Charley Mitchell the Bar Stool {Part 6}
by phill
photo credit: FJTU
Dave sat, and
Charley continued. ‘While I suspect that you are still stringing yourself along, I’ll grasp this obedience of yours with all four prongs and take advantage of it while I can. The first step in improving your, hrm, bulk, is to devise a training scheme.’
‘Might I suggest a light jogging routine to begin with?’
‘No, you might not. While you were sleeping I took care of all the details. Monday will involve a ten kilometre run of my choosing to skin the puppy fat off your bones, Tuesday will be spent lifting me in various fashions to improve your muscle mass, and Wednesday will be a lighter five kilometre run followed by balance exercises. Thursday will be your first day of rest so make use of it, as come Friday you will be returning to building muscle. Saturday we will take advantage of the day’s length and trek amongst the hills outside the city. Sunday will be your day of charity, whereby you will help your neighbours with odd jobs and errands they may send you on.’ Dave made a small groaning sound. ‘Don’t complain! Remember, we are here to train your mind and moral stature as well as your body.’
Dave groaned further. And that was precisely when the burglar broke down the door.
* * *
The burglar’s name was Frederick Hill, and he was pinned to the floor by what he supposed was a talking bar stool made out of lead. But Frederick knew better than to trust his first impressions as, given his status as one of the area’s hardest drug users, he was quite often completely out of his mind. His suspicions were confirmed when the stool started congratulating the tenant on a job well done.
‘Congratulations, now you can even follow orders when under stress. We’re making progress in leaps and bounds.’
The tenant, a fat man with greasy hair and a terribly broken nose, was standing next to the kitchen counter, looking very pale and shaken. Frederick could tell he was in a bit of shock, perhaps in enough that he could try and weasel his way out of being handed over.
‘Come on now boss,’ said Frederick. ‘I’m not here for anything nasty, just got my houses confused that’s all. Thought this was my cousin’s place and you were a burglar. What a to-do, eh? So come on, be a bloke and get this fuckin’ stool thing off me, yeah?’
At this point the stool somehow became that much heavier and spoke to the fat man again.
‘Don’t do anything of the sort, David. He’s merely trying to talk his way out of the situation.’
‘I’ll yield to your thinking at this time, my four-legged saviour, but what to do with him?’
Frederick shifted uncomfortably underneath the stool. If he was high enough to be hearing a stool having a conversation with a fat man, it was possible that this entire situation was a construct of his mind. He grinned at the idea.
‘Well, I don’t know. I expect we’ll need to call the police to have him hauled away.’
‘The police? What will I say when they ask me how I pinned down a burglar? “Oh yes officer, I just knocked my magical talking bar stool on top of him and he yielded”? They’ll put me away!’
To be continued next Friday!
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