|Espresso, "Hoomin, where's that pineapple you started growing?"|
|Espresso, deciding to sit in the one spot where the afternoon sun would get him just right.|
|Espresso, "Just bring the bananas or I'm calling my agent!"|
Good Evening, Everybun!
The hoomin stood in the dark doorway of a cheap motel room and kept re-reading a copy of a telegram. From time to time, he would look down at the thin line of light shining through the gap between the door and the floor, hoping that another piece of paper would slide through. After a long pause, the hoomin knocked gently on the door and asked, “Are you still there?” He was hoping his contact was still there, like a friendly ghost.
“I shouldn’t be,” answered the voice sounding an awful lot like Mr. Spressos.
But the hoomin clammed up and couldn’t say anything. He realized no bun was coming to the rescue. The guys that know how to had finished rescuing a long time ago. They had guided home everybun through the thick and thin; scary and poisonous; and their show had ended. They had left us memories of how rescues were done. That’s more than what they had to start with.
The prolonged silence made Mr. Spressos impatient. “Look, Mr. Hoomin, we’re running out of time. If you feel compelled to confess or beg, don’t bother. We’ve seen your promises. Your deeds betrayed your sins of thought. We wouldn’t be here otherwise, would we? Goodnight, Agent Hoomin.” said Mr. Spressos.
The hoomin heard a muffled but firm thump on the other side of the door. Mr. Spressos hopped away for the cover of darkness.
Goodnight and good luck,