Send My Dieing Love To Polly

Send my dieing love to Polly. This was the final chapter in the story of a broken heart.

One day while I was scouring the banks of Bear Creek for cans, gold, or food, maybe all three, one never knows, I came across a sad sight. Far down the creek, well into the great waste lands I found a body. He was a young man of good looks, and by his clothes he must have been quite the dandy. He lay under a weeping willow gazing over the creek towards a large beautiful house with Greek columns and ivy covered walls. Across the young mans chest lay a gold bound diary, through which the young man had impaled a silver dagger, directly into his heart. On seeing this sad sight I temporarily forgot my hunger, and upon carefully removing the knife, I sat down beside the corpse to read.

My Diary: By Fopworth Spiffypants.

May 10: To day was a most warm and wonderful one, keen to go for a stroll I soon forgot myself, and found that I had wandered farther than ever before. Stopping for a spot of shade neath a lovely willow, I beheld a most interesting house. Built in the stile of the old Greeks, this was most odd for a small town. Just as I turned to leave, I spotted her.
Like an angel she was, sitting in a soft chair and gazing at me with eyes that flashed of silver and steel. I could not breathe, stunned I could not find the strength to look away, and alas I fell into a swoon. When I awoke the darkness hid her from my sight. Though I waited far into the night, never again did she reappear.

May 11: Today I returned to the house, and there she sat looking ever more lovely. Standing on tiptoe I called to her and waved a greeting with my neckerchief. The distances must have been too great though for if she heard me she showed no sign. I continued trying to catch her eye for the rest of the afternoon. At one point I attempted to climb the willow for a better look, but only managed to fall, rend my waistcoat, and scrape off the tip of my nose. When I regained my senses after this nasty spill she once again had vanished due to the cursed darkness.

May 12: This will be the day, I’m sure of it. I simply must let this darling creacher know how I feel about her. Arriving at the now familiar willow, I soon spotted her sitting upon her velvet chair staring as always across the creek at me as though deep in contemplation. I needed to get closer, so I set off down the bank in her direction. Brambles are indeed a bother! No sooner had I started than I found my self in a merry mess. Thorns tore at my knickers and my flesh until defeated I was forced to give it up for the day. As an added insult, a vole rose up from the ground, and bit off the little toe on my left foot.

May 13: An unlucky day indeed. While puffing on my pipe neath the shade of the willow, and gazing longingly at the girl across the creek. I nodded off and set fire to myself. The day was not a total loss however, for the fire also consumed all the brambles which had so vexed me on the last visit.

May 14: I was so sure this would be the day. Arriving at the willow tree, I set off with all speed down the now clear bank. My Angel was sitting as always high up on the garden terrace across the creek. I stopped briefly during my descent and noted with satisfaction that the vole which had so wronged me on our previous meeting had burned horribly in yesterday’s fire. From on high beneath the spread of the majestic willow the small creek seemed clear and inviting, but alas when viewed up close I found it to be a stinking morass. Mud and water weeds soon sucked my britches off, and as I sought to retrieve them, a troublesome turtle nipped off my right index finger. I managed to crush the vile beast with a rock, but the blood only attracted more of these awful things and I lost a thumb as well in my hasty retreat.

May 15: Hacking about with my dagger, I finally crossed the wretched brook. I quickly scaled the garden wall and came face to face with my love. Oh such beauty, like white doves on a gilded roof. My love, I have come through the valley of death for you I cried, and through myself prone at her feet. If she heard me though she gave no sign. Desperately I kissed her feet and stroked her hand. But through it all she sat still and cold as death, never shifting her gaze from the far horizon. In desperation I rose up and shook her violently. Her only response was to slowly topple sideways and crash to the ground. I was on her in an instant, kissing her pale cold lips and stroking her marble colored hair. I wanted her, but not like this, never like this!!! Grief stricken I returned home.

May 16: From the shade of my willow I can see that my love has not moved from the ground. Though I have sat here for hours now, she dose not move. My mind is telling me what my heart can not bear to hear, I have killed her. So surprised was she to see me vault over her garden wall, bloody knife clenched in teeth, creek mud slopping from dirty brow, that she simply died of fright. Rooted to the velvet pedestal where she had sat all these long days.

May 17: Final entry. With out my love I can not go on. All is misery and death. I killed her, God be merciful. In the shade of the willow where I first saw her I shall through my self upon my own dagger, farewell.

Once I finished reading I carefully set down the diary and turned to look across the creek. To my great surprise I saw the girl, still lying on the ground where she had fallen when this poor love struck dandy had shaken her. She was indeed beautiful!! However there was something funny about her. Rummaging through my things I pulled out an old pair of binoculars and had me a closer look see. After a minuet I couldn’t help the grin that spread across my face. The grin turned to laughter and soon I was howling. Long minuets later my laughter subsided and I turned once more to look at the unfortunate man lying dead behind me. So blinded by love was he, that by the time he finally overcame all hardships to reach the butiful girl he saw sitting in the garden, his mind refused to see what she really was. Poor poor basterd. He named her Polly, cute name……..

Can you my faithful readers figure out what poor Fopworth Spiffypants could not? Leave me a Coment, and find out if you can.

Part 2 Get Alot For What You Got

Just when all hope was lost however, my fortunes changed in an instant. A giant bum, seeing my white shirt produced a black pen, and began using me as an IOU. His writing complete, he picked me off the floor and thrust me into the arms of the small cashier. Here he screamed!!! Now give me food!!!! Seizing my chance, I hopped from the arms of the startled cashier, and made a mad dash for the deep fryer, collecting taco fixings by the armload as I ran. Arriving at my destination in the back, I began to franticly assemble what I had collected in to the shape of a #6 with all the trimmings. But just as I started, there was a loud splintering crash behind me. The front counter, under tremendous strain had finely given way, spilling a mass of humanity out into the small kitchen. With the way open to them, the kitchen became a war zone, pots and pans flew, diced tomatoes and chopped onions changed hands faster than the eye could follow. Taco and tostada shells were ground into dust beneath the feet of hundreds. To my left, the giant bum was attempting to stuff the store manager head first into the deep fryer. To my right, a hunger crazed tramp was mashing his own hand in the quesadilla maker while screaming “would you like hot sauce with that sir!!!!!” With the onset of open war fast approaching, I wisely gathered what I had managed to put together, and fled towards the back door. Safely away I turned to watch the carnage that continued to play out behind me. The police had finally arrived, and began launching teargas in an effort to clear the crowd. High pressure water canons joined the effort, and soon order began to take shape. With the show over, I wondered back down to the creek and was soon enjoying a sunny picnic. The contents of my order were slightly mixed, but I had managed to put together a passable feast given all that I had gone through to get it.

This was what I escaped with.

1 half a Tostada shell, topped with onions and fry grease.

1 Tortilla partly fried topped with chip dust and lettuce.

1 Rat, (not sure were I picked him up) covered head to toe with hot sauce.

1 Deep fried employee name badge rather scuffed, still pinned to a shirt.

Get Alot For What You Got

Get a lot for what you got the ads proclaimed, the town of Merced had just moved in to the 21^st century. Despite the disproportionate crime rate and astounding unemployment rate, I have always found this town endearing. It was only missing one thing in my opinion, and that was a Del Taco, but now we had one!! The addition of a Del Taco to the Wal-Mart shopping center sparked a massive fervor among the thousand or more Tramps, Bums, Hobos, Bridge dwellers, and Homeless people who call Merced home. Get a lot for what you got!!! This was great news!! We didn’t have anything, and now we could get something for it. I was up at the crack of dawn on opening day, I dressed quickly in my best tattered slacks and catsup stained shirt, then ran out from under my bridge to join the long line of Homeless persons already on their way down Bear Creek towards the new Del Taco. Along the way, I stopped to rest with various groups, and always the talk was the same. “I’m going to trade my squirrel jacket for a tostada salad” proclaimed one little tramp. “Yeah well I’ve got my whole bottle cap collection with me, that will get me at least one of everything” stated a large evil smelling bum resting beside a wheel barrow. I began to have nagging doubts about this Del Taco place, would they really give you a lot for what you had? What if you only had moldy cheese, would they still give you a lot for it? I was glad that I had opted to bring cash money just incase.

After an hour of steady marching, a buzz ran the length of the hot tired column, someone up in the front claimed to have spotted it!! Soon rumor became reality, and with a ragged cheer better than 500 hobos broke from the creek bottom, and into a run across the large parking lot, all headed for one place. The small squat stucco building with the sun emblem on the roof, DEL TACO!!!

Half way across the parking lot I could see that all was not well inside the building. The noon rush had begun in earnest, sounded by superstores, the blue collar work force in the area was large, and bored of all other lunch options better than 95% it looked like had chosen on opening day to try out the new place. Add to that over a thousand Homeless people, and you had the makings of a disaster not seen since the food riots of the French Revolution. One hundred yards from the entrance, the crowds began to constrict into one solid mass of smelly humanity, all hope of escape vanished as the frantic crowd bore me helplessly along, as I approached nearer, the sound of fighting, shouting, and pushing grew louder. My nagging doubts grew stronger. I reached the side of the building and breathed a sigh of relief, surely the worst was over, once over the thresh hold, order would be restored. All comers would be waiting in formed lines for their various food items, served fresh and hot by a friendly staff. But one quick look inside and my worst fears were confirmed, if the out side was a nightmare, the in side was sheer hell. Chaos reigned, the small Del Taco looked for all the world like the floor of the NY Stock exchange. Every ware people were shouting and waving money, each one trying to out yell the other in a desperate bid to have his or her order heard and processed first. Those at the front were being beaten down and trampled by those in the back. All completed orders that managed to make it to the pickup counter were soon ripped apart and ravaged, their contents being flung violently into the crowd that soon began piling up on the floor, desperately scrabbling for a stray bit of onion or nacho chip. None the less, I had not walked for the past few hours only to be turned back when I was so close to quesadilla goodness, so in I plunged, fighting for every inch of ground. Commando crawling across the hot sauce smeared floor, and between the legs of frenzied patrons, I soon found my self up against the front counter. So far so good. Gathering my strength, I burst upwards like a crazed Orca in a Sea World stunt show. “I’LL TAKE A NUMBER 6 AND MACHO SIZE IT”!!!!!!!!!! I bellowed at the stunned cashier, “I GOT CASH MONEY’

But just as I pulled a wad of crumpled up bills from my pocket, hundreds of hands went for me, ripping and tearing, my dreams of a #6 turned to confetti as I was stomped to the floor.

Will I get my #6? Will Del Taco survive the onslaught? Is fiddlefaddle the funniest word ever? At least one of these questions might be answered in the conclusion of this post, which I may or may not write depending on whether or not I have survived to write the first part.

Haunting The Back Alleys

While haunting the back alleys of Merced, I have heard many rumors, such as the one about the Yeti that lives under old man Finnegan’s apple tree west of the city. I however know for a fact that this is not a Yeti, only a rather smelly Hobo named Smellobad The Wise. This shows that most rumors can be excused as urban myth, or crazed drunken rambling. I know, because I have admittedly started most if not all of them.

One rumor however can not be explained away so easily, and after much research I can only believe it to be fact. According to various reliable sources, there is a vast underground bunker and tunnel complex beneath the city of Merced. Some say it was a war time command center, others insist it was part of a large smuggling operation. What ever the reason for its existence, I have become fascinated by it. So a few days ago I set out to put the matter to rest. The entrance would noboubt be well hidden, and probably in some dark place that nobody would expect. I spent most of the morning drinking Rum spiked with Mr. Clean Toilet Wiz Bowl Wash for flavor, and into my third glass it hit me, the town librarian, Mrs. Tarnacles jam cellar! It was the perfect place for a hidden tunnel, and nobody would suspect it ever……..sneaky sneaky…………..

Dark was the night, a wary shadow detached it’s self from a leafy fig tree. A startled poodle is choked off in mid yap by the heel of a boot. A soft basement window squeak is drowned out by a passing train, and the shadow disappears inside.

I was in! Now to get down to the business of finding the entrance. I had no idea jam cellars could be so dark, and after the fourth rafter head bash, I was wishing that I hadn’t blacked out my flashlight with paint, so as to not give my self away. I reminded my self to make a note of this. Being a bridge dweller though, I was accustomed to the dark, we bridge folk have the innate ability to feel our way in blackness, using a kind of mind radar to see, like that used by bats, or pigmy shrews. But sadly, the highly volatile combination of pitch blackness and thousands of glass jam jars proved too much for even my well honed senses to cope with. Striding out confidently in a half crouch, I had only moved a few steps before my knee collided with the sharp edge of a pruning spade, the pain was instant. Hopping backward with my right knee clutched in agony, my left foot encountered a spilled pool of strawberry marmalade, causing my one good leg to skid sideways in a most unexpected fashion. With arms pinweeling, I began a slow tragic descent backward, my wild gyrations serving only to bring the contents of half a jam cellar down on top of me. Deafening silence followed, broken only by an occasional drip splot of jam falling from a broken jar on the shelves above. Gingerly I rose from the ground, and still favoring my hurt knee I began a painful hobble towards the open window, all thoughts of hidden tunnels forgotten.

This one set back however has in no way dampened my desire to put this mystery to rest. I am certain that these tunnels and bunkers exist. I am committed to keep searching, and will continue to pass along up dates to my faithful readers.

In Retrospect

In retrospect, I could have been nicer to the Boy Scouts of Troop 15. They may very well have mistaken the area around my bridge for a camp ground. Perhaps I to am partly to blame, I do freely admit to using a large KOA highway sign as a sun shade. This may well have played a part in the confusion leading up to the incidents of last night. I was quite unhappy at being disturbed late into my nightly drunk, and the destruction of my azaleas to make room for a latrine pit had me distraught. But this alone should not have warranted the punishment I handed out, I am not ashamed to put myself at fault. Regardless of weather or not they shredded up my cardboard blankets and roasted marshmallows over them, or opened my secret stash of whiskey and dumped it all on to the fire just to watch the pretty blue flames it produced, this alone was not enough to merit what happened to these unfortunate members of a most esteemed organization. For what it may be worth to the families, I’m sorry. I am not always this violent, normally I’m rather quiet and demure, and I’m not really sure why this incident occurred. Perhaps it was the marshmallow fight the boys had, in which I ended up with sticky gobs of them in my hair, even though I attempted to isolate my self in a far corner. Maybe it was the large “Troop 15 Rules” that one of the scouts carved into my prized teak guitar that pushed me over the edge. I may never know for sure. It is undeniable that young Scouts who through a homeless bridge dwellers clothes into the creek because they are board, or steal a pair of his ripped underwear and make fun of them as they hang them up on a tree branch should face some sort of punishment. But did the punishment fit the crime in this case? At the time I sure thought so, but at the time I was admittedly drunk, and some what irritated at the members of Troop 15 for carelessly setting my doorway drape on fire, skewering my tooth brush newt with a hot dog stick, singing off key camp songs for hours with out letup, and for stomping on my raccoon filled mattress bag just to tick it off, causing it to bite me when I attempted to lay down. Even through this laundry list of incidents though, I kept my temper admirably. That is until the annoying soccer mom Scout Leader bitch called me a frowny face, and issued me a time out for cursing at one of the boys who had just poked me in the eye while waving a fire ember stick in the air to watch the red trails it made. After that I guess I just snapped…………………

I have since made a mental note to try and check my temper should I ever face another such incident. I do not wish to hurt anyone. Sadly all this is in retrospect, which I’m sure provides little comfort to the families of Troop 15, whose rotting innards now decorate the local flora and fauna of this little stretch of Bear Creek.

Random Questions For A Crazy Indian

Random Questions For A Crazy Indian.

On the vast plains north east of Merced there lives a crazy Indian tribe. I managed to corral one of them long enough to ask him some random questions.

Cad: Hi there Big Chief Crazy Whoop, lets get started.

Crazy Whoop: How white eyes, what you want to know?

Cad: Why is the sky blue?

Crazy Woop: Long ago in the before land of my fathers fathers, turtle and rock were having a fight…..

Cad: Hold it, how can a rock fight with a turtle? And what the hell does this have to do with why the sky is blue?

Crazy Whoop: This is the story the great spirit has passed from the sky world down to my people, for one day long ago the great chief Wobbly Arrow asked the same question as you did.

Cad: Ya know what, let’s just forget that question and move on.

Cad: If you lived on Jupiter, how many months would there be in a year?

Crazy Whoop: Months?

Cad: Oh yeah, how many moons?

Crazy Whoop: Ah yes, I read once in a white mans book about this Jupiter, He was much smart.

Cad: What? No wait that was Jupiter Jones, one of the Three Investigators. I’m talking about the planet Ju……..ah never mind…..lets move on shall we.

Cad: How many Muskrats do you think would fit inside a 1979 Dodge Charger? And remember they all have to be inside, no tails hanging out the windows or doors.

Crazy Whoop: Hmmm is the white eyes talking about the thunder horse that moves across the land like the wind of a storm?

Cad: No that’s a train, I’m talking about a 79 Dodge Charger. So take a guess, how many Muskrats.

Crazy Whoop: Errrrrrrrr ummmmmmmm ooooooh A HEAP!!! HEAP LOADS!!!

Cad: You know, I’ll except that answer, you are correct.

Next question. A rabbit in the arctic grows fur to stay warm, but why does a rabbit that lives in the desert grow fur?

Crazy Whoop: One day in the before time, Rabbit and Fox lived in a tree. One day Fox said to Rabbit……

Cad: Aw Christ, not another story, just answer the dang question. Foxes live under ground any way, not in trees.

Crazy Whoop: Now this is so, but in the time before my father’s father’s uncles………

Cad: NEXT!!!!!! Why are teepees round? Why not build square ones?

Crazy Whoop: Square is the white mans way, only white man stupid enough to build stone teepee that needs many holes to drain off water from the roof! Indian say, ”haw haw look at stupid white eyes”. His teepee fall down when water collect on roof……….

Besides teepees are conical, not round.

Cad: Yeah Yeah what ever jackass, don’t you have a buffalo to go scalp or something.

Crazy Whoop: Yes I have talked the sun high into the sky, now I must go.

Cad: Sure, good luck, hope you step in a prairie dog hole you son of a *&#@*.

I’m not quite sure what I called Chief Crazy Whoop at the end of our interview, my Indian is rather rusty. However, seeing as they staked me naked to a red ant nest while buzzards circled over head eyeing my exposed testicals, it couldn’t have been anything very polite. I there for am deeply sorry for my offence.

YOU HEAR THAT DAMIT!!!!! I SAID SORRY!!!!!! NOW UNTIE ME FOR GOD’S SAKE!!

Random Questions For An Inbred Redneck

There is an ongoing column on this blog called Random Questions For Grublygold, however due to the trouble I have in finding someone willing to come and interview me, I have decided to go out and interview others. So with out further ado I give you…..

Random Questions For an Inbred Redneck.

Cad: Who did you vote for in the last election and why?

Clem: Uhh lessee I votered fer dat guy what wear’s dat big ol hat.

Cad: You mean Bush? He wears a cowboy hat now an then.

Clem: Naw dat tall feller what freed them slaves an such.

Cad: Lincoln?

Clem: Yeah eyeup.

Cad: Errr Lincoln wasn’t on the ballot, fact is he died like a hundred years ago.

Clem: That so…………dern shame……….good feller that one.

Cad: Rrright…….so next Question. If a square is three, and a circle is eight, then how much would two squares time’s six circles come out to?

Clem: forty eight.

Cad: Well I’ll be damed. Ok next question, if an apple a day keeps the doctor away, then what does an orange do?

Clem: Turns yaw into a dang sissy, my mama bless her never raised me an my fifty nine brothers on no oranges, no sir, it was apples or nothin, only you big fer your britches city folk eat them sticky orange thingers.

Cad: What’s the difference between a comet and a meteor?

Clem: Dang if I know, but one er tuh other dun kilt my best milkin cow yonder in the barn bout a week back I reckon. She were just a standing there when all tuh once it, this big ol rock comes whooshing down an laid her out flat like.

Cad: Wow, probably a meteor, a comet would have flattened half of California had one of those hit your cow.

Clem:Well which ever one of them thingy’s it was it chaps my craw to loose old bertha like that.

Cad: yeah I’ll bet. Ok here’s one you might know. If a small rifle is a twenty two caliber, and a larger rifle is a forty five caliber, then what caliber is a shotgun?

Clem: Shotgun?

Cad: Sorry, what caliber is a scatter gun?

Clem: Ah, one o them scatter guns, I likes them guns, I kin git me a passel o quail wit me ol scatter gun I kin. I runned me offt a passel o boys what come a callin on Mary Lou wit me old gun to I did.

Cad: Yeah but what caliber is it?

Clem: Now them squirrels is tricky little varmints, I swear they kin smell a scatter gun a comin, cuz just as soon as you pull the thing out of your ruck sack, them squirrels done light a shuck.

Cad: What caliber dang it!! Just pick a number you old bumpkin.

Clem: Errrr eight.

Cad: Hah, wrong you stupid dirt farmer, shotguns are un calibrated.

Clem: Hey now just back yer hoss up there feller, who you callin a dirt farmer.

Cad: Sorry, last question. Suppose one of these days you saw me sneaking out of your daughters window, how long would it take you to load your scatter gun, un chain your hound, and launch an effective pursuit?

Clem: Eh, what’s that now?

Cad: long enough for me to reach the river you think?

Clem: Well I’ll be a pickled possum, just who’s window are ya sneaking outa!!! Boy yer about ta find out how many!!!

At this point I wisely ended my interview and ran for it. Or as you redneck folk say, I lit one hell of a shuck strait for the Mississip.

Due to all the rain that fell in Merced this year, I once got trapped on a hummock in the middle of Bear Creek for 1500 days, this picture was taken just as I was going to attempt to swim off 

The Great Big Anticlimax

By the simple fact that you are reading this, you can safely assume that I survived the battle between the forces of dirty darkness, and the City Planning Commission. In this assumption you are correct. As well, as of this writing, the tower still stands, a great monument to homeless ingenuity. But how you may ask??............... Well I’m glad you asked.

My head hurt, it felt as if a midget had somehow crawled inside my ear as I slept, and was now pounding around in my brain with a midget sized sledge hammer. As I slowly opened my throbbing eyes, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was missing something important. With a groan I heaved my self to the top of the bunker wall, and gazed groggily out at a sea of uniformed city workers, each one armed to the teeth and wearing spiffy new riot gear. My poor abused brain struggled for comprehension, this had to be important……… it had to be……. Then it hit me!!!! This was the day of the big Merced Spring Hoopla Parade!! This must be a staging area………… no……that was last week…………….uuuummmmmmmmmmmm……… Right!!!! It was trash pickup day!!......... In riot gear??? Think stupid brain think……… ARRRRGH!!!!!! My Tower!!! The last great battle to decide the fate of all Merced!!!! Wildly I glanced around, expecting to see my forces assembled to meet this dire threat. All that remained of my grand army however was a jumbled mass of drunken bodies, sprawled this way and that. Out side across the small creek, the city forces had begun beating their rifle buts against their riot shields, womp womp womp. Slowly they advanced. I desperately listed my options, I had no army, all the ammunition had been consumed the night before in the drunken hope that gunpowder might produce some sort of intoxicating effect if snorted. All the gas for the flame throughers, and even the boiling oil had been likewise misused. My grand moment of glory it seemed had just ended before it had begun. After an exploratory volley, the city troops meeting no resistance halted their advance, reluctant to dirty their new uniforms, but obviously disappointed that the promised hordes of the Merced underground had not materialized. The Mayor himself who had opted to lead this fight also looked rather deflated. His glory to it would seem had been snatched out from under him. After short pause, and several dirty looks at my unresisting bunker the Mayor ordered his rocket launcher brigade to advance. Taking aim at my precious tower, the sound of fifty rocket launcher safety’s clicking off in unison echoed in the still morning air. This was it….the end. The Mayor opened his mouth for a mighty bellow, I closed my eyes, unable to look…………..but the order never came………I opened one eye experimentally…….the tower still stood. The Mayor still open mouthed was gazing towards the heavens in disbelief, and down from the blessed sky flew the prettiest sight I ever beheld. With all the grace of a ballerina with Downs Syndrome, a small bird crash-landed on to the top of my tower. It was the rarest of all North American bird species. The Fluff Bottomed Fiddlebooby, and clutched in its beak was a large clump of dried moss and straw, which it happily began arranging in nest like fashion. Bursting from my bunker I ran towards the shocked mayor, LOOK!! I yelled pointing up at the Fiddlebooby. HAH HA!! It stays!! My tower stays!! But my happiness was short lived, my sudden out burst had startled the bird, causing a large stick of straw to become lodged in the Fiddleboobys throught. Lacking opposable thumbs the poor creature could only flap its wings uselessly, whacking at its chest in a weak attempt to dislodge the offending twig. The fate of all hung in the balance, fifty rocket launchers followed every motion of my tower, which now swayed alarmingly due to the frenzied wallowing of the dieing bird. The Booby staggered towards the edge, and once more the Mayor filled his lungs to give the order to fire, but once again he never would get the chance. With one last fluffy hack, the Fiddlebooby expelled the straw from her windpipe, then calmly but shakily returned to her nest building.

It was over, I had won, so long as the nest stands my tower is safe from the threats of the city. The mayor however did not take his defeat lightly, and posted a permanent rocket launcher wielding guard at the base of my receiving tower, waiting to strike should anything ever happen to the towers protector. This makes me awful nervous, as the Fluff Bottomed Fiddlebooby is not known to be the brightest of birds. As I speak though, I am hatching a secret plan to kill, stuff, and animate the Fiddlebooby so as to ensure my towers permanent safety……I’ll keep all posted………………..