It’s 0900 hours. I am sitting in my mother’s dining room eating a roasted duck.
Last night I saw a party of midgets running across the street towards the lake that sits in the middle of our small town. I can remember them laughing like little children and throwing balloons filled with tomato juice at each other. Come to think of it, they might have been children. I don’t really remember. It could have just been their shadows I saw.
I’m diving into this duck now with a fervor that would have filled Paul Newman with so much glee, he would have come out with a new Fun Duck Salad Dressing.
There was a tiny man on the streets last night who also watched the group of midget children running. He was a strange looking man. He carried a lunch pail and a pair of long green socks. His hair was as red as the tomato sauce in the balloons and came down on his shoulders. He kept looking at me, jumping from one leg to the other and mumbling something that sounded like “Give me some flap jacks, kid, or I’ll eatcha!"
Crumbling Christmas trees! This duck is good.
