up now.”

One by one the turkeys all hobbled up the staircase into the open air and quickly filled the deck.

“That Black Friday really snuck up on us,” Bob said.

“Tell me about it,” Woodruff said.  “Had to act fast to save our booty.”

“Hey Woodruff,” Bob called over the noisy gobbling.

“Yeah, Bob,” Woodruff replied.

“How do you make a pirate angry?” Bob asked as he took hold of a rope and pulled himself atop the railing.  He put one foot in front of the other like a trapeze artist, with his arms raised to his sides for balance, as he made his way up the wooden rail.

“How?”

“You take away the ‘p’.”

Woodruff shook his head and Harold gobbled his displeasure at Bob.

“Oh come on!” Bob said.  He turned his body parallel to the rail and raised his arms.  “That’s good stuff.”

A strong wind swept across the deck and blew some loose feathers and Bob right over the side of the Aprilposy.

“Bob!” Woodruff shouted as he raced to the railing.  “Bob overboard!”

Bob rose up and down with the titanic ocean waves as he drifted away from the ship.  Woodruff watched helplessly from the deck.  Harold scuttled out onto the plank and looked down at the deep blue sea.

“Beh gah!” Harold called.  The turkeys banded together to form a giant chain as Harold hurled himself off the plank.  Bob grabbed hold of Harold and the turkeys pulled him back aboard.

“That was amazing!” exclaimed Woodruff.

“I know,” Bob said.  “It was like a barrel of turkeys.”

“Beh gah,” Harold replied.

“Thank you, Harold,” Bob said.  “You are one brave bird.”

“He’s one tough turkey,” Woodruff agreed.

“Tough in demeanor,” Bob clarified.  “I’m sure he’s very tender in an edible sense.”

“Bob!” Woodruff rebuked.

“What?” Bob said.  “I was trying to pay him a complement.  I’m not sure where turkey’s self-worth comes from.”

“I’m sure it’s not from being food, right Harold?” Woodruff asked.

Harold shrugged his shoulders, “Beh gah.”

Time To Make The Violets

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“Bob,” Woodruff said.

With focus and determination, Bob kept his eyes down on an array of colors that passed from right to left.  The hum of motors and mechanisms churned all around them.

“Bob.”

Bob’s hands moved rapidly back and forth with tiny machine-like motions.

“Bob!”

A loud whistle blew and the assembly line stopped moving.

“Break time!” a burly man with a five-o’clock shadow shouted from a small glass office.

Bob immediately halted and joined a line of workers heading for the break room.  Woodruff grabbed him by the arm and pulled Bob out of line.

“Did you not hear me?” Woodruff asked.  “I was calling your name.”

“Sorry, Woodruff,” Bob said.  “I was really in the zone back there.”

“No kidding,” Woodruff said.  “You’ve been going nonstop all shift.”

“Those crayons aren’t going to wrap themselves,” Bob said.

“About that…,” Woodruff began.  “How long are we going to do this?”

“You said you wanted to learn how to make crayons.”

“I said I wondered how crayons were made.”

“Tomato, Clamato.”

“What?”

“Tomato, Clamato,” Bob replied.  “It’s an expression.”

“It’s really not,” Woodruff said.

“Look,” Bob said.  “Want or wonder, you now know how crayons are made.  Hashtag winning.”

Bob tapped his index and middle fingers against his other index and middle fingers.  He filed in the back of the line of workers and walked into the break room.  Woodruff strode beside him rubbing his forehead.

“Okay, but it’s been a week,” Woodruff said.

“Yeah, I know,” Bob said gleefully.  “It’s pay day!”

Bob drilled his index fingers into Woodruff’s ribs and playfully poked him in rapid succession.  Woodruff swatted Bob’s hands away.

“Stop it, Nitwit,” Woodruff objected.

“Why are you so upset?” Bob asked.  “This is the best job.”

“There!” Woodruff shouted.  “That’s why.  I asked an offhand question and now I’m a Quality Control Specialist at a crayon factory.”

“With hard work, and a little luck, you could be a Quality Control Supervisor in a couple years.”

“I’m not going to be a Quality Control Supervisor.”

“Well not with that attitude.”

Woodruff folded his arms and imagined rolling Bob up in a giant brown crayon wrapper.  His fantasy ended in tragedy as Crayon Bob melted all over the passenger seat of his Karmann Ghia.

“I should have cracked a window,” Woodruff sighed.

“What?” Bob asked.

“Nothing,” Woodruff said.  “Can we just go before it gets too hot?”

“But it’s Fred’s birthday and Janet has organized a surprise party after work,” Bob protested.

“Really?” Fred asked excitedly.  The bearded assembly line worker sat at a round table in the break room next to a skinny man in a hairnet and a scowling brunette lady who looked like Miss Gulch.

“Sorry Janet,” Bob apologized sheepishly to the scowling lady.

“Bob, is this how you want to spend your life?” Woodruff asked.

“Crayons are life,” Bob said and pointed to a colorful poster on the breakroom wall with the white inscription.

“That’s Crayola propaganda,” Woodruff said.

“Bob has a gift,” Fred said.

“A gift for ruining surprises,” Janet muttered.

“Get over it already, Janet,” Bob said.  “It’s ancient history.”

“I’ve never seen anybody work as fast and flawless as Bob,” Fred said.  “And I’ve been on the line for 37 years.”

“How old are you?” Woodruff gasped.

“Get a load of this,” Fred said.  He walked over to the kitchenette at the far end of the breakroom and picked up a stack of color swatches from the counter.  Fred held the swatches behind his back and moved to stand directly in front of Bob, like two gunfighters at the OK Corral.  Bob crouched down slightly and squinted his eyes.

“Ready?” Fred asked.

“I was born in a suitable state for an activity, action, or situation,” Bob replied.

One by one Fred began to flash swatch after swatch in front of Bob and quickly discard it on the breakroom floor.

“Blue-violet, Violet, Medium Violet, Royal Purple, Wisteria, Lavender, Vivid Purple, Maximum Purple, Purple Mountain’s Majesty, Fuchsia, Pink Flamingo, Brilliant Rose, Orchid, Plum, Medium Rose, Thistle, Mulberry, Red-Violet, Middle Purple, Magenta, Maximum Red Purple, Wild Strawberry, Cotton Candy, Pink Carnation, Violet-Red!” Bob breathlessly shouted as the last swatch fell to the floor.

The tiny breakroom erupted in applause as Bob doubled over from exhaustion.  Fred turned to Woodruff and threw both hands in the air.  “That’s the entire purple spectrum.”

“Okay, that was scary impressive,” Woodruff said.

“He can’t leave,” Fred said.  “He was born for this.”

Woodruff hung his head.  Bob was still panting for breath, with his hands on his knees.  Woodruff looked around the room at the crayon cult and grimaced.

“I can see that,” Woodruff said.

Bob stood up straight and looked at Woodruff with a big grin.

“I won’t stand in your way,” Woodruff said.  “But I can’t stay.”

“Did you mean to rhyme?” Bob asked.  “And is this because they wouldn’t let you play Silvia on the assembly floor?”

“No,” Woodruff said.  “And you leave Silvia out of this.”

“Don’t go,” Bob said.

“I have to,” Woodruff replied.  “They don’t have a Penny-farthing and you can’t get a decent pineapple falafel for miles.  I’ll never complete my list here.”

“I can’t change your mind?” Bob asked.

“I’m afraid not,” Woodruff said.

“So this is it,” Bob said glumly.

“I guess so,” Woodruff added with a frown.

“It was a heck of a run,” Bob said.

“It sure was,” Woodruff agreed.  He stuck his hand out toward Bob, who batted it to the side and embraced him in a big bear hug.  Woodruff reached up and put an arm around Bob while patting him on the back of his head with his free hand.  Janet grabbed a napkin from the center of the table and dabbed at the tears in her eyes.  Fred sniffled and wiped at his nose.  When the embrace was over, the two friends stepped back away from each other.  Woodruff forced a smile.

“Okay,” Woodruff said.

“Okay,” Bob replied.

Without another word, Woodruff turned and exited the breakroom.  The whistle blew and the factory burst to life as the machines began to chug and churn again.  Woodruff wiped a tear from his eye as he pushed open the heavy metal door under the exit sign.

As he walked across the factory parking lot, a parade of images danced through his mind.  He saw Bob flying through the air over a great white shark on a pair of water skis, then they were dancing with a herd of sloths to In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida, followed by the time they accidently broke Da Vinci’s prototype time machine in Milan.  Woodruff chuckled when he remembered the look on Da Vinci’s face when the inventor realized he was trapped in the 21st century.

“Priceless,” Woodruff grinned.

Woodruff pulled open the door to his cherry-red Karmann Ghia and slid into the driver’s seat.  When he turned on the car the voice of Celine Dion blared through the radio signing “All By Myself”.  Woodruff put his head on the steering wheel and sighed deeply.

Just then the passenger side door opened and Bob hopped in the car.

“Where to now?” Bob asked.

“What are you doing here?” a startled Woodruff asked.

“We just quit the crayon game.”

“I thought you were staying.”

“You said I couldn’t change your mind.”

“Well what was all that ‘heck of a run’ stuff?”

“A heck of a run at the crayon factory.”

“Then why did you hug me?”

“It felt like a hugging moment.”

“But you were born for the crayon business,” Woodruff said.  “You’re just going to give it up?”

“We’ve got your list to finish,” Bob said.  “Besides, I don’t want to stay in the crayon game too long and end up like Fred.  That guy can’t tell Goldenrod from Dandelion.  It’s embarrassing.”

“And Janet’s surprise birthday cake?”

“I’m pretty sure it was sodium-free.”

“Sodium-free?”

“Sodium’s the new gluten.”

“And pay day?”

“Bazinga,” Bob said as he flashed two envelopes.  “And Dennis said I was welcome back any time.”

“At least we have that as a fall back,” Woodruff said.

“Uh, Dennis said I was welcome back any time,” Bob clarified.

“Ouch,” Woodruff said as he put the car in gear and backed out of the parking spot.

“Maybe if you had taken that Hot Wax Safety Seminar more seriously…” Bob said.

“If finding rainbow colored burns amusing is wrong, then I don’t wanna be right,” Woodruff said.

“So what’s next?” Bob said.

“Well, we’re a half days’ drive from the Canadian border,” Woodruff said.  “You still have that bear bell?”

Bob produced a large brass bell from the backseat and rang it back and forth.  Woodruff grinned as he shifted into drive and burned rubbed out of the parking lot.

A Pocket Full of Danger

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“Two noble adventures strode deep into the heart of darkest Africa.  Why would they brave this treacherous continent?  How might their mettle be tested?  What treasure lies in their path?  When will they reach their breaking point?  Who will rescue them from the brink of insanity?  Where in the hedge are they?”

“Are you going to narrate our entire trip?” Woodruff asked.

“It’s likely,” Bob replied.

“A bird flew over Woodruff’s head and nearly pooped on him.  Bob was not worried because of his wicked-sweet Panama hat that Woodruff foolishly mocked.”

“It doesn’t make sense to wear a Panama hat in Africa.  You wear a Panama hat in South America,” Woodruff said.  “And stop talking about yourself in the third person.  And stop using the narratory voice.”

“Bob ignores his foolish friend and presses forward boldly through the dense jungle vegetation.”

“There’s no way of stopping this, is there?” Woodruff said.

“Nope,” Bob replied.

“The dangers of the rain forest are real and ever-present but these elect explorers eat danger for breakfast.”

“You had six waffles and a half can of sardines for breakfast,” Woodruff said.

“Fueled by desire…”

“And sardines,” Woodruff interrupted.

“…these heroes trekked where no one else dared.”

“We literally passed a bus load of tourist from Florida like an hour ago,” Woodruff said.

“Discovery was their byword and Adventure their middle name.”

“Your middle name is Carroll,” Woodruff scoffed.

“That’s a unisex name and everybody knows it, whispered the gallant gentleman explorer.  Undaunted by the naysayers, this valiant voyager led them onward to destiny and to glory.”

“And mosquitoes,” Woodruff said as he swatted at the tiny insects in his face.

“I told you, you should have bribed that mosquito king in Kananga like I did,” Bob replied.  “Haven’t had a bite since.”

“My integrity is worth more than a couple dozen bug bites,” Woodruff said, scratching at his arm vigorously.

“Suit yourself,” Bob said.  “Usiniache mimi peke yake, mdudu!”

The swarm of mosquitoes parted and flew around Bob.  As soon as he passed the swarm surrounded Woodruff.

“You don’t even know what you’re saying,” Woodruff said and swatted at the attacking mosquitoes.

“Like my granddad always said, if it ain’t bit don’t scratch it,” Bob replied.

Woodruff unleashed a torrent of bug spray on the swarm and the mosquitoes fled the humid confines of their dense jungle surroundings.

“He did not say that.”

“Did too.”

“No one has ever said that.”

“Well, Mr. Smarterella, I just did, so there.”

Bob pushed aside a group of thick leaves to reveal a teeny tiny man carrying a bundle of sticks on his head.  At the sight of Woodruff and Bob the little man dropped the bundle and ran back into the jungle.

“An African leprechaun!” Bob shouted.

“It’s a pygmy,” Woodruff correct.

“That’s offensive, Woodruff.”

“A pygmy is a term for an adult who is less than a meter and a half.”

“A meter, a barely know her.”

Woodruff stopped and shook his head.  Several dark little men emerged through the bush, carrying spears.  The tribesman surrounded Woodruff and Bob with the threatening spears pointed up at their torsos.

“Holy Websters!” Bob exclaimed.  He put his hands in the air and Woodruff did the same as they moved to stand back to back.

“Easy there,” Woodruff said.  “Friends.  We’re friends.”

“Of course we’re friends,” Bob said.

“I was talking to them.”

“Oh, right.”

“Unataka nini,” the diminutive leader spoke.  He wore a colorful band on his head and arms.

“What did he say?” Bob asked.

“No idea,” Woodruff replied.  “Try that thing you said to the mosquitoes.”

“Usiniache mimi peke yake, mdudu,” Bob said.

The pygmy warriors began shouting and thrusting their spears at Woodruff and Bob.  Their little faces were contorted in anger as they yelled and spit.

“Take it back,” Woodruff said.  “Say you’re sorry.”

“You’re sorry,” Bob replied.

“Not the time,” Woodruff said.  They dodged the tips of the spears and kept their hands raised in surrender.

“What do we do?” Bob asked.

“Dunno,” Woodruff replied.

“Show ‘em your magic trick,” Bob said.

“What?  Why?” Woodruff replied.

“You got a better idea?” Bob asked.

“Fine,” Woodruff said.  “Does anyone have a quarter?”

The tiny warriors stopped growling and looked at one another.

“Tough crowd.”

“I’ve got a stale Vanilla Wafer from last week.”

“You told me there were no more Vanilla Wafers.”

“Do you want the cookie or not.”

“Fine, give me the wafer.”

Bob reached into the side pocket of his cargo pants and produced a small round cookie.  Woodruff took the cookie and waved it around in the air in a showman like fashion.  He and Bob turned in a synchronized circle so that all the little men could get a look.

“Watch carefully,” Woodruff instructed.

Woodruff brought his free hand over the cookie and quickly separated them to show the warriors his empty hands.  A murmur rolled through the crowd.  Woodruff reached over to the man in the colorful headband and placed his hand behind their leader’s ear.  When he produced the cookie once more and displayed it for all to see, a shout rose up from the shocked audience.

“Tada!” Bob exclaimed.

Woodruff popped the cookie in his mouth and began to chew.

“It’s not stale at all,” Woodruff accused.

“Fine, I always keep cookies in my pockets,” Bob admitted.

“I knew it!” Woodruff said.  “That explains why there’s always crumbs on your shirt.”

“I told you, that’s a dermatological issue.”

“More like a dessertatological issue.”

“Ignoring you!”

The tiny men, who had grouped together and lowered their spears, were watching Woodruff and Bob suspiciously.

“What do we do now?” Woodruff asked out of the corner of his mouth as he gazed down on the half-point hostage-takers.

Bob thought for a moment.  “How about this?”

He pulled a piece of bubble gum from his cookie pocket and popped it in his mouth.  After several seconds of chewing, Bob blew a big pink bubble the size of his fist.  With a dramatic flick he pulled the bubble from his mouth and displayed it for the awestruck onlookers.  Their leader, with the colorful headband, bowed himself to the ground and all his companions followed.  They began chanting something neither Woodruff or Bob could understand.

“What’s happening?” Bob asked.

“I think they’re worshiping us,” Woodruff replied.

“Cool.”

“Maybe.”

“What do you mean, maybe?”

“Well, this could go one of two ways…”

“Go on…”

“Well, either they are worshipping us, like I said,” Woodruff began.  “And we’re going to be taken back to their village, fanned with palm fronds, feast on their bounty and riches, and live out our days as gods.  Or…”

“Or…?” Bob questioned.

“Or they’re praying to a pagan deity who requires human sacrifice,” Woodruff continued.  “And they’re going to take us back to their village, rub us down with wildebeest lard, cook us, and eat us.”

“Oh no.”

“I know.”

“I’m allergic to wildebeest lard.”

“We’ve got to get out of here.”

“I don’t want to be rude,” Bob said.

“Are you kidding me?” Woodruff asked.

“What if we wait to see what lard they’re going to rub us down with first?”

“Bob!”

“Fine.”

“We need a distraction,” Woodruff said as the men rose up from their prostrated position.  The pink bubble gum bubble in Bob’s hand popped and collapsed against his fingers.  Bob hurled it over the sea of tiny heads into the bush.

“Run!” Bob shouted as the men turned to watch the pink blob fly through the air.

Woodruff and Bob turned around and plunged through the thick jungle vegetation.  Woodruff turned around and saw Bob was also looking behind them.

“Are they coming?” Woodruff asked.

“No,” Bob replied.  “And I think their little chief is eating my gum.”

They continued to run for several minutes until they were sure they had traveled to a safe distance.  Woodruff raised his arms up, put his hands on his head and tried to draw in deep breaths.  Bob doubled over and placed his hands on his knees while he panted at the ground.  After their racing hearts calmed, they both turned and looked back the way they had come.

“Our heroic adventures barely escaped with their lives from the menacing jungle horde.  Humbled, wiser but no better looking, because, seriously, how are you gonna improve on this action.”

Woodruff rolled his eyes.  Bob reached into the side pocket of his cargo shorts, pulled out a Vanilla Wafer, popped it in his mouth and began to chew.

“Can I have a cookie?” Woodruff asked.

Bob’s eyes grew big as he sheepishly swallowed the masticated wafer.  “That was my last one.  Scout’s honor.”

He crossed his heart and covered the opening to his cookie pocket with his other hand.

You Can’t Spell Healthy Without Y

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“Is heart burn one word or two?” Bob asked.

“Use it in a sentence,” Woodruff replied.

“Three easy ways to tell whether it’s heart burn or heart attack,” Bob read.

“One word,” Woodruff said.  “Is that your article this week?”

“Yep,” Bob said.  “What are you working on?”

“A follow up piece on the squatty potty,” Woodruff said.

“That was riveting stuff,” Bob said.  “Drove a lot of traffic to the site.”

“Everybody poops,” Woodruff said.

“You can say that again.”

“That again.”

Woodruff and Bob busily typed on their laptops at opposite ends of a tiny round table in the nearly empty store.  The walls were lined with thick books with red and black spines.  Behind the counter, a short stocky woman with a wispy mustache flipped through one of the books from off the shelf.

“Carmela, if you felt chest pain that radiated from your chest to your jaw would you think heartburn or heart attack?” Bob asked.

“Heart attack,” Carmela answered.

“See, right there,” Bob said.  “I’m saving lives.”

“Are those symptoms of a heart attack?” Woodruff asked.

“No, it’s probably heartburn.”

“Then, how are you saving lives?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Bob said as he threw his hands in the air.  “We can’t all write about cutting edge toilet innovation.”

“Don’t bring the squatty potty into this,” Woodruff said.

There was a tiny squeak from the white and gray seagull in the corner of the store.

“See?” Bob said.  “Ruth knows what I’m saying.  Salubrious Women dot com is about Women’s Health.  Anybody can use the squatty potty.”

“It was your idea to focus on Women’s Health,” Woodruff said.

“You hear that, Carmela?” Bob said.  “Woodruff doesn’t care about women’s health.”

“I didn’t say that,” Woodruff argued.

“This guy hates women,” Bob shouted to the ceiling as he pointed wildly at Woodruff.

“Who are you shouting to?” Woodruff asked.

“I’m shouting to the world, Woodruff.  I’m shouting to the world,” Bob said with wild-eyes.  “I only did this because you said you wanted to be a world famous writer.”

“I did, I do,” Woodruff said.

“Well congratulations,” Bob said.  “Salubrious Women is the No. 3 nationally syndicated online women’s health blog, among women ages of 65-88 with biweekly posts, on the entire World Wide Web.  World.  Famous.  Writer.”

“But they think my name is Coleen Spencer,” Woodruff said.

“It’s a pseudonym, Woodruff,” Bob said.  “I told you, women want to get health advise from other women.”

“But we’re not women.”

“What’s the difference between men and women?”

“A lot,” Woodruff said.  “Hair, makeup, the propensity to purchase large quantities of shoes, the capacity to bear children, upper body strength, the level of anger over ceilings made of glass, the ability to distinguish between lime-green and chartreuse…”

“Chromosomes,” Bob interrupted.  “The difference between men and women is chromosomes.  Women have two X chromosomes and men have an X and a Y chromosome.  Between us we have two X chromosomes, so together we’re basically a woman.”

“That makes sense.”

“That’s science.”

“Girl power!”

Woodruff and Bob jumped up and high-fived each other while Carmela shook her head.

“Hey ladies,” Carmela said.  “Are you gonna buy something or what?”

“Do you have anything other than encyclopedias?” Bob asked.

“No,” Carmela replied.

“Not to question your business model, but is it a good idea to offer free WiFi at an encyclopedia store?” Woodruff asked.

“That’s it,” Carmela said.  “Out!”

“All right, Carmela,” Bob said.  “Don’t get upset, we’re going.”

Woodruff and Bob grabbed their laptops and headed out the front door.

“What got into her?” Woodruff asked.

“You should read my last post, Cycle or Psycho: Understanding your Menstrual Calendar,” Bob replied.

“Sounds educational,” Woodruff said as they walked down the street.

“I thought so, but Sheila Cruella got a lot of angry comments on that one,” Bob said.  “One of them even called me a charlatan.  I’ve never even been to North Carolina.”

“You should go,” Woodruff said.  “They have the best BBQ.”

“Better than Tennessee, Texas, Missouri, Georgia, Mongolia?” Bob demanded.  “I doubt that.”

“Now I’m hungry,” Woodruff said.

“Me too,” Bob replied.  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“That Coleen Spencer and Sheila Cruella should tour the world ranking BBQ joints, turning Salubrious Women into Scrumptious Women and providing our readers with our top 100 BBQ recommendations?” Woodruff said.

“Actually, I was thinking we could eat lunch at that Waffle House across the street,” Bob said as he pointed to the black and yellow sign.  “But let’s do your thing instead.”

“When I say it out loud it sounds like a lot of work,” Woodruff said.  “Waffle House is way easier.”

“Totally,” Bob said.  “We should do your thing later though.”

“Then we could follow it up with a book about taking off those BBQ LBS through napping,” Woodruff said.  “We’ll call it Meat, Weigh, Doze.”

“Brilliant,” Bob said.  “I smell a best seller.”

“I think that’s T-bone steak and hash browns,” Woodruff said, with his head tilted and his sniffer pointed at the Waffle House.

“Yep, I think you’re right,” Bob said, sniffing at the air.  “Either way, we should totally write that book.”

“Then I can check another thing off my list,” Woodruff said.

“Writing a book?” Bob asked.

“No,” Woodruff said.  “Being interviewed by Oprah.”

“That will be so amazing!” Bob said as they crossed the street toward the Waffle House.  “I bet she smells like turnips.”

“And apricots,” Woodruff and Bob said in unison.

“That just feels right, doesn’t it?”

“Do you think we’ll get to meet Gayle?”

“Absolutely,” Woodruff said.  “Oprah and Gayle are like the Woodruff and Bob of television.”

“Aw, I wanted to be the Oprah though” Bob said.

“We’ve been over this,” Woodruff said.  “Bob and Woodruff sounds like a vacuum sales team.”

“Well, can they be Gayle and Oprah then?” Bob asked.

“That’s insane,” Woodruff said, as he pulled open the door to the Waffle House.  “Do you put the cheesesteak at the bottom of the Cheesesteak Melt Hash Brown Bowl?”

“No,” Bob moped as he stepped into the greasy dining area.

“Plus, they’d have to change their logo,” Woodruff said.

“You’re right,” Bob conceded.

A large red-faced man chewed on a mouth full of hash browns, smothered with gravy, grilled onions, and cheese.  As Woodruff and Bob passed his booth the man clutched his chest and fell onto the floor.  The manager leapt over the counter and ran to the fallen patron.

“Not again,” the manager said as he bent down and put his ear to the man’s chest.  “Fourth time this week.”

“Should we call 9-1-1?” Woodruff asked.

“It’s probably just heartburn,” Bob said.