Tag: Woodruff and Bob

Pain Does Not Exist

“Wua,” Bob said as waved his arms back and forth.

“Bob.”

“Wa, ha, cha, wau, hu!” Bob ranted as he spun around with his arm flailing wildly and kicked at the air.

“Bob.”

“Hiya!” Bob jumped toward Woodruff with a chopping arm motion and stopped just short of Woodruff’s neck.  Woodruff reached up slowly and gently pushed Bob’s hand away.

“Bob.”

“Come on, Woodruff, I thought you said you wanted to learn karate.”

“And what makes you qualified to teach me karate.”

“A coupon for three free lessons at Sensei Tom’s Dojo says I’m qualified.  Plus, I’ve seen Karate Kid fifty-three times.”

Bob raised his arms to the side, above his shoulders, and stood on one leg with his knee toward Woodruff.

“Here in the park, in competition, a man confronts you…”

Woodruff grabbed hold of Bob’s dangling foot and pushed it up, sending Bob crashing to the ground on his rear end.

“Hey,” Bob protested.  “I wasn’t ready.”

Bob came to his feet and brushed at the grass that clung to his bum.  He raised his arms above his shoulders and stood, again, on one leg.

“Try that ag…”

Woodruff flipped Bob’s shoe up with one hand and sent him careening backwards toward the pond, where several ducks looked up at the standoff.

“Quack, quack-quack-quack,” the ducks taunted.

“Real tough when you’re with your flock,” Bob said, as he came to his feet and lift his arms defiantly.  “Come up and squawk that to my face.  Man to duck.”

A woman, pushing a baby stroller, jogged by and shook her head at Bob.  Woodruff covered his mouth to conceal a smile.

“Easy big fella, there’s just ducks.”

“They think they’re so cool with the webbed feet and their stupid bills.  You’re not cool ducks!”

“They’re not laughing, Bob, that’s just the sound they make.”

“I’d like to see how funny they are when a crocodile shows up and bites their little faces off.”

“I don’t think there are crocodiles in the park.”

“There could be anything in those murky waters.  Anything.”

“Okay, you’re right,” Woodruff said.  “Calm down.  Their bills are stupid.”

“All bills are stupid!”

“You’re totally right, now just breathe.”

Bob drew in and released a deep cleansing breath, as Woodruff patted him on the back.

“Sneak attack,” Bob said and spun around toward Woodruff, who calmly stepped to the side and tipped Bob over.

“You probably don’t want to announce your sneak attack.”

“You’re right,” Bob said, as he rested on all fours with his head hung down.  “Sneak attack!”

Bob shouted as he lunged at Woodruff’s feet.  Woodruff stepped back and shook his head.

“Why can’t I stop saying sneak attack?” Bob muttered.

“It’s okay,” Woodruff said.  “We can do something else.”

“No!” Bob yelped.  “You said you wanted to learn karate and I’m going to teach you ka-ra-tay.”

“Don’t say it like that.”

“You learned your first lesson, always be on your guard,” Bob continued.  “And you got lucky in your defense of the crane kick…”

“Twice.”

“Now I will teach you how to defend yourself against an ambush,” Bob said, walking in a circle with his hands behind his back.

“Don’t try and ambush me, Bob.”

“On the contrary, Grasshopper, it is you who will be ambushing me.”

Bob turned his back to Woodruff and faced the pond.  Woodruff put his hand on his hips and cocked his head sideways.

“Come, Woodruff, attack me,” Bob yelled out toward the pond.  Woodruff exhaled and moved closer to Bob.  He pounced on Bob’s back and wrapped his arm around his neck.  Bob struggled, unsuccessfully, to free himself as Woodruff guided him gently to his knees.

“Hey!” a jogger called from back by an old oak tree.  “Let him go!”

“It’s okay, he’s teaching me karate.”

Bob still could not breathe, but gave a thumbs up to let the jogger know everything was all right.

“They have places for that,” the jogger said, before continuing his morning run.

“Do you give?”

“Mercy, is for the weak,” Bob gasped, as he slapped at Woodruff’s hands.

“You’re being ridiculous,” Woodruff said.  “Just concede.”

“Never.”

Woodruff release his friend before he passed out.  Bob panted for breath as he clutched his throat.  When he collected himself they both stood up slowly.

“Now you’ve learned your second lesson,” Bob gasped through whispered breaths.  “Stay calm and persevere in the face of defeat.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes, I’m serious,” Bob cleared his throat.  “I could have taken you at any moment.  Your approach was all wrong.  Your stance left you open for a counter and your grip was weak.”

“Is that so?”

“That’s so.”

“And you could do better?”

“I’d have you incapacitated in three seconds flat.”

“Okay,” Woodruff said as he turned his back to Bob.  “Show me.”

“Sneak attack,” Bob yelled and he leapt forward.  Woodruff caught him by the arm and threw Bob in the air, over his shoulder.  Bob came crashing down, face first on the ground.  Woodruff quickly circled around and drove his knee into his spine as he pinned Bob’s arms behind him.

“3, 2, 1,” Woodruff counted.  “I’m still waiting to be incapacitated.”

“Oh, you are about to be,” Bob grumbled with his face pressed to the grass.  “Starting now!”

Bob thrashed his body back and forth but was unable to break Woodruff’s hold.

“Starting now!”

Bob bucked up and down but Woodruff held tight, like a cowboy riding a wild bronco.

“Can we be done with this now?”

“You wanna give up?” Bob asked.  “I’m about to teach you a lesson.”

Woodruff plucked a blade of grass and wiggled it in Bob’s right ear.

“Aaaa!” Bob squealed and squirmed.  “Stop it!”

“I’ll stop it when you submit.”

“I’d rather die!”

Woodruff wiggled the blade of grass in Bob’s nose and Bob screamed and flailed about beneath him.  Out of nowhere a pink shoe stepped into view and a stream of liquid was shot into Woodruff’s face.

“Ah!” Woodruff yelled as he fell backwards off of Bob.  “My eyes!”

“Back off, jerk!” a woman’s voiced yelled.

Bob looked up to see a woman, in pink tennis shoes with a matching jogging suit, standing over Woodruff with a can of pepper spray.  Woodruff covered his eyes and rolled around in the grass.

“Are you all right?” the woman asked Bob.

“Uh, yeah,” Bob said, staring past the woman at his suffering friend.

“I’m blind!”

“Did he hurt you?”

“Uh, no,” Bob said as she helped him to his feet.  Bob looked down at the pepper spray.

“I carry this with me for creeps like this,” the woman said and kicked Woodruff in the side.

“I’m not a creep, I’m his friend,” Woodruff cried.

“I told you I was about to incapacitate you.”

“Wait, you know him?”

“I am teaching him ka-ra-tay.”

“I thought I was rescuing you.”

“Nonsense, I was in complete control,” Bob said.  “All you did was disrupt a lesson with your can of cayenne.”

The woman pursed her lips and scowled at Bob.  Before he could say another word she doused him with a stream of pepper spray as well.

“Ah!” Bob screamed.  He fell to the ground next to Woodruff and rubbed his face furiously.  “It got in my mouth!”

The woman jogged away, leaving Woodruff and Bob alone by the side of the pond.  They sat in silence for several minutes listening to the ducks quack away from just beyond the shore.

“Stupid ducks,” Bob muttered.

“Hey, Bob?”

“Yeah.”

“Can you see?”

“Just blurry water and grass.”

“Yeah, me too,” Woodruff said.  “This stinks.”

“Now you have learned your final lesson.”

“What’s that?”

“Strike hard, strike first, beware of a woman with pepper spray.”

“That’s the wisest thing you’ve said all day.”

Bob squinted through tear-filled eyes as another round of quacking exploded from the flock in the pond.

“You hungry?” Bob asked.

“I could eat,” Woodruff replied as he stood up and brushed the grass from his backside.  He helped Bob to his feet as Bob continued to stare at the quacking flock.  “What are you in the mood for?”

“Peking duck!” Bob yelled.  He dove headlong into the pond as the ducks scattered in every direction.

Woodruff looked down at his soaking wet friend, up to his shoulders in mud and water.  The ducks flew up into the blue sky and continued their taunting calls.

“But we had Chinese last night,” Woodruff said.

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

“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.

The Fowlout

“Tell me what I want to know or you’ll never see the light of day again!” the man with the sunglasses shouted as he slammed his hands down on the table.

“What do you want to know?” Woodruff replied as he clung to Bob.

“Yeah, we’ll tell you anything,” Bob said.  “In the third grade, I cut a piece of Missy Stewarts hair off.  I told my friends it was because she had cooties but I secretly liked her.”

“That’s sweet,” the man abruptly removed his sunglasses.  “And kind of creepy.  Is that your thing?  Are you a creep?”

“No sir,” Bob said.  “I’m told I’m more of a clown.”

“Well then, clown,” the man slapped back on his sunglasses.  “How ‘bout you make me laugh?  Who’s your dealer?”

“Dealer?” Woodruff asked.  “We don’t have a dealer.”

“You don’t?” the man in the sunglasses asked.  He stood up straight and scratched the stubble on his chin.  “An accomplice?”

“Bob is my only accomplice.”

“Yeah, without Woodruff I would accomplish accompless.”

“A target?”

“Like a bull eyes?” Bob asked.

“Exactly,” the man in the sunglasses said.

Woodruff and Bob looked sheepishly at each other.

“In my defense, the taxidermist said I could take whatever I wanted,” Woodruff said.

“I told you that was wrong,” Bob said.

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” the man in the sunglasses said.  “What do we got.”

Bob nodded at Woodruff.  Woodruff reached into his pocket, pulled out his keychain and placed it on the table between them and the man in the sunglasses.  On the end of the keychain was a dark black ball.  The man in the sunglasses recoiled.

“Is that…?”

“Yep.”

“A bulls eye.”

The man in the sunglasses started to shiver and grin.

“That is disgusting,” he giggled.

Suddenly, he composed himself and adjusted his sunglasses.

“Put that disgusting awesome keychain away,” he ordered.  “That’s not what I’m after.”

“Well, what are you after?” Woodruff asked.

“Yeah, we don’t have a dealer, an accomplice, or a target,” Bob said.

“A conspirator, then?”

“Well, Bob is the conspiracist but never a conspirator.”

“Right,” Bob said.  “Was the moon landing faked?  Did Hoover order the assassination or JFK?  Why isn’t the McRib available year round?  McConspiracy.”

“You think this is a game?” the man in the sunglasses exploded.  He turned to the mirror at the far end of the room and adjusted the collar of his FBI jacket.  “Bert Macklin always gets his man.”

“Are you talking to yourself in the mirror?” Woodruff asked.

“I’m talking to the best darn agent the bureau has ever seen,” Bert responded, still looking at himself in the mirror.

“Yep, he’s definitely talking to himself,” Bob said.

“Tell me where you hid it and I’ll let you go,” Bert said, as he snapped his gaze back to them and abruptly removed his sunglasses again.

“Where we hid what?” Woodruff said.

“The merchandise,” Bert whispered.

“We didn’t hide any merchandise,” Bob replied.

“The contraband?”

“Nope.”

“The intel?”

Woodruff and Bob just shook their heads.

“The hostages?”

“We don’t have any hostages,” Woodruff replied.

“Well what did you guys do then?” Bert asked.  He threw his arms up in exasperation.  “This is so hard and I’m so hot in this jacket.”

Bert slipped off his FBI jacket and tossed it on the table.  Then he loosened his tie and pulled his, still button, shirt off over his head.

“We’re not sure why we’re here,” Bob said.  “You don’t know?”

The door to the tiny holding room opened and a tall man in a suit entered, carrying a clipboard and a cup of coffee.  The man nearly spilled his coffee where he caught sight of the shirtless agent.

“Andy!” the man shouted.  “What are you doing in here?”

“Hi Agent Gallagher,” Bert replied with a sheepish wave.

“His name is Andy?” Woodruff asked.  “He said his name is Bert.”

“Not Bert Macklin again,” Agent Gallagher replied.  “Andy, I told you, it’s a felony to impersonate a federal agent.”

“But they were about to crack,” Andy protested.

“He’s not an agent?” Bob exclaimed.

“No, he shines shoes in the lobby,” Agent Gallagher replied.

“I started to suspect something was amiss when he took off his shirt,” Woodruff said.

“I thought we were going to go swimming,” Bob replied.

“Can we?” Andy asked.  He looked hopefully at Agent Gallagher.  Bob’s eyes widened with anticipation as he too anxiously awaited a reply.

“No, you can’t go swimming,” Agent Gallagher said.

“Aw,” Bob and Andy replied in unison.

“Get out of here, right now,” Agent Gallagher ordered.

Andy slumped his shoulders and began to leave with Woodruff and Bob standing up to follow him.

“Not you!” Agent Gallagher yelled and pointed for Woodruff and Bob to sit back down.

They dutifully obeyed as the shirtless imposter paused at the door.

“Can I stay, please?” Andy begged.  “I gotta know what these guys did, or it’s gonna drive me crazy.”

“They have the right to privacy,” Agent Gallagher said.

“We don’t mind.”

“Really?”

“Not at all.”

“Fine,” Agent Gallagher said.  “But you’re going to sit in the corner and be quiet.”

“Quiet as a library rat,” Andy said and took a seat in the corner of the room.

“And put a shirt on,” Agent Gallagher ordered.

Agent Gallagher waited and watched as Andy wrestled his still buttoned shirt over his head.  When he had finished, the agent turned his attention back to Woodruff and Bob.

“Your background checks came back with some high unusual behavior,” Agent Gallagher began.  “Founding a professional Tic Tac Toe League, Public Burrito Jousting, Horse Dancing in Tiananmen Square…”

“It’s called Dressage,” Bob interrupted.  “And it’s not a crime.”

“No, but you know what is?  Poultry theft, illegally transporting livestock into international waters, operating a sea craft without a license, and assault and mischief with intent to wedgie.”

“Your honor, I can explain,” Woodruff began.  “We weren’t stealing those turkeys, we were saving their lives.”

“Yeah,” Bob chimed in.  “We were just keeping them from the annual state-sanctioned turkey massacre.  Plus, we returned them on Monday.”

“And according to the Massachusetts charter of 1787 a citizen may leave port without consent or prosecution when providing refuge, escape, or asylum to a being foreign or domestic whose life is endanger,” Woodruff said.

“Furthermore, by edict of the East Indian Trading Company 1655, a person or persons who thwarts, apprehends, or bamboozles a pirate is entitled to twenty pieces of eight, a portion of rice and barley, and either a goat, a chicken or a monkey,” Bob continued.

“Not only have we committed no crimes, but you owe us a monkey,” Woodruff concluded.

“Oh wow,” Andy chuckled.  “Argue with that.”

The frustrated agent put his head in his hands and groaned.  Andy raised his eyebrows at Woodruff and Bob and gave them a thumbs-up.

“Okay,” Agent Gallagher sighed.  “Since the turkeys and the ship were returned, and the hours it would take me to research all that nonsense would make me late to karaoke, I’m going to let you off with a warning.  But know this, we’ll be watching you.”

“Who’s the creep now,” Woodruff whispered.

“Thank you, your eminence,” Bob said, bowing to Agent Gallagher.

“Do you validate?” Woodruff asked.

“Get out of here before I change my mind,” Agent Gallagher said.  He pulled open the door and pointed to the hallway.

Woodruff and Bob walked around the metal table and through the open door.

“You hungry?” Bob asked.

“I could eat,” Woodruff replied.

“Me too,” Andy said, as he scurried out through the door and nearly ran into them.  “Can I come?”

“Sure,” Bob said.  “Know any good places to eat?”

“There’s a pretty good crab and waffle place around the corner,” Andy replied.

“Drawn Batter!” Bob yelped.  “I love that place.  They have the best…”

“Banana pudding,” Andy, Woodruff, and Bob sang together.

“Last one there pays,” Agent Gallagher shouted as he ran by them out the front door.  The trio laughed and chased after the agent, toward a building topped with a neon crab holding a waffle in its claw.

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.”

ShameWow

“How many times do I have to explain this to you?” Woodruff asked.

“Just one more time, I swear,” Bob said.  “I’ll get it this time.”

“A jackal is more of a scavenger, and a hyena is more of a predator.”

“Yeah, but which one is funnier?”

“What?”

“There are laughing hyenas, are there joking jackals?”

“Are you serious?”

“I just want to know which one I’d rather be stuck on the African plains with, that’s all.”

Woodruff grimaced and folded his arms.  Bob turned his attention back to his magazine and thumbed through pictures of wildlife.  A low hum from the copy machine, behind the receptionist, filled the silence in the tiny front lobby.  Woodruff drummed his fingers thoughtfully on the cardboard box in his lap.

“Say you were on a desert island and you could only pick one animal to be with you,” Bob said.  “What animal would you pick?”

“I don’t know, a dog I guess,” Woodruff said.

“Why a dog?”

“Because dogs are loyal and could keep me company.”

“But then you’d have to feed yourself and the dog,” Bob argued.  “Dogs are notoriously lazy when it comes to feeding themselves.  A cat would be a better choice because they’re more self-sufficient.”

“Fine,” Woodruff conceded.  “A cat then.  And we could share a bird or a mouse for dinner.”

“Uh uh,” Bob shook his head.  “Cats are notoriously stingy.  Kitty doesn’t share.  You’ll have to find your own food.”

“Okay, no cat then,” Woodruff said.  “Uh, I’ll pick a cow.  That way I can get milk and eat it if I have to.”

“You’d pick an edible companion for the island?”

“Yeah, what would you pick?”

“I’d pick a dolphin so he could swim me off the island.”

Woodruff opened his mouth to speak but words failed him.

“Mr. Chucklesworth will see you now,” the dark haired receptionist spoke up from behind the desk.

“Mr. Chucklesworth?” Bob asked with a childish smirk.

“Thank you,” Woodruff replied to the receptionist, ignoring Bob.  He collected his box and walked over to the large glass door.  Bob took hold of the handle and pulled it open.

On the other side of the hall, behind a glass wall, was a distinguished looking gentleman, in a white suit. He was sitting at one end of a long boardroom table.  Woodruff and Bob stepped into the boardroom as the silver-haired man in the white suit stood up to greet them.

“Pleased to meet you, sir,” Woodruff said, as he put down the box and shook his hand.  “Thank you for seeing us.”

“Chucklesworth, I presume,” Bob said with a grin.  “Will Ms. Gigglesgood be joining us, or perhaps Sir Chortlemerit?”

“Um, I’m not sure I know who they are,” Mr. Chucklesworth said with a crinkled up forehead.

“Ignore him,” Woodruff said as he shot Bob a scowl.

Bob grinned back at Woodruff and bounced his eyebrows up and down.

“Please, have a seat,” Mr. Chucklesworth said.  “I understand you have a revolutionary idea to share with me.”

“Oh it’s more than an idea, Mr. Chucklesworth,” Woodruff said.  “What’s the biggest fear for modern man?”

“Losing the remote in the couch cushions,” Bob interjected.  “A rogue swan at your dinner party.  Accidentally buying soy milk.  A puppy with the hiccups!”

“Close,” Woodruff said with a point.  “But no.  The worst fear of the modern man is getting a stain on your dress shirt and/or tie.”

“Really?” Mr. Chucklesworth said.

“Imagine you are between meetings and run across the street to get a sandwich from the deli,” Woodruff continued.  “I mean, you’re not going to not get deli mustard.  But what about the danger to your white shirt?  Is it worth the risk?  With our product you never have to eat a mustardless sandwich again.”

Woodruff pulled a blue sheet of shiny plastic looking material out of the box and held it out in front of Mr. Chucklesworth.

“Ta da!” Bob said.  Woodruff swung the narrow end of the tapered sheet around his neck and began to weave it around itself.  “Let’s say you are late for church but haven’t eaten breakfast yet.  Do you go hungry, or risk the dreaded grape jelly stain from your Monte Cristo?  With this bad boy you won’t even give that a second thought.”

Bob patted the shiny blue tie hanging from Woodruff’s neck.

“It’s part bib, part tie,” Woodruff said.

“For the busy clergyman or the bustling career man,” Bob added and poured a bottle of syrup down the front of Woodruff’s shiny covering.  Woodruff pulled a damp rag out of the box without breaking eye contact with Mr. Chucklesworth and wiped the syrup off the bib tie.

“This patented material wipes clean with warm water,” Woodruff said.

“It’s wrinkle free and machine washable,” Bob added as he made a grand sweeping gesture from top to bottom.

“Let’s say you have a business dinner at a BBQ joint,” Woodruff said.

“Or want to enjoy a nice Sunday lobster with your parishioners, but are petrified by Sister Mary Catherine’s nefarious drawn butter,” Bob said, as he pulled a tiny cord dangling from the back of Woodruff’s shirt collar.  The sides of the blue shiny bib tie flared out to twice its original width and covered Woodruff’s entire torso.  “Voila!”

“We’ve got you covered,” Woodruff said as he dumped butter and BBQ sauce on his bib tie while Bob smeared it around.  Then Woodruff removed a pitcher of water from the box and poured it down his front, washing the sauce and butter onto the floor.

“Hey!” Mr. Chucklesworth objected.  “Look what you did.”

“I know, impressive,” Bob said.

“We call it ShameWow,” Woodruff said.

“Or Bob Bibs,” Bob said with a jazz hands.

“No,” Woodruff said.  “We agreed on ShameWow.”

“Fine,” Bob moped.

“That’s awfully close to Shamwow,” Mr. Chucklesworth said.

“Never heard of it,” Bob replied.

“Our product transforms a shame into a wow!” Woodruff continued as Bob flung a handful of noodles and sauce at Woodruff’s chest.  “Spaghetti?”

“We’ve got you covered.”

“Watermelon.”

“We’ve got you covered.”

“Wings.”

“We’ve got you covered.”

“Meat balls.”

“We’ve got you covered.”

“Powdered doughnuts.”

“We’ve got you covered.”

“Ice cream on a hot summer day.”

“We’ve. Got. You. Cover.” Bob said as he hit the bib with a scoop of ice cream with each word.  “And if you act now we’ll throw in these ShameMitts absolutely free.”

Woodruff pulled out a long pair of clear plastic gloves from the box and slipped them on.  Mr. Chucklesworth looked at the floor of the conference room with wide-eyed horror as Woodruff and Bob stood side by side with their arms raised triumphantly over their heads.

“You destroyed my office!” Mr. Chucklesworth shouted.

“But his shirt is still good as new,” Bob said as he lifted up the adult bib.

“How many can we put you down for?” Woodruff asked.

“Get out!” a red-faced Mr. Chucklesworth yelled.

Woodruff and Bob gathered their promotional tools and slipped and slid back into the reception area.

“That was disappointing,” Woodruff said.

“Yeah, he didn’t chuckle at all,” Bob replied.

“Maybe he’s having a bad day.”

“Like the other boss men who threw us out today.”

“And one boss woman.”

“She was so mad.”

“Maybe we should rethink out sales pitch.”

“We just need to find the right fit.”

“I really thought we’d close that sale.”

“I know,” Bob moped.  “Shame.”

“Wow,” Woodruff sighed.

Box of Chicks

“This is not what I had in mind when you asked if I wanted to play XBOX,” Bob said.

“What did you think I was talking about?” Woodruff asked as he placed a tattered cardboard box on the coffee table.

“I thought we were going to play Halo or FIFA World Cup.”

“Oh, you mean XBOX.”

“Yeah, XBOX.”

“I asked if you wanted to play ex-box.”

“That’s what I said, XBOX.”

“No, no, ex-box.”

“XBOX.”

“Ex,” Woodruff paused.  “Box.”

“We’re saying the same thing,” Bob argued.

“No, you’re talking about video games.”

“And you are talking about a ratty old box of scarves.”

“There’s more in here than just scarves,” Woodruff said.  “There’s photos and used wrapping paper, there’s brushes and coyote urine…”

“Why do you have coyote urine?” Bob demanded.

“I dated a javelina wrangler once,” Woodruff said.  “It wards off Gila Monsters.”

“But why is it in a box of scarves and pictures?”

“It’s my ex-box.”

“Don’t say XBOX again.”

“Bob, this is a box of things from my ex-girlfriends,” Woodruff explain.  “It’s my ex-box.”

“Well why didn’t you say so?” Bob said.  “How do you play ex-box, then?”

Woodruff walked over to the fireplace and began to remove the cases of Mello Yello, stacked from top to bottom behind the fireplace screen.  He placed the cases of soda gently on the carpet just beyond the red brick hearth.

“It’s easy,” Woodruff said.  “You just put on Taylor Swift, take out the items of your exes one by one, say something about the relationship and burn the item in the fire.  Then you can move on.”

“Why don’t you just burn the whole box all at once,” Bob said as he stooped down and helped move the last cases of soda from the fireplace.  “It’d be way quicker.”

“That’s not how you play,” Woodruff said.  “You need closure.  You’ve got to give them the proper send off.  Plus, it take two or three T-Swift jams before you find your rhythm.”

“Can you even burn coyote urine?” Bob asked.

“Do you want to play or not?”

“Fine.”

Woodruff loaded split wood and kindling into the fireplace and struck a match.  Bob opened the flue while Woodruff held the match beneath the kindling.  In minutes the flames spread across the kindling and danced merrily on top the stack of wood.

“I’ll go first,” Woodruff said and removed a small vile attached to a necklace.  “Since we’ve covered coyote urine, I’ll start with Maleficent.”

“You dated a girl name Maleficent?” Bob laughed.

“The first rule of ex-box is, no judgement,” Woodruff said.

“Sorry,” Bob said as he covered the grin on his face with his hand.

“You were a wise and cunning hunter, M-Salad,” Woodruff spoke to the vile as he held it over the flames.  “May you find the happiness you deserve.”

He tossed the vile into the fire and it quickly sank out of sight beneath the flames.

“That was beautiful, man,” Bob said, he pulled out a purple and blue scarf from Woodruff’s box and wrapped it around his neck.  Then he dug around and pulled out a picture of Woodruff and a blond girl with dreadlocks smiling on the beach with the ocean behind them.  “Do this one next.”

“Ah, Mary J,” Woodruff smiled.  “We’d probably still be together if that dolphin hadn’t bit off your toe.”

“Did he do it on porpoise?” Bob asked.

“Too soon, Bob,” Woodruff said.

“My bad,” Bob said.  “It felt too soon.”

“Farewell, my little seahorse,” Woodruff said as he cast the picture into the flames.

“So how do you win this game?”

“You empty the box and liberate yourself from the weight of the past.”

“What if you like the weight of the past?”

“Weight is a burden, it slows you down and holds you back.”

“It also anchors you and keeps papers from flying off your desk.”

“Are you saying you don’t want to play?”

“I’m just wondering if it’s wrong to get rid of mementos and memories of those you’ve loved and lost,” Bob said.  “Maybe it’s good to hold on to things that remind you of good times and people you’ve shared them with.  It’s part of the rich tapestry of your life and should be honored, not simply tossed into the flames of farewell with a speech and a goodbye.”

“You want to keep the scarf, don’t you?”

“It’s super comfy on my neck and makes me feel like an old timey fighter pilot.”

“Give me the scarf,” Woodruff demand.

“Fine,” Bob pouted.  “But if I catch a neck cold from the draft in this room it’s all your fault.”

“This scarf belonged to Sam,” Woodruff said as he held it ceremoniously over the fire.  “Her vibrance and beauty is without equal.  She is a shining beacon of kindness and truth.  May her path take her to a place of tranquility and love.”

“Hopefully she won’t need a scarf when she arrives at tranquility and love,” Bob murmured as the scarf went into the flames.

“Okay, it’s your turn,” Woodruff said.

“I don’t know, Woodruff,” Bob grimaced.

“Come on, there’s got to be something you’re hanging on to that’s not good for you,” Woodruff said.  “Some burden you’d like to shake free.”

“There is one thing.”

“Good, go get it.”

Bob stood up, walked down the hallway and disappeared into his room.  Woodruff turned his attention to the fire and watched as the purple and blue scarf burned into ash.  Bob returned with a clay pot in the shape of a swan.  He walked up next to Woodruff and held it out toward the fire.

“Helen, I’m sorry about the wooden horse thing,” Bob said.  “I hope you can forgive me.”

Bob kissed the clay swan and tossed it into the fire.

“Wait a minute,” Woodruff said.  “Helen?  Wooden horse?  The Helen?”

“You know her?”

“The face that launched a thousand ships.”

“She isn’t in the navy, she’s a professional apologizer,” Bob said.  “Her face has stopped a thousand arguments though.”

“A professional apologizer?”

“Yep, she advises couples and corporations how to say they are sorry.  She was impossible to fight with.  It was annoying.”

“And the wooden horse?”

“I’d rather not talk about it.”

Woodruff and Bob both stared into the fire as the remains of their past relationships were consumed by flame.  Woodruff’s nose crinkled up involuntarily when it encountered an unpleasant aroma.

“Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to burn that vile,” Woodruff said.

“Nah, that’s the clay swan,” Bob said.

“How do you know?”

“Because that’s where I kept her ground asparagus.”

“Ground asparagus?”

“She uses it on her finger gap funk.”

“What?”

“You know, the stink from the gaps between your fingers.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“It is for her.”

“Well those asparagus grounds smell terrible.”

“Not nearly as bad as her finger gaps.”

“Is that why you broke up?”

“Nah, it wasn’t meant to be,” Bob said.  “I’m a Fanilow and she’s a pumpkinomaniac.”

“Pumpkinomanica?” Woodruff asked.

“She compulsively eats pumpkins, even in the spring,” Bob said.  “It’s disturbing.”

“What does that have to do with you being a fan of Barry Manilow?”

“Has Barry ever wrote a song about a pumpkin?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“See?” Bob said.  “Incompatible.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Woodruff replied.

The fire began to die down and Woodruff looked into his empty box.

“What now?” Bob asked.

“I guess we meet someone new and hope their stuff doesn’t end up in the box,” Woodruff said.

“Well alright,” Bob said.  “I’m hungry.  You wanna go get something to eat?”

“Sounds good,” Woodruff said.  “What do you want to eat?”

“Anything but pumpkin.”

“How about a burger?”

“Perfect,” Bob said.  “Hey Woodruff?”

“Yeah Bob,” Woodruff replied.

“You think some of our stuff is in a box somewhere waiting to be burned?”

“That would explain why I have so many unmatched socks.”

Bob nodded his head and Woodruff pulled open the door to the bungalow.

“Bet that’s what happened to my beeswax collection too,” Bob said.

“She can’t burn that, none of it is hers,” Woodruff protested.

World’s Best, Amigo

“Well?” Bob asked.

“Oh my goodness,” Woodruff mumbled with a mouthful of food.

“Yeah?”

“Oh yeah.”

Woodruff picked up a napkin and wiped his mouth.

“Do we need to keep looking?” Bob asked

“Nope, these are them.”

“The best?”

“No doubt.”

Bob did a little dance in his chair and Woodruff pulled a crumpled piece of paper, and a Maximum Red crayon, from his pocket.  He crossed off the next item on the list that read Eat the World’s Best Taco.

“I told you I’d find them for you.”

“How did you find this place?”

“Remember how I told you my uncle lived down in Belize?” Bob began.  “And my mom used to bring me down here in the summers to visit?”

“Yeah,” Woodruff said as he leaned forward eagerly.

“Well, when we were in Des Moines, last week, I saw a flyer in the window of a Mexican restaurant that said Best Tacos in Iowa,” Bob continued.

“Yeah,” Woodruff repeated with a raised eyebrow.

“Well, it was written in Spanish.”

“Yeah?” Woodruff wore a puzzled look on his face.

“And Spanish in the second most common language in Belize,” Bob said.  “And I thought that if a place in Des Moines could have the best tacos in Iowa, then a mostly Spanish speaking country had a way better chance of having the best tacos in the world.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“We flew all the way to Belize because you saw a flyer in Des Moines?”

“A flyer in Spanish.”

Bob nodded and Woodruff shook his head.  Two masked men burst through the front door of the spacious restaurant and fired their guns toward the ceiling.

“Get dung on di ground!” the large man in the black ski mask shouted.

Woodruff and Bob fell from their chairs, like a couple of bowling pins, and joined the other patrons on the floor.

“Oh no,” Bob said.  “It’s a hold up.”

“A hold up?” Woodruff asked.  “At a taco shop?”

“In Belize, tacos are a form of currency.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Have I ever joked about tacos?”

“Yu two, shut it!” the second man in the red ski mask ordered and waved his gun at them.

“You should be careful where you point that,” Woodruff said.  “Statistics show that thirty-six percent of gun fatalities are accidental.”

“If ya don’t shut your mouth, it won’t be an accident, ya overstand?” Red Ski Mask said.

“My friend is just trying to keep you from a lifetime of being haunted,” Bob said.

“You mean haunted by regret, right?” Woodruff asked.

“No,” Bob said.  “If he shoots me, I’m going to haunt him.”

“That’s your go-to move,” Woodruff said.  “Just haunt anyone semi-responsible for your death.”

“Is there another move at that point?”

“You could Christmas Carol him.”

“Sing to him?”

“No, get three spirits to scare him into changing his ways before it’s too late.”

“Oh, you mean Scrooge him.”

“Tor-till-a tor-tee-ya.”

“But where would I find a crippled boy with a heart of gold.”

“My cousin walks with a limp.”

“Dat’s it,” Black Ski Mask interrupted.  “One more word an’ mi ago shoot yu in da face.”

“That’s kind of harsh,” Woodruff said.  “I mean a shot in the leg or the foot would send the proper message.  The face seems a little overkill.  Pardon the pun.”

“Stop uno noise na man!”

The man in the red ski mask jerked Woodruff to his feet and stuck the gun to his forehead.

“I don’t think he pardoned your pun, Woodruff,” Bob said.

“Should have used pun control,” Woodruff grinned down at Bob, with the barrel of the gun still pointed at his head.  “Get it.”

“Good one,” Bob said.  “Very punny.”

“Mi ago kill yu,” Black Ski Mask said, as he pulled Bob to his feet and shoved the gun in his face.

“Puns don’t kill people,” Woodruff said.  “People kill people.”

“You’re on fire,” Bob said.

“The smoking pun,” Woodruff quipped.

“Enough,” Black Ski Mask said.  “Yu two idiots are go’n fi get dead.”

“Woah, pun violence,” Bob said.

“Are yu loco?” Red Ski Mask asked.

Woodruff and Bob giggled.

“Sorry,” Woodruff said.  “We’re just having a little pun.”

“Okay Woodruff,” Bob said.  “I think they’ve had enough.  Put the puns down.”

“All right, we’ll be quiet,” Woodruff said.  “As you were.  Rob the money, or tacos, or taco money.”

“How ‘bout wi tek your money,” Black Ski Mask said.

“Sure thing amigo, the name’s Bob.  And this here is Woodruff.”

The men in the ski masks looked at each other and back at their hostages.

“And you are?” Bob asked.

“Yu don’t need fi know who wi are,” Black Ski Mask said.

“Well I’m not going to give a friend money if I don’t even know his name,” Bob said.

“We’re not friend,” Black Ski Mask said.

“Then I’m not giving you any money,” Bob said as he folded his arms.

A short man with a bushy black mustache walked out of the back room with a plate full of tacos and nervously placed it on the counter near the men in the ski masks.

“Jose, do you know these guys?” Woodruff asked.

“No,” Jose replied and looked down at the ground, as he stepped away from the taco plate.

“Then why are you just giving them your delicious tacos?” Bob asked.

“Shut your face!” Red Ski Mask shouted.

“That’s physically impossible,” Woodruff said.  “He could shut his mouth, or his eyes.  If he used his fingers he could even shut his nose, but not his whole face.  Who’s the idiot now?”

“Just let them take the tacos and they’ll go,” Jose said.

“When they didn’t even say please?” Bob said.  “No way, Jose.”

The man in the black ski mask reached for the taco plate and Bob slapped his hand away.

“Uh uh,” Bob warned.  “Somebody needs to teach you some manners.”

“An’ who’s go’n fi teach us, yu two?”

“If we must,” Woodruff said.

The men in the ski masks lowered their guns and began to laugh.

“An’ how’re yu go’n fi do dat?” Red Ski Mask asked.  “Your unarmed.”

“We could take you down with our bare hands,” Bob said.

The robbers looked at each other and back to Woodruff and Bob.  The man in the red ski mask tossed his gun on the table, followed by the man in the black ski mask.

“Teach me, now,” Black Ski Mask said.

“You asked for it,” Woodruff replied and winked at Bob.

“Hands!” Bob shouted toward the open front door.

A massive brown bear sidled into the restaurant on all fours and unleashed a titanic roar.  The men in the ski masks fell down on the floor and raised their hands over their heads in surrender.

“Meet our bear, Hands,” Woodruff said.

Hands stood up tall on his hind legs and roared again.  The men in the ski masks scurried around the counter and fled out the back of the restaurant.

“I love it when a pun comes together,” Bob said.

“Free tacos for everyone!” Jose cheered.

“Yay,” Woodruff said.  “Come on, Hands, let’s eat.”

Hands meandered up to the table and buried his snout in the plate.  Woodruff and Bob gathered around their furry friend and grabbed tacos that slid to either side of the giant bear.

“Taco ‘bout a party,” Bob said with a grin.

“Puntastic,” Woodruff said.

“You can Jose that again,” Bob added.

Hands lifted his face from the plate with a disappointed grunt.

“Estoy de acuerdo, Oso,” Jose agreed.  “You’re just trying too hard, amigo.”

Ghost Pig

Long shadows waved slowly back and forth across the dark grounds.  Woodruff and Bob lay on their backs in the damp grass and peered up into the starry sky.  A howling breeze whistled through the creaky trees.

“Woodruff, this isn’t a good idea.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t like this.”

“Which part?”

“The part where we lay in a spooky cemetery all night.”

“Stop being a baby.”

“I’m not being a baby!” Bob whisper-yelled.  “A baby doesn’t know enough to be scared of ghouls, ghosts, and zombies!  A baby would just lay here in the dark merrily sucking on its toes and laughing at the moon.”

“Have you ever even met a baby?”

“I was born a baby!”

“Calm down, it’s going to be fine.”

“That’s what people say right before the black guy gets murdered by a crazed elephant trainer or the ditzy blonde gets sucked into a vortex to a demonic department store.”

“What kind of movies have you been watching?”

“I only get the Hallmark channel after eleven o’clock, but that’s not the point.  This is spooky and I don’t like it.”

Woodruff sat up and looked at the pale face of his friend.  Bob pulled the flannel fleece blanket up to his chin and peered out warily at the shadows all around them.

“What happened to wanting to experience everything?”

“Everything except being dragged into the underworld by an undead creature of the night, or being dismembered by a possessed narcoleptic gargoyle.”

“Narcoleptic?”

“They’ve got to have a weakness, otherwise we don’t stand a chance.”

“Don’t stand a chance against a figment of your imagination?”

“Don’t get me started on the dangers of figments.”

“Bob, there are no such things as ghosts, ghouls, zombies, gargoyles or vengeful headless horsemen.”

“Who said anything about headless horsemen?”

“Bob…”

“And what are they vengeful about?”

“Bob…”

“It’s the raccoons isn’t it?” Bob asked.  “They’re in league with horsemen in an unholy alliance.”

“There are no raccoons, Bob” Woodruff began.

“No raccoons!” Bob shouted.  “Now I know you’re lying.  You know, good and well, we fought our way clear of a raccoon ambush in Ottawa just last week.”

“I think those were badgers.”

“Badger is just Canadian for raccoon.”

Woodruff shook his head and rose to his feet.

“I’ll make you a deal,” Woodruff said.  “If you can stick it out until midnight we’ll pack it up and head out.”

“If we live that long,” Bob replied as he sat up and cast furtive looks to all sides.

Soft gray clouds passed in front of the moon and the graveyard was cast in a thick blackness.

“At least we’re safe from werewolves now,” Woodruff quipped.

“Don’t even joke about that,” Bob pleaded.

“Hey, if we’re not going to sleep out here tonight, let’s at least have a look around.”

“You want to walk around a graveyard, at night, on Halloween?  Do you have a cross?  Or a wooden stake or holy water?  Do you even have a banana?”

“A banana?”

“Bananas are terrifying,” Bob said.  “Those potassium packed kamikazes, why do they spoil so quickly?  Reminds you of your own mortality.  Plus they like microwaves putty and taste like the bottom of your foot.  If I were gonna haunt you I wouldn’t go near a banana.”

“Why would you haunt me?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe because you drug me to a cemetery on Halloween and I died!”

Woodruff turned and started up a sleepy path while Bob quickly gathered up his blanket and followed close behind him.  They passed beneath a tunnel of overlaid oak tree canopies.  Bob hurried to align himself lockstep with Woodruff and flung his flannel blanket over his head to ward off the invisible fiery demons that most certainly made their homes in the old oak trees.  A dark figure emerged from behind a large trunk and shined a light on them.

“Witch!” Bob yelped.

“I ain’t no witch,” a gravelly voice replied.

“Zeke, you scared the dickens out of us,” Woodruff said.

“He scared the Edgar Allen Poe out of me,” Bob said.

“Actually, it’s a common misconception that the expression refers to Charles Dickens,” Zeke stated.  “Dickens is a euphemism for the devil.”

“That’s supposed to make me feel better?” Bob asked.

“Ya’ll shouldn’t be wandering around here on all hallows eve,” Zeke said.  He held up the light so they could see his pot-marked cheeks and scraggily gray beard.

“Thank you, Zeke,” Bob said.  “I’ve been trying to tell him.”

“You’re not spooked by all this Halloween stuff, are you Zeke?” Woodruff asked.  “You’re out here every day.”

“So I knows best what ya’ll should be a fear’n,” Zeke replied.

“And what’s that?” Bob asked with wide eyes.

“They say, hundreds of years ago, this area was overrun by wild boar, thick as the trees,” Zeke began.  “One particularly cold Halloween the settlers of a nearby town raided this here pasture and slaughtered the whole passel.”

“That’s awful,” Woodruff said.

“Awful ain’t the half of it,” Zeke said.  “They rounded up the pigs and skinned them alive to save their blades.”

“Barbaric Bacon, Batman” Bob gasped.

“Indeed,” Zeke replied.  “The dirt is still stained red with their blood, and on dark and lonesome nights you can hear their squeals on the wind.”

“Good Hog,” Woodruff exclaimed.

“You boys keep a sharp eye out tonight,” Zeke warned.  “On the anniversary of their slaughter, the pigs of purgatory are look’n to take revenge on mankind.”

Zeke switch off his flashlight, turned around, and walked into the night.  Woodruff and Bob huddled together trembling beneath the ominous oak trees.

“Woodruff, can w-w-we g-g-g-g-go now,” Bob asked.

“L-l-let’s g-g-get out of here,” Woodruff replied.

They started for the creaky iron gate in front of the cemetery.  There was a rush of wind and a low growl that stopped them dead in their tracks.

“Did you hear that?” Bob asked.

“Hear what?” Woodruff said as he gripped Bob’s arm tightly.  “A terrifying growl on the wind?  No, no I did not.”

“Me neither,” Bob said.  “Let’s run for it anyway.”

“Deal.”

They ran full-tilt toward the front gate and just before they reached the stone archway above it, a phantom shadow of a beast appeared by the wall and snorted.

“Ghost pig!” Woodruff and Bob shouted together as Bob leapt into Woodruff’s arms.  Woodruff ran blindly through the gate with Bob flailing about his shoulders as they passed the porky apparition.  Each of them shouted and squealed like frightened infants in the hysteria and flight.

“Let’s never speak of this,” Bob cried.

“Never,” Woodruff agreed.

“I’m hungry,” Bob said, still cradled in Woodruff’s arms.

“Me too,” Woodruff said, trying to see around Bob as he ran away from the graveyard.  “Are you craving what I’m craving?”

“Bacon?”

“Bacon.”

They hurried off into the night fleeing the perilous peccary in search of precious pork.

Time To Make The Violets

“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.