I’ve spent the past few days nursing my wounded ego and the poison ivy I picked up on the way to the puppetry gig. I’ve been signing apology notes to be sent to the parents of all the bats in attendance at our program.
The show was ill conceived: it was a series of biblical morality story adaptations for pirates dancing to Michael Jackson hits. Pretty early into the bit about Sodom and Gomorrah, the tape player malfunctioned. In my consternation I said some things that were picked up by my clip-on microphone that I have come to regret very deeply.
It is by great good fortune that the little fledermice in attendance were blind, and therefore did not notice that in my violent scratching at the poison ivy on my wrists, the puppets on my hands appeared to be engaging in unspeakable acts. One less thing to explain to the parents. Anyway, the long and the short of it is that I was back on the job market again.
I figured Roderick always has something cooking, so I went and found him hydrating himself at The Perilous Shore. Sure enough, he was devising a plan to sell summer season passes to his ice-fishing club. Osgood behind the bar has an exclusive on the peppermint schnapps, and I’ve got the job of hauling in the ice.
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