An old woman picked up a sample from the squire’s makeshift booth and gave it a sniff. Then kept walking.

Dale leaned against the booth’s railing. “Then I told mother, ‘If you insist on bringing home cheese flecked with blue, at least have the decency to serve it after supper. Otherwise we may as well eat in the stable.’ Am I right?”

“I live in a stable.”

Dale curled his lip. “And you’ve got the scent to prove it.”

“Pork bark!”

Another villager stopped briefly, then kept moving to another stall at the center of town.

“I told you these wouldn’t sell,” Dale said. “Pork bark. Nobody understands it. Should have went with pig shingles.”

“It’s not about the sales. Don’t you recall, sir? I covered the plan as you watched me set up.”

“No.”

“And on the walk over.”

“Nothing.”

“And yesterday evening over ales.”

“Listen. If I have to pay attention every time you start one of your ramblings, I’ll need a second squire just to wake me up when you reach the point.”

“Well, to recap, sales don’t matter. I could be selling watering ladles with holes in them.”

“Probably do better,” Dale said, cutting in.

“The thing is, Robin Hood frequents the market to surveil the poor. We wait for a tall, handsome, hooded fellow to approach, properly identify him, and then follow him back to his hideout.”

“Hmm,” Dale said. “I would have preferred advance notice to prepare a disguise, and likeably something more dignified than pork peddlers, but not bad.”

“I thought you’d like it.”

Dale adjusted the price sign on the booth. “Alright. Consider me a pork peddler.”

“I always have,” the squire said.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing. Let’s get to it, sir.”

*****

“Pork bark,” the squire announced.

“Pig shingles. Fresh and firm here,” Dale said.

“Get your pork bark here!”

“Pig shingles! You see how I do it, with flair? That’s how you move hog.” Dale bobbed his head around villagers passing by. “Wait a moment, what about him?”

A tall slender man studied a bag of onions across the square.

“Looks a bit gangly, if I might say.”

“What about him?” Dale said, pointing to another.

“Too homely.”

Dale shook his head.

The afternoon wore on. Dale rejected a baker for being too short and a woodsman for being portly. The squire mistook a miller for Robin, but realized it was his cousin.

Dale slumped against the railing. “This is hopeless.”

The squire shrugged. “Just not our day, I’m afraid.”

Dale suddenly straightened. “There!”

The squire squinted. “I’ll say he matches the description. But man, is that fellow drunk.”

“Oh, it’s all smoke and mirrors. That’s him.”

The man stumbled up to the booth. “Ha! Pig squares.” He burped. “What’ll they think of next?” He then headed toward the alley latrine.

Dale sprung up. “This is it, squire! You hang back and guard the pig shingles. The glory’s mine!”

*****

Dale returned an hour later.

“How did you make out, sir?” the squire asked.

“Followed him about four miles after he stole a bladder of ale from the tavern. He wound up drinking it and stumbling into a ditch. I was convinced it was a trap until I rolled him over with a stick and tried removing his disguise. He had wee’d himself and the beard didn’t budge.”

Dale looked over the booth. All the pork bark was gone. “What happened here?”

“You wouldn’t believe our luck. We sold out.”

“All of it?”

“Some traveler came by with a bag of silver. Bought the whole lot.”

“What an imbecile. No sign of Robin?”

“Nothing.”

Dale looked around. Villagers were collapsing their stalls for the day. “So, a traveler, huh?”

“Yeah. A real pleasant fella. Handed out most of the pork bark too.”

“Strange.” Dale shook his head. “More money than sense.”

“Agreed. And handsome too.”

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—Ricky C.

Mr. Wand, the store manager’s idea to put Gillman on drive-thru had generally been successful. Customer complaints were down, drinks were coming out less soggy, and the per capita flies had plummeted.

A white SUV pulled to the window.

“That’ll be $18.63,” Gillman said.

“Whoa, you’re that Gill fella everybody’s been talking about!” the customer said, handing off their credit card.

Gillman grabbed it with a moist hand, the customer wrinkled their nose.

“Yes, that’s me. Do you want a receipt?”

“Hot dog. What’s your story? How come there aren’t any more of you?”

“How come there are so many of you?”

“Hmm.” The man looked skyward. “Good question.” Then drove off.

“Gillman,” Samantha said. “You ever notice my name and your name both have ‘man’ in it? Gill-man and Sa-man-tha.”

“Ribbiting.”

Samantha cracked a smile. “Is that more swamp humor? You kill me.” She poured foam on a latte. “We still on for the movie tonight?”

“Eh, I’m feeling less motivated. What’s playing again?”

“Shipley’s Last Voyage. It’s supposed to be really good.”

“I don’t know. Seems emotional.”

“And? There’s nothing wrong with that. We all have emotions.”

Mr. Wand approached carrying two syrup containers. “Gill, smell these. Both expired, but how long do they really have?”

Gillman made a phlegmy inhale over the bottles. “Three more weeks on the Peach Bellini, but the Razz Matazz is more like Raz-Ma-Rancid.”

Mr. Wand handed the raspberry flavoring to Samantha. “Here, just mix it with some Strawberry Lemon Drop. I’ll order a fresh jug next week.”

*****

Later they sat in the cramped cream-colored break room for lunch.

A bug flew out of Gillman’s sandwich. He snatched it out of the air. “Juicy.”

Samantha pretended not to notice. “What do you have there? Mostly flies? Or different kinds?”

Gillman spoke through chews. “Anything really.” His lips smacked, bugs in his teeth. “Mosquitoes are my favorite, but we’ve all seen what’s happened to the price of those.”

“Right. Insectflation.”

Gillman lowered his sandwich. “Exactly.”

“So, are we still on for tonight? Shipley’s Last Voyage?” Samantha shifted into her best movie trailer voice. “Shipley’s got a gruff exterior. But there’s one gentle mille-feuille of a woman who could smooth his sharp edges.”

“I guess.”

Samantha bounced in her chair. “Good. Because I also told Mr. Wand he could come.”

“I’m out.”

“Oh come on. I’ll tell him he’s got to buy you a bucket of mosquitoes.”

Gillman ran his tongue over his teeth. “Fresh or dead?”

“Fresh.”

Gillman picked up his sandwich. “What time?”

*****

It was just past 9:30, the movie let out. Gillman sat at the curb, waiting for Mr. Wand to pull the car around. His eyes were puffy.

“You alright, Gill?” Samantha asked, sitting down next to him.

He sniffled. “Fine. It’s my amphibious biology. I can’t… theaters. Humidity… How? Tell me how Shipley still sets sail after all that?”

Samantha put her arm around him. Her jacket now streaked with goo. “The call for adventure can do powerful things to a man.”

A red Toyota pulled up. Mr. Wand rolled the window down. “Who’s up for Applebee’s? Boneless wings. America’s favorite.”

“I’d rather be on the boat with Shipley.”

“Me too,” Samantha said. “But Wand’s buying.”

Gillman stood. “Fine.”

They moved toward the car.

“Hey, Samantha,” Gillman said. “You think Shipley makes it?”

“Well, it is called Shipley’s Last Voyage.”

“Maybe he retires.”

They got in the back seat.

Mr. Wand turned around. “Anybody got the app? Says we get $5 off if we pre-book a table.”

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—Ricky C.

^{Photo by Nicolas Nieves-Quiroz on Unsplash}

“Yo, Tripp. You see what Crystal was wearing at the pool?” Reggie threw a dart, hitting a twenty.

“Did I see? I couldn’t keep my eyes off her. Pretty sure I lost one of the campers downstream.” Tripp threw a dart, missing wide.

“Eh, they’ll turn up.”

Tripp threw again. “Yes. Fifteen.”

“That’s a five,” Reggie said.

“No chance,” Tripp said, walking up to the board and grabbing the darts. “It’s in the wire.”

“You hit the wire. So you deduct points. English Bristle rules.”

“English Bristle. You made that up.”

“Bro, my dad’s got an official dart board in his den. We play all the time.”

“This is what I think of your dad’s den.” Tripp flung a dart through the open window.

“Owww. Hoot.”

They both froze.

“Dude,” Reggie said. “I think you hit an owl.”

“No way.”

“Do it again.”

Tripp launched another dart.

“Owwww! Hoot!”

“Oh, crap. What do we do?”

“Just shut the window. We don’t want it flying in here, and worse yet, you could lose your whistle over animal abuse.”

“That’s all I need. I’m already on thin ice with my folks for putting laxative in the slushy machine at school.”

Outside, a bush rustled. Blue Banshee crawled out, a dart sticking from his shoe. “English Bristle.” He got to his feet and limped away. “I knew I should’ve gone with the steel-toe boots.”

*****

A few hours later, Blue Banshee scrunched flat against the roof of a boathouse. Going after the bros playing darts was a questionable idea. But this would be it. He knew her routine. She’d come, just as she had the last three nights. A female counselor sneaking away from her bunk for a smoke break. Her little secret, and soon he’d be the last one to know.

He waited.

A mosquito landed on the tip of his nose. Not a problem with his mask on. It started to crawl into the nose hole. He swatted at it, taking his hand off his axe. The weapon began sliding down the metal roof. “No. No. No. No. No.”

Sploop. Right into the water.

Blue Banshee exhaled. The mosquito flew away.

Just then, she arrived, bobbing to her headphones. She got to the corner of the boathouse, looked around, and retrieved a pack of smokes from behind a flower pot.

Blue Banshee peered over the edge, sweat building on his forehead. Losing his axe would mean he’d have to get a little more creative. No problem. His first victim was worth it.

She danced in place as she smoked. He wondered her name. Though, it didn’t really matter. She wasn’t long for this world.

Blue Banshee slowly rose.

Footsteps clinked down the metal dock. “Hey, Becky.”

Blue Banshee ducked back down.

Becky panicked, spun around, and flicked her cigarette into the air. “God, Jess. You scared me.”

“Sorry,” said the other counselor, stepping into view. She sniffed. “Hey were you smoking?”

Becky rubbed her foot on the ground. Caught.

Jess held out her hand. “Got another?”

They both busted out laughing. Becky grabbed the pack from the flowerpot again.

Above them, Blue Banshee remained perfectly still. The mosquito came buzzing by. He shook his head as it attempted to find the earhole.

The two counselors smoked beneath the stars, enjoying the quiet.

Blue Banshee sniffed. Something smelled strange. He looked over his shoulder. A small flame glowed on his shirt. His eyes widened.

Jess dropped her cigarette into the water. “Should we get back?”

“Yeah.”

They both disappeared back toward the cabins.

Blue Banshee rolled wildly on the roof, slapping at his back. “Hot. Hot. Hot. Hot.” His grip slipped on the metal and he began to slide. “No. No. No. No. No.”

Sploop.

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Trailer Line Throwers - Trailer

Previous Installments

Line Throwers 1 - Stonehouse 3: Meet the team responsible for one of the river’s busiest stretches.

Line Throwers 2 - Aspen of the Lowlands: A tourist’s big day goes sideways as he drifts into Eastbank Bend.

Line Throwers 3 - We Need Heroes: Recruiting season introduces Johnny, a trailer park lifeguard with big dreams.

A pedal-powered bar meandered through Riverborn’s shopping district. Eight tourists wearing Becky’s Last Splash t-shirts lazily turned the pedals while country music thumped the speakers. At the center, the captain shook a cocktail mixer with one hand and steered with the other.

The bride adjusted her tiara, then tossed back a shot of cinnamon whiskey.

“Woooo!” The rest of the boat cheered.

“Alright, ladies,” the captain called. “Who’s up for another round?”

The party vessel kept cruising as it headed into Restaurant Row. Two elderly couples eating brunch scowled at the disruption.

“Whoop, whoop,” Captain Randy said. “They wish they were on board, don’t they girls?”

The group erupted.

Captain Randy cranked the wheel, narrowly missing a parked kayak. “I can mix and mambo.”

“I like this guy!” the maid of honor said.

Randy grinned. “I’ve heard that before.” He finished making a margarita, took a quality control gulp, and passed it to one of the bridesmaids. “Still got it.”

The women laughed.

“So where y’all from?”

“Tampa.”

“That explains why no one is pedaling.”

More laughter.

Randy leaned against the bar while shaking another cocktail. “So, Miss Bridesmaid. You bringing a date to this shindig or what?”

“Maybe,” she said. “Depends if you’re busy.”

“Hiooooo,” Randy said and clanged a bell overhead. “Next rounds on me.”

Another resounding cheer.

One of the bridesmaids looked toward the front of the boat. “Uh? Captain… weren’t we supposed to turn back there? This says, ‘Do Not Enter.’”

Randy smiled. “Nah. We’ve got plent—” he looked downstream. “Oh, God.”

*****

Rebecca was eating a coffee cake muffin from her stand overseeing the river, when her radio crackled to life.

“Stonehouse 3. Stonehouse 3. Wayward Pedal Pub in your district. Restaurant Row. Come back.”

“Rebecca here. Confirmed.”

“Rochelle too. Confirmed.”

“It’s all yours, ladies. Last visual: passing Wolf Pack Bar and Grill.”

Rebecca switched to the Stonehouse 3 channel, knowing Rochelle would be doing the same. “You hear that, Rochelle?”

“Already en route, babe. That’s only a few blocks from the pedestrian bridge.”

“See you there. Clean throws.”

“Clean throws!”

Rebecca jumped down from her stand and took off. The muffin rolled into the water.

******

“Everyone pedal!” Randy shouted. “We need ‘em spinning in the opposite direction. Now!”

The bride looked around. “What?”

“Backwards! Pedal backwards.”

The group fumbled to find the wet pedals beneath the bar. Their shoes slipping.

The current kept pulling the pub toward the pedestrian bridge. They’d never clear the overhang.

Diners began standing at their tables, watching the disaster unfold.

Captain Randy reached for the radio again. “We’re not gonna be able to stop!”

Rebecca appeared first, sprinting along the east riverwalk.

Rochelle matched her stride from the opposite bank.

Without hesitation, two throw bags arced over the water. Rebecca’s wrapped the grab rail. Rochelle’s caught the boarding ladder.

“Pull tight!” Rebecca said.

Both women leaned back.

The ropes snapped taut.

Drinks sloshed into the water. The bride’s tiara fell from her head. The Party Pub lurched and slowed, stopping just short of the bridge.

Then applause erupted from Restaurant Row.

Captain Randy exhaled. “You saved more than my tip jar, ladies.”

Rebecca recoiled her line, letting the pub drift into the public landing lane. “Maybe try a little more steering than shaking next time, Randy.”

Randy rubbed the back of his neck. “That’s fair.”

Rebecca met Rochelle at the edge of the riverwalk. The two bumped fists.

“Clean throws.”

“Clean throws.”

*****

Mayor Ray Whitlow clipped the end off a cigar while Sarge stirred a glass of sparkling water with a lime wedge.

“You know,” the mayor said, “one day I’m gonna get you to smoke one of these.”

“You’ve been saying that for fifteen years.”

“And one day I’ll be right.”

Sarge smiled. “That’ll be the day you trade brisket for broccoli.”

The mayor laughed and lit the cigar. He leaned back in the leather chair, taking a long puff.

Sarge watched him for a moment. “So, what’s the scoop, Ray? You know I don’t like cigar bars.”

“Well, today was cause for a celebration.”

“What’d you do?”

“I didn’t do anything,” the mayor said. “They called this morning.”

Sarge sat forward. “The Park Service?”

Whitlow nodded. “We’re finalists.”

Sarge slapped the padded arm of the chair. “No way!”

“As sure as the river flows.”

“So… what’d they say?”

The mayor walked to the window overlooking Restaurant Row. Tubes wandered beneath the evening sun, covered in light from the flickering street lanterns. “You know what this county looked like when we were kids?”

Sarge laughed. “That’s not what I asked, but I’m guessing mostly mosquitos?”

“Mosquitos and bait shops.”

“We’ve still got plenty of both.”

The mayor smiled. “Now look at it, though.” He gestured toward the water. “Families. Modern hotels. High-priced outfitters. People flying in from all over the country just to float our river.”

“It’s been fun watching it grow,” Sarge said. “And brings me back to my question, what’d the Park Service say?”

“They think Riverborn’s ready. National Park designation.”

“Hot damn, Ray. I’m gonna need something stronger than this seltzer.”

Ray turned from the window. “Communities spend generations chasing something like this, Sarge. New investors. Property values climb. Businesses stop worrying about surviving the winter and start thinking about expansion. We’ll no longer be a hidden gem. We’ll be all the ore in the mine.”

“Game changing,” Sarge said.

“There’s just one minor catch.”

“Lay it on me. Nothing we can’t handle.”

“We’ve got to prove Riverborn is safe enough for the designation.”

“Is that it?” Sarge stood. “That’s all they want? Tell ‘em to take a canoe downstream. Hell I’ll paddle myself. You hear about that save of the Party Pub this morning? Routine for us.”

Mayor Whitlow nodded. “Of course I heard. But here’s the deal. We get one shot. July fourth weekend, they’re coming for an evaluation. There can’t be any safety incidents.”

Sarge’s jaw tightened. “The Fourth? Come on, Ray.”

“They want to see how we handle peak season.”

“Listen, I stand behind every Line Thrower in this county, and my crew’s the best of the bunch. But that’s the busiest weekend of the year. Every cocky gunslinger with a brand-new jet ski thinks he’s invincible, and every tourist who can’t swim rents a tube.”

Mayor Whitlow took a puff.

Sarge exhaled and looked back toward the river. “Hell of a weekend to judge safety.”

“Agreed. And they won’t be announcing where they’ll be or when. They just want to experience Riverborn.”

Sarge rubbed his chin. “What if we make it bulletproof?”

“How so?”

“We hire. Really hire. Five times the crew. Flood the river with Line Throwers.”

The mayor shook his head. “Not gonna happen.”

“Why not?”

“Because people pay for ambience as much as adventure.” He pointed toward a couple getting into a tandem water bike with ice cream cones. “You staff every block with rescue stations and emergency crews, suddenly folks stop seeing a vacation destination. They start seeing a place they might not make it back from.”

Sarge sat for a moment, knowing the mayor was right. “So we do what we’ve always done.”

“Which is?”

“Make clean throws.”

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—Ricky C.

Photo by Alain Gehri on Unsplash

Swords clanged.

“Yield I said!” Dale hollered, bracing himself against the wooden rail of a bridge.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the squire said, lowering his weapon. “I couldn’t hear you over your yelping.”

“I wasn’t yelping, you coward. I noticed you were winded and didn’t want you keeling over into the rushing waters. Force me to explain why my squire is floating downstream… again.”

“Oh, thank you, sir,” the squire said. He knelt at the edge of the bridge, scooped some water into a small bucket, and delivered Dale’s drinking ladle.

Dale took a sip. “It’s a bit wet. So you’re lucky I’m parched.”

“Right. It smelt wet. Shall I send a letter to the King? Perhaps he can have the river repaired?”

“Eh, not worth the trouble. These ungrateful villagers wouldn’t appreciate the gesture.”

“Speaking of. You know how Robin Hood is always pulling off these amazing feats of generosity, embarrassing you in the process and putting you further and further in the backs of people’s minds?”

Dale’s face soured. “Vaguely.”

“I was thinking.”

“I thought I smelt burning tallow,” Dale cut in.

“What if you came up with your own memorable act of generosity? Remind the people that Robin’s not the only one with a heart in this town.”

The squire scooped a handful of water to drink.

Dale’s eye lit up. “Hmm. That’s not bad, squire. Let me ask you, what’s the one thing villagers use every day?”

“Bum straw?”

“The bridge, you clodpoll.”

“Right. What about it?” the squire said.

“We start charging people to cross.”

“And that helps them how?”

“Well, we’ll collect a modest toll. Call it a donation. A few coppers for passage. Less, of course, a modest administrative fee.”

“Then…”

“We donate a portion of the collection.”

“So you’ll charge everyone for something that was free?”

“Only briefly.”

“And then give some of their money to someone else?”

Dale let out a breath. “This is like having a conversation with an oyster. YES.”

The squire leaned against the railing for a moment. “Couldn’t you just give your own money to the poor?”

“Well then, it wouldn’t be a community effort, would it?”

*****

The next morning the squire rolled a large oak barrel onto the bridge.

Dale stood atop an overturned onion crate. “Donations for the poor!”

“For the poor,” the squire echoed.

“Help your brethren in their hour of need!” Dale called.

“Hour of need,” the squire repeated.

An old man approached and dropped two copper coins into the barrel. “Bless you two and your efforts,” he said.

Dale peered inside the barrel. “Two coppers? Cheap coot.”

“Pardon?” the old man said.

The squire helped him along. “You ought to scoot.”

He scooted away.

A woman in a threadbare shawl approached next and dropped in a single coin.

“Bold of you,” Dale said.

“Sorry?”

“Nothing. Bless you. Move along.”

A priest was next, his robe dragging in the mud. He raised a hand over the barrel and mumbled something in another language, then walked on.

“Excuse me,” Dale said. “Holy man. Where’s the coin?”

“I prayed for your endeavors. It’s all I have, my son.”

“Son? If you were my father, you’d have a coin pouch as thick as a toad. Move along.”

A man on crutches came next.

Dale turned to the squire. “Oh dear, Lord. Is there anyone not maimed or destitute in this entire village? It’s like they don’t even try to become wealthy.”

*****

That night, by lantern light, the squire counted the haul. “Six coppers. One blessing. One verbal debt. And a fish.” He smelled it. “Dried halibut, I believe.”

Dale let out a long sigh. “Tomorrow we proceed as planned.”

*****

The following afternoon, Dale and squire carried the barrel to the village square, where a beggar sat against the well with his cap out. Dale reached in, lifted the halibut and dropped it into the man’s hat.

“Good fortunes to you, beggar.”

The man looked into the hat. “This fish stinks.”

“Then I suggest you eat it quickly.”

The beggar poked the halibut with a grime-covered finger. “It’s got a film on it.”

Dale wiped his palms on his tunic. “That is a glaze of charity.”

Yield.

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“Name?” Henry asked.

“Bones,” the applicant said.

“Brand?”

“Brand?”

“Aye. What are you known for?”

“I wear a skeleton mask.”

“In this humidity? Good luck. Anything else?”

“I carry a double-barrel handgun, short snout nose. Call it my Squealbone.”

“Intriguing,” Henry said. He looked toward Anne. “What do you think?”

She stepped to within inches of the applicant. “I don’t love the redundancy of Bones as his name and Squealbone as his sidearm. But he’s a right intimidating lookin’ fella.”

Henry nodded. “Agreed. What do you think about a name change?”

“Like what?”

“Corpsy,” Anne said.

“Elegant,” Henry agreed. “Strong.”

“Bit grim,” the applicant replied. “I’d also really prefer sticking to the skeleton theme if possible.”

“Hmmm. What about Marrow Tube?” Henry suggested.

Anne shook her head.

“Tibia?”

“Too soft,” Anne said.

Henry rubbed his chin. “The Rattler.”

“Veto,” the man said.

“Aye,” Henry said, pausing. “I’ve got it. Femur Jack.”

“Not bad,” Anne said.

“Right? You can do a whole thing. Femur Jack’ll crack your… your… anyone?”

“Back.”

“Back, yes, thank you, Anne. I’m just spitballing here, but this has some real potential. You’ve got a distinct silhouette, memorable weapon, humidity sensitive mask which isn’t a dealbreaker. What do you say? Femur Jack?”

“I just had ‘Bones’ stitched onto three overcoats, but I’m in.”

Henry stamped the application. “Congratulations, Mr. Jack. Pirate designation approved. Feel free to set sail at your leisure.”

Henry stood and stretched his arms out. “What have we next, dear? I’m getting hungry.”

Anne pulled something from a satchel behind the booth. “Here. Salted pork.”

Henry took her hand. “Where would I be without you?”

“Still drunk on the floor of the Copper Scales.”

“I do love that bar,” Henry said. “A little too much.”

“We’ve got a 10:30 cannon certification.”

“To the firing range,” Henry said.

A burly pirate was waiting on the dock near a row of iron cannons, cradling a cannonball with both hands.

Henry shook his head. “Have you been holding that the whole time?”

“The madam said it was required.”

Anne grinned innocently.

“Oh, you little devil,” Henry said. “Let’s get started.” He put on a pair of safety spectacles and pointed toward the ocean. “Your target is the center buoy.”

The pirate packed the barrel, lit the fuse, and smiled. Henry’s gaze stayed fixed on the buoy using a spyglass as the fuse sizzled.

“Umm,” Anne said. “He’s standing in front of the cannon.”

Henry lowered the spyglass. “You may want to take a step to the port side.”

The pirate, busy plugging his ears, didn’t respond.

Henry sighed, grabbed the ramrod, and pushed the man out of the way. The cannon blasted.

The pirate looked up. “Where’d it go?”

“A whisker from your spine.”

“Is that good?”

Henry picked up his clipboard. “It means your certification’s denied.”

“Dammit!”

“You’re a kind soul, Henry,” Anne said as they walked back to the application booth. “I would have let him gain a blowhole.”

Henry settled at the table and picked up the next application. “Let’s see who’s next? Ahh. Fortune’s with us, Anne. This next one is a privateer license.” He looked toward the line. “Is there a Whispering Will?”

A tiny man limped up, one of his sleeves was pinned to his shirt. His spectacles were cracked in both eyes.

“No,” Anne said. “Denied.”

“Anne, he’s hoping for privateer. Let’s hear him out.”

“Henry, he’d lose a fight with a warm candle.”

“Oh now. Let’s just see,” Henry said. “Whispering Will, is it?”

“Yes, sir,” Will squeaked.

“Says here you have eight years sea experience. Tell us about it.”

“I’ve watched ships.”

Henry nodded. “Observation. An underrated quality. There’s a lot to be learned watching aboard—”

“From the shoreline,” Will added.

“Even better,” Henry said. “Haven’t picked up any bad habits.”

Anne’s jaw opened. “He’ll be dead before sunrise.”

“Now now. Whispering Will, do you understand you’re sworn to escort merchant vessels through pirate waters?”

“I’ve read the agreements extensively.”

Henry smiled. “Prepared.”

“Delicate,” Anne said.

“Prepared and delicate,” Henry said, making a note. “A healthy combination.”

Henry reached for the stamp.

Thunk.

“Approved. Provisional privateer.”

“Yes,” Whispering Will whispered, then coughed into a handkerchief and limped away.

“I can’t believe you approved him,” Anne said.

“Someone has to protect the merchants,” Henry replied. “Or at the very least, give the pirates something to aim at.”

Ahoy!

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^{Header illustration: Claude Lovat Fraiser, Pirates (1922)}

The chef looked up and spotted the massive figure behind the screen.

There’d be nowhere to run.

Blue Banshee tightened his grip and nudged the door open with the axe head.

The chef set the knife down. “You must be Henri. Come in, come in.”

Blue Banshee stopped, then answered in his most menacing growl.

The chef squinted. “From Montreal, right?” He appraised the big man. “I heard you were eccentric, but…I think they undersold it.”

Blue Banshee raised the axe.

The chef sighed. “We can’t have that in the kitchen.”

Before he could react, the chef grabbed his axe, kicked open the screen door, and tossed it into the night.

“There.”

Blue Banshee’s jaw dropped.

“Insurance, liabilities,” the chef said. “You get it. Now, go grab me a squash.”

A minute later, the would-be slasher returned carrying a pumpkin.

The chef frowned. “Close enough. Start by peeling spuds.”

Blue Banshee looked around the kitchen.

“Over there.” The chef pointed to a 50-pound bag of potatoes.

Blue Banshee grunted and reached for the peeler.

The chef nodded and went back to seasoning the stockpot. “Say. What’d you do before this?”

“Aspiring murderer.”

“That the barbecue joint by the highway?”

*****

Later that evening, flashlights bobbed between the trees.

“I hate this game. It’s scary out here this late.”

“That’s the point, Crystal. It’s called manhunt. If it were daytime, we’d just be playing tag.”

Blue Banshee watched from behind an oak, happy to be free from the cursed potato bag and finally back in his element. He spotted a lone camper standing nervously beside a bush. His pulse quickened as he stepped forward. Just then another camper sprinted from the shadows and slapped him on the back, knocking his axe to the ground.

“You’re it! Run, Julie. Lurch is it!”

The two disappeared into darkness. Another camper sprinted past. “Can’t catch me, cement legs.”

Blue Banshee looked around. “I’m what?”

In the distance someone shouted, “Come on! Let’s hide by the creek.”

Blue Banshee sighed and left the forest.

*****

Crickets chirped as a Hyundai Sonata rolled over the air hose at the old gas station.

Ding ding. Ding ding.

“Yeah, yeah,” said Edgar, the elderly gas station attendant. He sat outside watching a possum crawl into a bucket of fried chicken.

“Well, look who it is.” Edgar smiled. “Blue Birch Tree, right? How’s all that murdering coming?”

Blue Banshee climbed out of the car and leaned against a pump. “Slower than anticipated.”

“Is that right?”

“The other day I got conked with an oar. And I’ve spent most of today making soup.”

Edgar nodded. “Never had a taste for conch soup, but s’pose everybody’s gotta eat.”

“Maybe this isn’t for me,” Blue Banshee said.

Edgar shrugged. “How long you been at it?”

“Few days.”

“Ain’t nothing. My first month, I pumped diesel into a Buick.”

“Did the car make it?”

“Engine rattles and smokes when there’s frost, but she’s still on the road.” Edgar paused. “Kind of like me, now that I think about it.”

Blue Banshee kicked some gravel.

Edgar scratched his chin. “You’ll be alright. My grandpa always said, ‘If you step in a mud pie, just throw a little whipped cream on it.’ Now head on back and wrangle yourself a camper. We’ll celebrate with a couple of cherry slushies.”

Blue Banshee looked up. “You have those here?”

“No.”

Blue Banshee opened his car door.

“Before you go,” Edgar said. “Mind shooing that possum off my fried chicken? He’s a slippery son gun.”

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He leaned against a brick building while villagers hurried past carrying barrels, hammering together wooden stalls, and stringing colorful banners.

“Not many, sir,” the squire said. “My parents weren’t learned folks and when they were murder—”

“Oh, here we go again. If this ends with one of your childhood life lessons, I’m leaving.” Dale watched two men wrestle a wagon piled high with pumpkins into the square. “What’s with all the commotion today?”

“It’s the carnival, sir. I thought you knew?”

Dale’s eyes widened. “The Fleur de Floomp?”

“Yes, the Fleur de Floomp.”

“I love the Fleur de Floomp. Haven’t missed one in years.”

“Weren’t you escorted out of the last one?”

“Eh, a minor incident with a duck vendor. Still counts.”

*****

By nightfall, the village square had transformed. Lanterns cast warm pools of light across rows of painted stalls. Fiddlers played while children darted between merchants carrying toy swords. Roasting meat, cinnamon cakes, and wood smoke filled the air.

“I’m giddy, squire,” Dale said. “The carnival makes me feel alive. Tell me, do you have anything that brings you such joy?”

“Well, actually when I was si—”

“Ah! The duck stall. Come along.”

“Fresh duck here! Fresh duck!” the vendor cried.

Dale stepped forward. “One duck.”

The vendor reached for the first bird on the spit.

“Halt.”

The vendor paused.

Dale pointed to the back of the spit. “That one.”

“They’re all the same, sir.”

“This is either your first Fleur de Floomp or you’ve confused me with a tourist who fell off the turnip cart.”

The merchant stared. “Dale, I’ve worked this stall for twelve years. You were engaged to my sister.”

Dale squinted. “Ah, yes. Mark, is it?”

“Steven.”

“Right. Must be the soot and duck fat. She doing well?”

“Married a miller. Two kids. Quite happy.”

Dale leaned toward the squire. “Oof. A miller? Talk about a downgrade.”

“Poor girl,” the squire said.

Dale pointed. “Well, I’m sure things will turn around for her soon. Or not. Either way. Duck. Back row. Plumper the better.”

The vendor shook his head and handed Dale the duck.

Dale inspected it from every angle before taking a satisfied bite. “Mmm. Very rich. Well done, Mark.”

*****

They pivoted away, wandering deeper into the Fleur de Floomp. Laughter spilled from the ale tents. Every few yards a barker tried to tempt the crowd with a prize.

“Strike the bell and win a tunic!”

“Topple the cups for a silver goblet!”

“Test your strength!”

They rounded the next corner when a booming voice emerged. “Step right up to the Rings of Fortune! Attempt a shot even Robin Hood himself couldn’t pull off!”

Dale stopped abruptly, the squire bumping into him. “What did he say?”

“Rings of fortune?”

“Not that,” Dale said. “You there, carnival peasant. What’s this about Robin Hood?”

The man placed two hands on the booth table. “The outlaw tried about an hour ago. Hit the first two, missed the third.”

Dale smiled. “At last, our hero is flawed. Hold my bird.” He thrust the half-eaten duck into the squire’s hand. “What are the rules?”

The man gestured toward three iron rings suspended from ropes. Each hung farther away than the last, the nearest a foot wide, the final hardly larger than a walnut. “Three arrows. Send one through each ring. Miss a shot and the game is over.”

Dale rolled his shoulder and nocked an arrow. The first ring he cleared with ease. “Ha! Take that gutter dog.”

The man looked confused. The squire dismissed it with a head shake.

The second arrow clipped the iron and sent the ring spinning, but counted.

The third arrow went wide, embedding itself in the back platform.

“Damn!” Dale shouted.

“I’m sure it was just the duck grease, sir,” the squire said.

“Yes, of course. That and the bent arrows from this charlatan.” Dale slammed another coin on the table. “Again.”

Hours later, the fiddlers were packing up and the lanterns had burned low. Dale was exhausted, and his coin purse held a single remaining copper.

The squire finally pulled him away from the game.

“You know perfectly well that last arrow went through,” Dale said. “It’s the shadows playing tricks on our eyes.”

“Certainly, sir.”

As they walked away, they passed a small tent. A sign read: Fortunes - One Copper. An old woman sat inside, beyond a curtain of beads. It caught Dale’s eye. “Well, squire. This day couldn’t get any worse. Let’s see what else fate has planned.”

Dale sat across from the woman and placed his final copper on the table. She took his hand and closed her eyes. Dale grimaced, then mouthed toward the squire, “Get me a wet towel.”

She spoke:

“He boasts of skill but misses the mark,
He squanders his coin till the square grows dark.
A proud, blind creature of foolish habit,
What am I, sir? A mule or a rabbit?”

Dale rolled his eyes. “Illuminating. And I thought you were bad at riddles, squire.”

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—Ricky C.

“Is it the Blue Banshee or Blue Banshee?” she asked, sliding the plate across the formica tabletop.

“It’s just Blue Banshee,” Blue Banshee said.

“Interesting. Because, you know, it’s The Flash. The Green Goblin.”

“Well nobody says, The Superman.”

She crossed her arms. “Fair point.”

He picked up a fry.

“You don’t take the mask off even when you eat?” she said.

“I do, just not in public places.”

She looked around the empty restaurant. A wobbly ceiling fan creaked overhead. “There’s nobody else in here.”

Blue Banshee looked up. “Did you miss the part about me being a prolific serial killer?”

“Fair again.” She nodded. “But you know, you could’ve just walked in without the mask on, never mentioned this whole Blue Banshee business, and I would’ve just thought you were some guy who really liked fish sandwiches at midnight.”

He let out a long breath. “I’m starting to find that everybody’s got an opinion, but nobody’s willing to swing the axe.”

“Maybe so, but all in good fun.” She pulled out her order pad. “I’ll let you get back to your supper. Any interest in our homemade pies?”

“What do you have?”

“Peach, cherry, blueberry.”

He thought for a moment. “I’ll try the cherry.”

“Good choice.” She smiled. “It’s to die for.”

Blue Banshee shook his head. “Really? Couldn’t help yourself?”

“What? No. Just a habit.” She turned toward the kitchen. “Be right back with your slice. Don’t lose your head.”

Blue Banshee dropped his fork.

A pale fog drifted across Lake Shikawa. It was 4:30 in the morning, and there wasn’t yet a hint of daylight beyond the trees. Four rowers eased their racing shell into the water.

“What’s the deal with the counselors? It’s not even five in the morning and we’re out here practicing?”

“Yeah, well, last year we finished third in the All-Region Camp Games.”

“So?”

“So apparently that’s unacceptable considering what our parents pay.”

Twenty feet downshore, the water rippled as something slipped silently beneath the surface.

The campers noticed nothing.

The shell drifted away from the dock.

“Nice and easy,” the lead rower called. “Let’s wake the lake up gently.”

The rowers dug their paddles into the water, making slow lazy strokes.

Swimming parallel to the craft, Blue Banshee moved silently through the water, his boot knife clenched in one hand.

The rowers paddled. He was gaining on them.

WHACK.

A paddle caught him square in the forehead.

Blue Banshee disappeared beneath the water.

The shell continued onward.

WHACK.

Another paddle found him.

“Man,” one of the campers said. “This lake’s really choppy.”

“Nah,” another replied. “Just kelp.”

“I didn’t think freshwater lakes had kelp.”

Blue Banshee resurfaced.

WHACK.

Immediately he caught a paddle across the bridge of his nose. Water poured through the eye holes of his mask.

He sputtered, swallowed a mouthful of lake water, and finally peeled away toward the shore.

A minute later he crawled onto the rocks, gasping for air. He rolled onto his back.

“Should’ve skipped the cherry pie.”

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—Ricky C.

Ding ding. Ding ding.

Nothing happened.

The girls inside the car strained to peer through the station’s foggy windows.

“Where is everyone? Does nobody work here?”

“I told you we should’ve just stopped in Pine Mason.”

“And I told you I wasn’t paying six dollars for gas.”

“Oh, what do you care, it just goes on your daddy’s credit card.”

A third girl in the backseat leaned forward. “She’s got you there, Cindi. Now, just hit the horn. This place gives me the creeps.”

“Okay. Okay,” Cindi said.

BEEEEEEEEEEEEP. BEEEEEEEP.

Nothing again.

Behind an ice chest, a dark figure flinched.

BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP.

The figure slinked further back into hiding, nearly dropping the axe he was holding. The girls hadn’t noticed.

Inside the shop, a toilet flushed.

“Comin’,” a voice called.

A man stepped out of the back restroom, drying his hands on a paper towel. He clipped the dangling strap to the bib of his overalls and made his way outside.

The girls exchanged nervous glances as he approached.

“Oh my God,” one whispered. “He looks like the Crypt Keeper’s grandfather.”

“Be nice. He might show you his good tooth.”

Edgar stopped beside the driver’s window.

“Evenin’.”

“Could you fill it up, please?”

“What’s that?”

“Fill. It. Up.”

The girls laughed at Cindi’s over-annunciation.

Edgar nodded.

Cindi stuck her credit card out the window.

“Cash only, darlin’. Can’t you read the sign?” Edgar pointed toward the front door.

CASH ONLY AFTER 7PM - CARD READER DIES

Cindi stared at it. “Ew. How does a card reader die?”

“Usually around supper time.”

She rolled her eyes. “Not what I asked.” Then turned back to the group. “Do any of you have cash?”

Both shook their heads.

“I’m sorry, sir. We don’t have any cash. Could we like mail you some money? We’re just heading up to Camp Shikawa. I promise we’ll do it as soon as we get there.”

“Camp what?”

“Camp shi-ka-wa,” Cindi repeated.

The girls giggled.

Edgar scratched his head. “The summer camp?”

“Yes.”

“Fancy place, I hear. Bunch of rich folks sending their kids to do fencing and eat barbecue on real plates.”

The dark figure slowly leaned around the corner, knocking a rusted coffee can off the ice machine.

CLANG.

He jumped back, startled.

The girls’ eyes darted toward the sound.

“What was that?”

Edgar looked past the car. “Didn’t hear nothin’.”

“There’s a shocker,” the girl from the backseat whispered.

“Lot of wildlife round here. Probably a raccoon. They’re always messing with my dumpsters.”

“Right,” Cindi said. “Anyway, can we like get going?”

“Ehh, why not? I’m sure you’re good for it.”

“Really? Thanks bunches, sir.”

Edgar flashed a grin. “Not like you could outrun me if you skipped paying.”

“A potted plant could outrun him,” one of the girls said.

They all stifled a laugh as Edgar filled the tank.

After taking down the address, the girls went on their way. Edgar watched the taillights disappear.

“Nice girls.”

He bent down to pick up a discarded lottery ticket. When he straightened, a towering man stood ten feet away blocking his path inside.

Edgar jumped. “Cheese and cork you’re a big fella, ain’t ya?“

The man just tilted his head slightly.

Edgar shifted where he stood. “Don’t tell me you don’t have cash either. I’m just bout empty of freebies tonight.”

The giant took a step forward off the curb. Edgar eyed the axe that glimmered in the moonlight.

“You from the tree trimmers or something?”

“You can call me the Blue Banshee. And consider yourself—”

Edgar cut in. “Blue Bedsheet?”

“Banshee.”

“Band cheese?”

Blue Banshee’s shoulders slumped. “BAN. SHEE.”

“What tree company are you with again?”

“I’m not with any tree company. I’m Blue Banshee. And tonight marks the debut of the most ravenous and horrifying axe murderer the world has ever known. There will be stories told by campfires for generations on what I’ve—”

“Why aren’t you wearing any blue?”

“It’s more of a mindset than anything. Also wardrobe hasn’t been my first priority.” His tone shifted quickly, clenching the axe and moving a step closer. “Listen, I don’t have to explain my dealings to some codger.”

“No it’s Edgar. Not Rodger.”

Blue Banshee tightened his grip on the axe. “Listen carefully, Edgar. I have spared your life this evening for one reason only. You unknowingly revealed the location of those girls. I am headed to Camp Shikawa. By sunrise, Blue Banshee’s reign of terror shall begin.”

Edgar nodded. “Alright. Well if you’re planning on murdering those campers you better get a move on. Camp Shikawa’s a good two-day trek through the woods.”

“I wasn’t planning on hiking. I’ve got a Hyundai Sonata.”

Edgar looked him up and down. “Doesn’t seem very murderous.”

Blue Banshee scuffed his boot over some gravel.

“Is it blue?” Edgar asked.

“It’s maroon.”

“Maroon?”

“I think they call it Royal Cabernet.”

“Sheesh.”

“But it’s the most fearsome shade you’ve ever seen. It’s like the color of… Of.”

“Blood?” Edgar offered.

“Yes, Edgar. Blood! And it’s severely neglected. I rarely rotate the tires.”

“Okay then. Best of luck, Mr. Bedsheet.”

Blue Banshee let the axe head rest on the ground, then turned and marched toward the forest.

After a few steps he stopped.

“It’s a 2017.”

“What’s that?”

“The Sonata. A 2017.”

“Hope it’s paid off.”

“Mostly,” Blue Banshee said and disappeared into darkness.

“Nice fella.”

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Trailer

Line Throwers - Trailer

Previous Installments

Line Throwers 1 - Morning Assignments

Line Throwers 2 - Aspen of the Lowlands

Barrett entered Stonehouse 3 before most of the crew arrived. He was nursing a hangover from celebrating yesterday’s rescue of an accountant who’d drifted down the wrong side of Eastbank Bend. He pulled the hood up on his sleeveless sweatshirt and dropped into a chair next to Skip at a small card table in the corner. Skip, his number two and in similar condition, was picking at a breakfast burrito.

“That got outta hand yesterday, bro,” Skip said. He sniffed a refried bean and curled his nose. “I should’ve quit drinking even before that accountant showed up at the Cliff Jumper and started buying rounds.”

Barrett rested his forehead on the table. “Same. But he was so happy to be alive it felt rude not to take advantage of him.”

“Oh, you have to. Someone else’s dollar? I’m ordering Jägerbombs until they throw me outta there.”

“Which is exactly what happened, if I recall,” Barrett said.

“You know it.”

They both looked at each other and high fived.

“Stonehouse Slings!” Skip said.

The crack echoed through the briefing room, causing both men to wince.

Just then the sarge came power-walking in, smoothie in hand. “Man do I love the smell of the river in the morning.” He took his sunglasses off. “By god, boys, you look like hell.”

“Thank you, Sarge,” Skip said.

“That wasn’t a compliment.” He studied them for a moment. “Lemme guess. Too much celebrating over the accountant?”

Neither answered.

“I get it, boys, I do.” Sarge set the smoothie on the podium. “I’ve been there. Make a headline save. Drinks are flowing. Everybody started chanting Eastbank Bend’s undefeated. Then the out-of-town wallet shows up and buys a round. That’s tradition.”

Barrett nodded.

“But you’re also Harbor Marshal.”

Barrett’s smile faded.

“The younger throwers watch what you do. If you’re gonna be the face of Stonehouse 3, you gotta know when to call it.”

“Fair.”

“And Skip, I got no expectations for you.”

“Thank you, Sarge.”

“Again, not a compliment.”

Sarge grabbed a stack of flyers from the podium. “So instead of throwing line today, since you’re both so obviously under the weather, guess what? Recruiting season starts this week.”

Barrett groaned.

“Don’t give me that. You’re both on flyer duty. Cover downtown. Restaurant Row. The Marina District. And the trailer parks. Every bulletin board, coffee shop, and public restroom.”

“Come on, Sarge. You just said I’m the face of Stonehouse 3. Shouldn’t the face be doing something chiller?”

“Yeah. And the face’s assistant. Doing equally chiller?” Skip said.

“Good thing you two are better at rescues than grammar,” the sarge said. “And no. Non-negotiable. Consider yourselves head talent scouts.”

Barrett huffed. “How about we ditch the trailer parks? A skink hasn’t made the cut as a line thrower in more than ten years.”

“Another non-negotiable. Riverborn is a community. We take care of our own, no matter which side of the river your rump rests.”

Barrett and Skip grabbed the flyers and trekked off, the click-clack of flip-flops carrying in their wake.

Sarge watched them go. “Ten years,” he muttered. “Let’s see if we can change that.”

Johnny was throwing stones into the hole of a life preserver hanging from a chain-link fence. He was aiming for the center diamond. The trailer park pool was mostly empty. A ten-year old in swimmies had just grabbed his mother’s purse and dived into the shallow end. She didn’t notice, too engrossed in a cigarette.

Lipsticks and compacts began floating toward the diving board. As head lifeguard, Johnny considered whether familial purse theft fell under his jurisdiction.

A few pennies drifted to the bottom.

He decided the situation would mostly resolve itself, then tossed another stone. The rock sailed over the pool and through the center of the life preserver.

“Did you hear what I said, Johnny?” Grace called from behind the concession stand counter.

“Huh? Oh. What was that?”

“I said, what’d you want to get into tonight? I know they were doing half-priced chili boats at The Mountie. Figured we could head down there and split one.”

Before Johnny could respond, a soft-top Jeep came speeding into the lot. Out popped two familiar faces.

“Well, well, well,” Barrett said, walking with Skip through the pool entrance. “Head Skink of the underworld.”

Johnny let out a sigh. “What are you doing here, Barrett?”

“Honestly? No idea.” Barrett glanced around the pool. “For reasons nobody can explain, Sarge has a soft spot for this place and thinks we might find a body capable of throwing line. But all I can see is a flip phone about to float into the skimmer and a pool that’s one dead possum away from being condemned.”

Skip pointed toward the water. “I don’t know. Looks kinda nice.”

“Can it, Skip,” Barrett said.

“Yeah, can it, Skip,” Johnny said.

Barrett shoved past Johnny, then leaned on the counter. “You mind if we hang a few of these on your chicken tender shack here, Grace?”

“Have at it,” Grace said, then went back to stocking the hot dog buns.

Barrett handed a few flyers to Skip, who began stapling them to the sides of the concession stand.

“I’ll also take a Cherry Laffy Taffy. But only if it’s the ones with the sprinkle crunchies on em,” Barrett said.

“I think we got some in the back,” Grace replied, then left to check.

Barrett turned back around to Johnny. “So, you planning on trying out this year?”

Johnny shrugged. “Maybe.”

Barrett laughed. “That’d be something.”

The two stared at each other for a moment. Then a ringtone sounded from the pool filter. Nobody moved.

Buzz. Buzz.

The mother sat up from her plastic recliner, looking for her phone.

Her purse was now floating upside down in the deep end.

“TYLER!”

The kid immediately started running.

His mother lunged after him, caught her flip-flop on the lounge chair, and windmilled directly into the pool.

Tyler cleared the fence and disappeared between two trailers.

The woman surfaced, cigarette damp but preserved.

Barrett shook his head. “This place is a wasteland.” He headed for the exit. “Well, I’ll leave you to it, Chief. Looks like you’ve got a cleanup in aisle two.”

“Yeah. Grab a mop, skink,” Skip added before following Barrett out to the Jeep.

Johnny watched the soft-top speed out of the gravel lot. The mother was treading water, trying to fish her purse from the bottom with a leaf rake. He looked down at one of the flyers Skip had left behind.

RIVERBORN LINE THROWERS - THE COUNTY NEEDS MORE HEROES - ARE YOU READY?

The woman disappeared beneath the surface.

Johnny sighed and headed for the life preserver.

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—Ricky C.

Cover photo credit -

Dale approached the building, sidestepping a pile of dung. A fly circled his head.

Buzzzzzzzz.

He removed his hat and swatted it away. “Shoo you insipid beast,” Dale said. “Squire will be hearing about this.”

He mimicked the squire’s voice in a whining tone. “Meet at my house. I need to show you something.”

Another fly buzzed past.

“First and last time.”

He approached the entrance and appraised the building, then knocked.

The squire answered. “Sir, welcome. Come in. Come in.”

Dale entered the building and immediately covered his nose. “Good heavens, squire. You live in a stable?”

“It’s technically attached to the stable.”

“A horse can see you while you sleep.”

“Only if he’s facing this direction.” The squire waved a hand. “Come have a seat, can I offer you a drink?”

“Not with dysentery going around,” Dale said. “Remind me again why you couldn’t have met me at my home?”

“My mixing pot is far too heavy to carry across the village.”

Dale nodded and looked around the room, unenthused. There was a small cot in the corner. Hay covering the dirt floor. A pot boiling over a freestanding fire.

“Before we address whatever concern this is, you’ve been my squire how long now? Year? Year and a half?”

“Eight years, sir.”

“Hmm. That’s strange. I can recall a squire named Jerry a few years ago.”

“That was me, sir.”

“That explains very little,” Dale said. “Anyway. Quick question. Are these considered common living arrangements for a squire?”

“Actually, they’re quite modest, sir. Many don’t even have an overlooking horse.”

“Astonishing. I had my suspicions I was overpaying you. This confirms it.”

“You aren’t paying me at all, sir.”

“Nor should I. How embarrassing for me. A squire who can’t lift a pot across a village.” Dale took a seat at the wooden table. “Let’s get on with it. I’ll be flying Bartholomew later, and you know peregrine falcons get impatient.”

“Of course.” The squire filled a vial from the simmering pot. “This, you’ll love. I call it the Three Days Rest. A sleeping potion.”

Dale studied the vial. “How’s it work? You invite them over and share your life story?”

“Not quite, sir.” The squire set a small wooden box on the table, containing a mouse.

Dale peeked inside. “I’m hoping that’s not your breakfast.”

The squire shook his head. “No. It’s tomorrow’s.”

Dale recoiled.

“Watch this, though,” the squire said. He squeezed a small droplet onto the mouse, which immediately fell asleep.

Dale nodded, smiling. “Not bad, squire.”

“I thought you’d like it. And even more, it’s incredibly practical.”

“Practical?”

“It means useful. Like how a soup bowl’s round.”

“The potion, you clodpoll.”

“Ah yes.” The squire reached beneath the table and produced an arrow with the head removed. In its place was a small bundle of felt wrapped around the end.

“Dip the felt in the potion. Then all you need is a bit of exposed skin. An arm. A leg. The neck. A graze should do it.”

Dale’s eyes widened. “At speed?”

“Ideally.”

“Ingenious.” Dale stood. “Perhaps we need to test it on a larger… subject.”

The horse neighed. Dale looked in its direction.

“I believe your neighbor just volunteered.”

“I’d rather not. He’s quite large. I’m not sure I could drag him back into the stable.”

“You really need to lift more iron,” Dale said. “Let’s shoot out the front door then, I’m sure I can find some dolt in the distance to practice on. Perhaps that miserly baker. He always overseeds the tea-cakes.”

They stepped into the doorway.

“There,” Dale said, pointing across the village. The baker was unloading flour from a wagon. “Marvelous timing.”

Dale took aim. The horse neighed behind him, and a fly buzzed into Dale’s ear.

“AH!”

Dale flailed. The bowstring snapped forward. The felt-tipped arrow shot upward, struck the stable overhang, and ricocheted behind him.

Thud.

“Where’d it go?” Dale asked.

No answer.

He turned. The squire was sprawled on the floor.

Dale sighed. “Could you be more dramatic?”

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—Ricky C.

“Back it up, back it up,” he said.

The applicant swung the wheel hard, clipping the edge of the dock as he settled into the designated space between two buoys.

“Well,” the applicant asked. “How’d I do?”

Henry looked down at his notes written in charcoal. “Capsized a boat, sending a fisherman into the wharf. Hit the dock. And scared a seagull with the lantern.”

“Excellent.”

“You also hit The Salty Mermaid bar,” Henry said.

“Only the corner.”

“Application denied.” Henry tossed the charcoal into the sea and walked down the gangplank.

His assistant, Anne, offered a hand to help him bridge the gap. “He show promise?”

“I’ve seen better instincts crawling on the end of a wooden lice comb.”

“At least he knocked that fisherman into the water.”

“Always the optimist, my dear.” Henry gave a wide grin. “How are we looking this morning?”

“Line’s steady as ever. Lot of interest in pirating, though. Haven’t seen many privateering forms come through.”

“It’s that damn Blackbeard effect. All of a sudden everyone wants to walk around like a salt-cured fire-eater. It’s uncouth.”

“Can’t blame them,” Anne said. “Less oversight. Less regulation. More take home treasure.”

“Yes, yes. But they tell me I’m supposed to be issuing more privateering licenses. Apparently government-sanctioned piracy lacks appeal.”

Anne stopped him as they walked, taking his hand. “I know. But what do we say?”

Henry shook his head. “A barnacle-crusted hull still carries the gold.”

“That’s right,” Anne said.

“When the ghost fog settles thick and blind, ye be the lighthouse that guides me home.”

Anne smiled. “That’s beautiful, Henry. Now get back to the booth. The line’s backing up and in this heat they’re starting to smell like the wrong side of a catfish.”

They shared an embrace and returned to the licensing booth at the start of the dock. A makeshift sign overhead read:

OFFICE OF PIRACY AND PRIVATEERING

NO CUTLASS BEYOND THIS POINT

Henry pulled a sardine from his pocket and flipped it to a pelican perched atop a heavy table. The bird snatched it from the air and resumed guarding the applications. “Who’s a good boy, Peggy?” The bird cooed as the next applicant approached.

Henry looked up, underwhelmed. “Pirate or privateer?”

“Pirate,” the man said.

“Aye, have you considered privateering? Perfectly legal and has dental.”

“Don’t have many teeth, sir.”

“Also vision,” Henry said.

“Just the one eye.”

“And we’ll try and keep it that way… At half the premiums.”

“I don’t know. I’m more of an off-the-books plunderer.”

“Yeah, you and everyone else in the sea.” Henry lifted the form. “Alright, name?”

“Wick Stool,” the man said.

“Middle initial?” Henry asked.

“Is that relevant?”

Henry smacked his lips. “It is.”

“Middle initial’s R.”

Henry began writing. “Wick R. Stool.” He stopped. “Wicker Stool? Application denied.”

“Damn it!” The man threw his hat to the ground and trudged off.

Henry turned to Anne. “Imagine sailing the high seas alongside Wicker Stool?”

“Oof. One strong wind and he’d end up in a sunroom,” Anne said.

“Aye. A rattan nightmare,” Henry replied. “Next!”

Ahoy!

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See you soon,

—Ricky C.

His wife was overpaying for pilates somewhere near the marina. The twins were zip lining upriver at an adventure course. Walter himself spent the better part of two hours at the hotel bar, The Sterling Basin, enjoying river-forward bourbon cocktails. Walter didn’t know what it meant, but the bartender gave a little shoulder shimmy while shaking the mixer, which he took as chemistry and kept ordering.

But now his stomach was calling. He hopped off the stool and threw an extra twenty onto the bar. She slid the money away and gave him a wink.

“Still got it,” Walter whispered to himself before heading outside.

Next to the bar sat a walk-up kiosk for The Pluck & Tot, the best fried chicken in the county. He ordered an extra-large bucket with steak fries, the perfect accompaniment to slosh downriver.

Walter approached the street’s rental launch. “This is livin’,” he whispered to himself.

The teenage dock attendant looked concerned. That, or his eyes were blinded from the SPF 70 Walter shellacked across his chest, visible through an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt. Walter paid extra for a premium tube and a parking space near their hotel. It came with cupholders and a slip-resistant coating. He still managed to almost capsize trying to settle in. He slid the kid a fiver for holding his chicken bucket.

“Whoa—okay. Okay. We’re good,” Walter announced and pushed off. The current caught him almost immediately. At first, the ride was perfect. Riverborn drifted around him in postcard fragments.

Tourists waved from rooftop bars overlooking the water. Paddleboards wandered between tour boats near the ferry crossing. College kids cannonballed from an old stone bridge while shoppers carried boutique bags along Restaurant Row.

Walter raised a chicken thigh toward the sky. “This is why people work hard. The Aspen of the lowlands.” He made a mental note to look into buying a rental condo before Riverborn turned into one of those places people ruin by discovering.

A few bends later, the river widened, and the buildings thinned. The current sharpened up. Walter floated past weathered bait shops, old fishing docks, and a handful of warning signs. Up ahead, the river split.

Most tourists stayed left, where the current slowed near Restaurant Row and drifted lazily beneath the patio district. Eastbank Bend went right. Faster water. Narrower channels. More rocks and brush lines, catering to the more action-oriented seafarer. Walter, however, was busy watching a sunburned woman in a neon bikini shotgun a hard seltzer from a paddleboard. By the time he looked forward again, the current had already claimed him.

Walter squinted at some signs through his sunglasses. “Hmm.”

ENTERING EASTBANK BEND
INCREASING SPEEDS
KEEP LIMBS INSIDE

Then the tube accelerated. The fried chicken basket bounced, sending a fry into the river. “Damn.” Water splashed onto the lid of his lemonade. He wondered if any made it past the lid hole. The current pulled him faster toward a narrow stretch where the river curved around a cluster of low hanging brush. People along the shoreline began to notice.

A waitress carrying cocktails froze mid-step. Someone on the dock stood up. A tourist whispered, “He’s in the wrong spot.”

Walter attempted to paddle with one hand, getting nowhere. He pulled off a Croc to use as a makeshift oar. It did nothing. Now he was spinning. Slowly at first, then faster. The tube clipped a warning buoy and ricocheted sideways toward some underbrush.

That’s when a whistle blew. Every head turned. And standing atop the Eastbank platform was Stonehouse 3’s own Barrett Westbrook. Sunglasses, tank top, and practice rope dangling around his shoulders like a gunslinger holster.

He strutted down the platform steps and onto a rescue skiff while tourists gathered along the railing to watch.

Walter’s tube spun again. “My chicken bucket!” he yelled.

Skip, Barrett’s number two, glided the skiff into place. Barrett twirled the rope once. Twice. A completely unnecessary third time and then launched it. The line whipped through the air in a perfect arc before snapping tight around a handle on Walter’s tube.

The crowd erupted.

Walter’s tube stopped spiraling. Barrett gave the rope a tug and anchored him to the skiff, then coasted to the calm shoreline.

“Easy now,” he called. “Eastbank bites hard after lunch, hombre.”

The dockside crowd applauded as Barrett jumped ashore and offered a hand to Walter.

He looked up in awe. A single wet chicken skin fell off his shorts as he got up. “You saved my life.”

“We throw line,” Barrett said. “Around here… it’s the same thing.”

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—Ricky C.

The Line Throwers shuffled into the Stonehouse 3 briefing room, the sound of folding chairs scraping across the floor competed with the squeaking of wet sandals. The cinderblock walls were covered with county rescue maps, sun-bleached current charts, and framed photographs of legendary saves stretching back nearly forty years. Several staffers were unwrapping breakfast burritos.

“Now listen up,” the sarge said in a tone that drew all eyes. “I need this to be known. You did a hell of a job last week.”

The group erupted in cheers and whoops.

He banged a miniature oar on the podium. “Yes! That’s right. Great week, and I wanna keep it that way. I want everyone to remain focused. We have one job and one job only. What is that?”

“Safe shores, clean throws,” the group said in unison.

“That’s right. Riverborn County is thriving. We’re making all the charts for top places to visit. People wanna be on that river, but they wanna be on that river and safe. We got tourists floating through Restaurant Row for brunch. Paddleboards clogging the docking lanes. Bachelorette parties drifting past the marina, screaming country songs. Folks hop in tubes upriver and end up downtown three margaritas later. That river runs through this whole county. Shops, hotels, bars, rentals. Riverborn goes where that current goes. So let’s keep it that way.”

The unit answered with a series of sharp whistles and scattered applause.

“Now assignments haven’t changed. I’ll say this, Barrett, no more reports coming in about you hotdogging it out there.”

Barrett grinned. “The people demand a show.”

“The people do not demand a show. The people demand being safe while traversing the river. No more flair.”

Barrett high-fived a few supporters.

“Rein it in, now, I’m serious. You throw line better than anybody. You’re good, you’re damn good, that’s why you’re on Eastbank bend. That’s why you’re on Stonehouse 3. That’s why Stonehouse 3 keeps the Eastbank bend because we have the top talent. You’re the head lifeguard and Harbor Marshal. We need you. But tone it back. You make good throws, clean throws, but you don’t need to add all the theatrics. If a guy comes downstream with his Crocs a wiggling heading for the underbrush on an inner tube, grab him, center him, and send him on his way. That’s it. You don’t need to make a production out of it. Loopdeloops. Back hands. Behind the back tosses. Just clean throws.” Sarge swung the oar to his shoulder. “Safety. We watch each other’s backs out there. Folks spend good money to drift through this county. Riverfront condos, bait shops, rooftop bars, mechanical bulls. Doesn’t matter if they’re sipping $18 cocktails downtown or shotgunin’ beers upriver in a tractor tire. Once they hit that current, they’re our responsibility.”

A few veterans pounded the table while Barrett spun a practice rope overhead. “Stonehouse slings!” somebody yelled from the back.

Sarge cleared his throat. “Just wanna make a few quick acknowledgements. Rebecca and Rochelle, those double line catches on that wayward pontoon. Well done, ladies. That made it up the chain quick.”

The group applauded. Rebecca and Rochelle stood and acknowledged them.

“Skip. Outstanding redirect work near Ferry Cut. Family of six came through tangled like kielbasa links. Could’ve been ugly.”

More applause followed.

“Lastly, Rodger. Quick response on that drifter trying to settle at the hibachi place. Textbook work.”

The sarge raised his whistle and gave it a soft blow. “Alright. To your post, Stonehouse 3. Rivers already moving. Clean throws on three. One, two, three.”

“Clean throws!”

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—Ricky C.

In a place where being a lifeguard meant more than just a summer job.
This is The Line Throwers of Riverborn County.

Line Throwers have it all. Admiration, prestige, killer tans. The selection process was as rigorous as Navy SEAL training, only wetter and with less clothes.

To Johnny, being a Line Thrower meant everything. But it wasn’t going to come easy. Especially for someone from his side of the creek.

Head Lifeguard: “You think you could become a Line Thrower just because your granddaddy was? You couldn’t polish a buoy with two hands and a dropped anchor, skink.”

From the creators of Wet Leave Limos and Plight of the Brown Belts, one boy risks everything.

Grace: “I don’t know why it’s even that important to you, Johnny. We need lifeguards right here, in our trailer park pool.”

Johnny: “You don’t get it, Grace. And I don’t know if you ever will.”

Grace: “Johnny, wait.”

This summer the current was about to change. Johnny wasn’t just chasing respect, he was chasing his legacy.

Head Lifeguard: “Again. Again! Clear that channel, plebe.”

Johnny: “I’m trying to prove I’m more than just a skink from the trailer park.”

Wise Old Guy: “That river don’t know your name. It don’t know your bloodline. That river only cares if you can throw.”

Bystander: “Send the line Johnny! That canoe’s driftin!”

Failure wasn’t an option. For this county… there are no second throws.

Wise Old Guy: “Say what you want about where he’s from, that boy’s got river instincts.”

This wasn’t just about lifeguarding anymore.

(Rapid cuts)
Whistles blowing
Everyone watching the current
Johnny dives heroically off a pontoon boat
A kayak flipping in slow motion
An old woman cheers

Head Lifeguard: “So what, he saved him. Still smells like discount sunblock.”

Line Throwers of Riverborn County—coming soon.

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— Ricky C.

*thanks to my neighbor Candy for providing the voiceover for Grace.

“I can’t help it, sir,” the squire said. “This wig is itchy.”

“Quit your bellyaching. You ruined the entire walk over with your whining, and I already gave you a pass on the false teeth.”

“I was getting splinters.”

Dale shook his head. “I swear I’ve seen a stronger constitution on a paper spittoon.”

A horse and cart came clomping by, they ducked for cover. Dale popped back up without his wig, which got caught on a branch.

The squire resurfaced. “Sir, your wig.”

Dale took it back angrily, put it on backwards, and stood for a moment sensing something was off. Then straightened it. He watched as the last of Robin Hood’s men left the bar.

“Alright, squire. Now’s our chance.”

They emerged from the bushes, swiping leaves and debris from their minstrel clothes, and walked toward the tavern.

“Sir,” the squire said, “I’m just not sure why we need to disguise ourselves as performers. We’re not that well known here, and I don’t even know how to play the lute.”

“Certainly not you, but the legend of Dale has been sung in these woods for years now. Remember that fifth runner-up in last fall’s archery competition. Would have been a first if that crow hadn’t begun spatting off. We wear the disguises, get the location of Sherwood Forest, and report it to the king. We’ll collect our bounty and be restored as the rightful heroes of this village. Well, me at least. You’ll remain a squire, but with better clothes.”

They entered the tavern.

“Good day,” Dale announced.

“Good day,” the squire echoed.

“Good day,” said a man with a limp.

“Good day,” Dale said.

“Good day,” the squire echoed.

“Good day,” said a man in an eyepatch.

“Good day,” Dale said. He turned to the squire and whispered, “Is this a tavern or an infirmary?” He edged his way over toward the fire. “We’re just a couple of entertainers in search of an audience.”

“Normal regular entertainers,” the squire said.

“If I may regale you with one of our latest poems,” Dale said. He pulled a piece of parchment from his purple and teal vest and swiped a few strands of wig hair off his face. Then cleared his throat:

The rancid fish roasted on the spit.
A feral possum eyed a juicy bit.

A smell so foul it could start a fire,
But not any worse than the smell of a squire.

Laughter burst out from the tavern. Dale took a slight bow, the wig almost flopping off. He slid it back in place, then they sidled up to the bar.

A large man with a beard cracked his neck beside him. “Great poem, Dale.”

“I’m afraid you have the wrong man,” Dale said. “I’m Gus. A minstrel. We’ve been looking for an audience. I hear the Merry Men enjoy some entertainment. Might I—”

The barkeep slid two ales down the counter. “Your usual, Dale?”

Dale stared at the cup, then picked it up and drank.

The squire leaned toward him. “Sir, I think our cover may be blown.”

Dale exhaled loudly. “I told you to wear the false teeth, you imbecile.”

Dale turned slowly. In the far corner, Robin Hood sat at a table with three men, all laughing. He glanced over at Dale with a pleasant expression, then went back to his conversation.

“We’re leaving,” Dale said.

“But, sir, the location.”

“Now.”

The squire chugged his drink and followed Dale outside. Dale ripped the vest off, yanked the wig from his head, and threw it into a water trough. It floated.”

“Same time next week?” the squire asked.

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— Ricky C.

If you’re interested in the first adventure of Dale and the squire, they can be found here:

“Yes, I’m sorry, sir. I think I just spotted Robin Hood entering the tavern.” The squire pulled a match from a small satchel attached to his belt. He attempted to spark it against the post beside him. The match skipped twice.

“Just give me that, you buffoon.” Dale yanked the match from the squire’s hand, spun him by the shoulder, and struck it cleanly against the back of his tunic. He lit a hand-rolled cigarette, took a long puff, and watched the smoke drift. Then he nocked an arrow, read the wind, and sent it clear over the tavern roof and into the forest.

“Spotted Robin Hood,” Dale said, mocking the squire’s voice. “Yeah, you and half the village. Oh, Robin Hood. He’s such a charmer. You know, I was the first to wear poulaines with tights. And I’ve got the real pointy ones too, you could pick a lock with these shoes.”

“I can recall you trying, sir.”

Dale spat a stream of tobacco into the watering trough beside him. A horse tied to the post gave him an awkward eye.

“Robin Hood starts wearing them, hands out a few coins and trinkets to the local dullards and now everyone’s lining up at the tannery to get a pair.”

The squire squinted as a group entered the tavern. “That had to have been Robin Hood. Friar Tuck just went inside.”

Dale ignored him. “I’m the better archer. That’s well known. I could plink a corn kernel set on a fence post with a quart of beer in my belly and the sniffles.” He set another arrow, took aim at a wagon wheel in the center of the square, and fired. It flew flat, missed the spokes, and landed in the dirt. “Damn! Mosquito deflected it.”

“Assuredly, sir,” the squire said. “If we were going to hatch this plan, I’d say our window is getting shorter. Might I suggest we move over to the tavern?”

They slipped around the side of the building toward the back. A mass of cheers rang out from inside. Glasses clinking, stringed instruments picking up.

As they crept, Dale whispered, “You hear that? Likely paying the tosspot’s bar tabs. Takes from the rich and gives to the poor, my hindquarters.”

“Does he really pay bar bills?” the squire asked.

“Quiet. This is it.”

They reached the back of the tavern where a horse stood tied to a post. “Of course his horse is white. How typical. Let’s get this beast loose. See how he fares without it.”

“Do you think you can untie the knot, sir? I think it’s a clove hitch.”

Dale looked at him. “Does Little John have bad breath?”

“I can’t say. He’s so tall, I doubt breath can carry that far.”

“Just shut up and keep watch.”

Dale struggled with the knot. Yanking and fumbling. He began to sweat. A roar went up from inside, then voices spilled toward the front door.

“I think now is a good time, sir,” the squire said.

Dale pulled his knife and cut the rope. “Move,” he said to the horse. The horse stood. Dale waved and clapped his hands. “Shoo you oaf.” The horse blinked.

“Go on,” the squire whispered. “Shoo. Shoo.”

The horse sneezed in Dale’s face.

“Hey!” a voice called from the side of the tavern. “What are you two doing?”

They both panicked and took off. Dale’s extra pointy shoes caught a root, and he crashed into the squire. They hit the ground together. Dale’s bow snapped under him.

He looked down. “You’re paying for that.”

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See you soon,

—Ricky C.

Volcanic Ash looked down at his leadership manual. It was sourced from the human world, but had solid principles that most top executives swore by:

Chapter 1 Summary - How to Nail the Intro - C.A.N.S.

• Connect: share something about the passage of time

• Anecdote: humanize with a story or hobby (use humor if setting permits)

• Nurture: provide calming validation

• Suggestion: offer steps for improvement (use a soft knife)

He shut the manual. This was the fifth consecutive year leading the event, yet he still felt some nerves.

As everyone found their seats, the lights dimmed slightly. Volcanic Ash self-illuminated, just enough to draw more eyes. “Showtime,” he whispered to himself, then flicked on his headset mic.

“Welcome everyone to the 2026 Supervillain Mid-Career Retirement Seminar.”

The applause was underwhelming. Volcanic Ash spun and launched a glob of scalding lava above the audience’s heads. Some of their hair singed.

The glob tore through the back wall.

An older couple from Iowa, returning to their room for their matching fanny packs, peered through the opening. A cyborg wolf in the back row turned and growled. They moved as fast as their New Balances and sock sandals could take them.

Back up front, Volcanic Ash grinned, feeling some nerves subside.

“As I said, welcome everyone.” The reception in the Motel 6 conference room warmed. “That’s better.”

“So,” Volcanic Ash continued, “I don’t know about you all, but I cannot believe it’s almost May. The year’s been flying by. Springtime. I’m a huge swimmer—not exactly a hot tub guy, for redundant reasons. I’ve got an Olympic-sized lap pool at home, and I tell you, when they removed the cover, the water level was lower than Camel Related Man’s IQ.”

A few respectful chuckles came from the crowd.

Camel Related Man spurted a wad of acid spit towards the front. It began melting through the carpet—which technically had been through worse.

Volcanic Ash waved his hands innocently. “I joke, Camel. You know we love you.”

“Before we move through the agenda, I just want to say, and I mean this from the bottom of my rubble, the fact that you’re here, that you’re thinking ahead, taking your mid-career seriously enough to plan? Well, that’s everything. You should all be proud and deserve a round of applause.”

Minimal followed, until Volcanic Ash began forming another lava glob.

“So, just a quick housekeeping note. Out of forty-six attendees last year, we only had eleven fill out the survey. I’m not calling anyone out, but feedback helps us improve. In theory anyway. It takes just three minutes and means a lot. If you need help with writing implements, I’m looking at you, the wormy fella in a fedora, just flag down an intern. That’s all.”

Volcanic Ash clicked to the next slide. “Alright. Breakout sessions are divided by room.”

He read off the screen:

He was interrupted by Yellowing Conch from the front row. “The Motel 6 doesn’t have an Ambassador Room.”

“Damn it, Conch,” Ash said. “We put a placard outside the front door of each entrance.”

Yellowing Conch sat back down, his massive wet tongue hit the floor.

Volcanic Ash glanced down at his lanyard. It still read 2028. He made a mental note to eviscerate his latest assistant.

“One more thing, please be respectful of other guests on your way to the breakouts. We don’t need another Toledo.”

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—Ricky C.

Chester sat on the carpet. Dog toy in mouth. Diligently awaiting the first official day of Got Bats.

“Well, Chester,” said Larry. “Seven months of planning has led to this. We’ve advertised. We’ve networked. Phone lines are ready to be flipped on. Time to solve the good people of southern Missouri’s bat problems.”

Chester licked his toenail for posterity.

Larry plugged in a long wire to connect the hotline. Fifteen minutes later, the phone rang.

Larry jumped off his stool. “This is it, Chester.”

He picked up the phone. “Hello, Got Bats. This is Larry speaking.”

An elderly voice came through the speaker. “Yes, Larry. Oh thank God you picked up. I’ve got bat problems.”

“Not to worry, ma’am. That’s what we’re here for. What kind of trouble are you having?” Larry said, sliding a notebook from his messenger bag.

“Oh, they’re everywhere, Larry. All over my house. The attic, my cupboards.”

“Your cupboards?”

“Everywhere. I’ve caught a few with those snap traps, but I still see their droppings.”

“You caught a bat with a snap trap?”

“Yes, I baited it with cheese and peanut butter like they say.”

“Ma’am, are you talking about mice? Do you have a mice problem?”

“Bats mice. What are you trying to prove? They’re both rodents.”

“Ma’am I apologize, we’re set up for bat control issues. You’ll have to call an exterminator.”

“Ah, help me, Larry. I see one now. It’s chasing my cat. Oh, it’s in my hair.”

Larry hung up and sighed. “False alarm, Chester. Just a prankster getting their jollies in.”

The phone rang again.

“Hello Got Bats. Larry speaking.”

The same elderly voice came through. “You’re not gonna believe this, Margaret. I just pranked that Got Bats fella. Anyway, I’ll tell you about it over bridge. Call me back if you get a chance.”

“Ma’am, this is Larry again from Got Bats. I think you accidentally called us.”

“Oh. Well thank God, Larry. The bat mice have begun dumping out all of my cereal boxes. I don’t know how I’ll cross into the kitchen without getting my socks dirty. The horror. The crunch. The crumbs.”

He cut her off and let out another sigh. “Don’t worry, Chester. Just a bit of a rocky start.”

Three hours passed. Chester finished a bone he’d been gnawing on. Shards were spread throughout the carpet. He began working on one of Larry’s shoes.

The phone rang.

“Got Bats. Larry here. How may we be of service?”

“Help, help there’s a duck on my back!”

“A duck?”

“Yes, its beak is wet. Oh, no. Plea—”

Larry hung up. “This is getting ridiculous.”

Another ring.

“Yes, Got Bats. Please tell me you’ve got a bat problem.”

“Ever since I moved to Gotham City, there’s been nothing but problems.”

Larry hung up and stared at the receiver.

“Maybe we just should have done that fishing podcast we talked about.”

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— Ricky C.