The Strength of Val's Weirdo Magnet Does Not Ebb, Even At Her Lowest Moment

Hick is sometimes a storyteller. By storyteller, I do not mean that he tells actual stories with a beginning, middle, and end. Once in a blue moon that happens, but remember that the sun even shines on a dog's butt some days. No, by storyteller, I mean that sometimes Hick is less than truthful. Embellishes the facts. He used to tell a tale of his wild ways in the years before he became a Thevictorian.

"I lived over on Hicknut Street, in Hickville. In the evenings, after working all day, I was not in a mood to hear my wife nagging at me, and my kids fighting. So I would go down into my basement workshop. I'd turn on my table saw, then sneak out and go up the street to Local Tavern. I'd have a couple of beers, maybe a bar pizza, and see if I won the drawing that day. Every day you stopped by to put in a dollar, and then that night they'd draw and see who won. You might get fifty or sixty dollars. Then I'd walk back home, sneak into the basement, turn off my table saw, and go to bed."

Whether you can actually leave a table saw running, I don't know. But this seemed like something Hick would do. Local Tavern was a real place. Hick even took me there one New Year's Eve. Nothing but the best for the future Mrs. I pass by that place frequently on my travels from Backroads to the bank and points south. I always think about Hick sneaking up there. It was like Cheers to him before we were married. His home away from his apartment during his newly-single years. I guess the lack of his business for nigh on 25 years have taken their toll. Local Tavern now sports a FOR SALE sign. It has closed.

The way from the funeral home to the cemetery took us through Hickville on Friday afternoon. On the way back, to pick up some plants and tie up loose ends, we passed by Local Tavern.

"Look at that! There's a bum sitting on the porch of Local Tavern with a fire going!"

"Uh uh. I would have noticed that."

"Well, you didn't. He was right there! That ain't good. I'm calling dispatch." (The way we say it around here is DISpatch. Don't know how you city folk pronounce it when you're about to report a bum trying to burn down a bar.)

"Great. They'll see your number. When they get there and don't find anybody, they'll know who's crazy. They'll come after you."

"Hello. DISpatch? This is Hick Thevictorian. BR-549. I just passed Local Tavern, and there appears to be a gentleman on the front porch with a fire burning. Yes. Just now. All right then."

"So?"

"He says that don't sound right. They're going to check it out."

"I'm sure he won't be there when they arrive."

"Mom. He was there when we went by ON THE WAY to the cemetery. I saw him. I was riding with The Veteran and Genius, and we ALL saw him."

"I didn't see him. Did he look like a bum?"

"That depends on what you call a bum."

"Did he look like a homeless?"

"Well, he looked like a person who lives under a bridge, and probably smells."

"PONY! That's not nice."

"Well, that's what he looked like, and he was sitting on the porch, but he didn't have a fire going."

"Great. Now you've called to report him, and they'll run him off, and he'll freeze to death tonight. It was 22 degrees this morning."

"No. They'll arrest him, and he'll be warm and have a meal. That's probably why he did it."

"I don't know why he just couldn't walk into the police station and expose himself and say 'Arrest me,' like that guy on the news."

"Maybe he didn't think of that yet."

When we passed by Local Tavern again on the way home, there was no fire or bum on the porch.

Apparently, Hickville's Finest had the situation under control.