Well here is a strange little story I wrote for entertainment value alone . . . hope you like it!


It all started pretty simple, really. I mean, how much harm do 30 weasels really cause anyway? We didn't mean to
set them loose in the house . . .

Perhaps you need some background. My name is Percy. Yeah, yeah, it's kind of a, shall we say, different, name for a
guy in the 20th century, but what can I say? My mom and dad said they got it from a fortune teller at Woodstock. My parents
are weird.

Anyway, my friends and I were lounging under the shade of our favorite tree in the park on a sunny, lazy afternoon.
The bees were buzzing, the birds were singing, and we were bored out of our skulls.

"Man, this town is sooooo boring!" my friend Rachel exclaimed. "There's nothing to do here!"

"Yeah I know," replied John. "You'd think, living in a capitol city as we do, there would be more stuff going on.
But nooo, it's just boring, boring, bor-" he trailed off as he caught sight of something behind me. "Wow!"

I turned around just in time to catch the tail end of an, ummmm, very well dressed woman disappearing around the
corner. John and I exchanged looks.

"Bye Rachel."

"Yeah, see you later." We both got up and walked quickly toward the sidewalk.

"You men are all the same! Jeez!" she yelled after us.

We grinned and waved, then set off in pursuit of some good conversation.

Unfortunately, we never did find the woman. I wonder where she was going, what she was doing on that fateful day.
Wait a minute, I don't care about that. I wonder whom she was doing and why it wasn't me! Ahem. Back to the story. Right.

John and I were meandering aimlessly around the park when I saw something out of the corner of my eye. "What is
that?!?" I pointed toward what looked like a freshly dug hole in the ground.

"I dunno." John walked over the blemish on the lawn. "Maybe it's a corpse."

"Yuck. Don't be morbid."


We examined the hole. It was about a foot in diameter. The dirt covering it was just shoved loosely back over the
opening. John moved the dirt around with his foot.

"Looks like nothing," he said. "Let's go."

He gave the pile one last kick as he was walking past and fell flat on his face.

I laughed out loud. "Ha!"

"Dude! I tripped over something." John turned over, sat up on his knees and started pawing through the loose dirt.
"Here it is!" He pulled on the black strip of material and out came a duffel bag. "Mancini's Gym," he mused. "That sounds
so familiar."

"It should, stupid. That's right down the street from your house. You must drive past it every day."

"Oh yeah!" he said. "Let's go!"

"Go? Go where? Why? When and whatfor?"

"The gym! It's about time you got in shape anyway, pudge-boy." He delivered the parting shot over his shoulder.

"Hey!" I said. "All right, all right, I'm coming." I hurried to catch up.

At the gym, we ran into Larry, my arch nemesis. Everywhere I go I can't escape from that scum that dares to call
himself a human being.

"Why look John," I said. "It's Larry the Lounge Lizard."

"Why look John," said Larry mockingly. "It's Percy the Pansy."

"That's right," I growled. "I'm a horticulturist's nightmare."

We circled each other like dogs gearing up for a fight. Just as I was about to lunge and rip him to shreds for being
the slimy low-life that he is, the manager of the gym, Mr. Mancini himself approached us. Larry slunk out the door.

"You boys must be here for the cargo. Good! Follow me." Mr. Mancini turned around and started disappearing rapidly
in the opposite direction. John and I looked at each other.

I shrugged. "Might as well." I started walking after the manager.

"But!" John jogged to catch up to me. "We're not the delivery or cargo people or whatever! What if-"

I shrugged again. "A case of mistaken identity," I said. "We deliver the whatever it is, take the money, and no one
will ever know. No problem!"

"I see a lot of problems!" John was getting nervous. "Percy, I remember the last time I went along with one of your
little schemes. I had poison ivy everywhere and we almost got arrested for indecent exposure! I don't think this is a very
good idea."

"What's wrong with it?" I asked. "It's simple. Nothing can go wrong."

Or so I thought. The manager led us through the hot weight room. The place echoed with grunts and the clink! clink!
of weights being slid on to a bench press bar. All that muscle and testosterone was making me nervous.

We entered the manager's office in the back, expecting to be given a small box or a sheaf of papers, but he kept on
going right out the back door!

"Uh oh," I said under my breath.

"What was that?" John asked.

"Oh, nothing," I said nonchalantly. "Come on."

As we passed through the door I heard squealing and scratching of little tiny feet. The smell was . . . interesting.
The manager was standing by a Rider truck filled with cages of weasels!

"Weasels!" John exclaimed.

"Sign here," said the manager, handing over a clipboard.

I signed somewhat shakily and handed it back.

"Er," I started hesitantly.

"Thanks so much!" said the manager. "I'm glad to get these buggers off my hands. Don't get to close, they bite!"
And with that he disappeared into his office, leaving me with an angry friend and 30 disgruntled weasels.

"What the hell is Mancini doing with weasels? What are we going to do with weasels?!?" John screamed.

"Maybe he was pet-sitting," I said. "Anyway, we've got to get going to deliver them to," I paused and looked at the
receipt Mancini had given me, "3680 Tamarack Way by 8:00 tonight."