“Stop.”

“I haven’t even finished yet.”

“But you said to stop you if I’ve heard it.”

“You don’t know what the joke is.”

“Sure I do. A man walks into a bar…”

“That’s just the beginning.”

“The beginning of a joke I’ve heard before.”

“Look, here’s the punchline. The extra long one’s for the dog.”

“Oh, I guess I haven’t heard it before.”

“Well, now it’s ruined.”

“No, start over.”

“Okay, a guy goes into a bar–”

They are unlike any cats you have ever seen. The size of golden retrievers, with husky fur, they have thoroughly overrun the village.

Their favorite spot is the widow’s cabin. She not only feeds them fish and chicken in individual bowls, but she always keeps her fire burning, making her roof an especially balmy spot for naps.

Most afternoons were spent on the park bench, feeding the pigeons. He stopped buying clothes more than a decade ago. He was mortified at wearing anything that might be considered fashionable, for fear of being laughed at.

He voted Republican. He drove a Cadillac, erratically. He visited the cemetery every Sunday.

Even his children knew their roles, urging him to move into a nursing home.

“What’s at the other end?” They always asked the same question.

“Nothing, as far as I know.” He had never actually been down the bridge himself. It was just his job to collect the tolls.

He always wondered what possessed people to drive the bridge. Was it curiosity? A sense of adventure? Boredom? Desperation?

With all the internal affairs investigations, it was becoming impossible to write a simple traffic citation without getting hauled before the citizen’s review board.

Hanson prided himself on being a by the book cop. Sure, he might kidnap the occasional tourist and murder them in cold blood, but that was on his own time.

When he was younger, Carmichael used to spend the night in the Library, reading by one of the desk lamps. He would read as many books as possible, adventure stories, how-to-books, encyclopedias. Everything.

Carmichael was just entering his office when he heard the scream from outside. It sounded like someone was in danger. He ran fervently towards the exit.

Now, after weeks of interviews with scientists and bee farmers, he found himself on this lonely road, in the middle of nowhere Arkansas.

As he pulled up a long gravel drive, he noticed the air was pregnant with bees.

He knocked on the farmhouse door. A grizzled, bearded bear of a man answered.

“I wanted to ask you about the bees on your farm.”

He stood up, and took a lap around his desk. Maybe if he took off his jacket. He shrugged his shoulders, stretching out his arms, then returned to his keyboard. He double checked all the numbers for the third time.

I never should have dropped that alligator.

The Baskerville hounds blocked his escape. The Redcoats advanced with precise timing, firing shots every five paces. And the Voodoo priestess was still alive, hiding somewhere in the catacombs.