Story time! Goat antics, part (3-4) and 5
I know, I know – this has been a terrible showing of goatdom – I underestimated both the amount of time this would take, and the amount of free time I’d have available on the weekends. I think I’m going to go ahead with the suggestion and make this a Monday-Friday story with weekends left open for people to ruminate about what may happen next.
Irk sighed, got up (avoiding the coffee table this time) and went back to the kitchen. He walked around the tipped mop bucket and started collecting the long Glen thread, spooling it neatly around a couple fingers. He still didn’t know what had happened to Glen, but he figured that he’d better save the unraveled thread in case Glen needed repairs when he got home.
He went down the hall to Glen’s room and placed the spooled thread on the dresser. Looking around the room, he noticed that everything was more or less exactly in its place – Glen’s suitcase was still in the corner, his laptop and phone were on the desk, and his favorite toy – a mini-stuffed Irk – was laying on the bed. This troubled Irk greatly – Glen loved his stuffed Irk and never left home without it. Glen’s departure clearly wasn’t planned.
Sitting on the floor was an open cardboard box – his Bag of Stuff that Glen had claimed. Irk sighed heavily – what if he hadn’t made such a fuss about Glen opening his box? Would any of this have happened?
Irk sat on Glen’s bed, picking up the stuffed-him and hugged it tightly, missing his friend. It was then that he noticed the envelope on the pillow. “Attention: Irk” was scrawled on the front. He snatched up the envelope, tore it open, and unfolded the enclosed letter.
We have Glen. You know why, and you know what you did.
Instructions are forthcoming. Follow them exactly and Glen will be returned unharmed. Ignore them and Glen will continue to be unraveled.
PS – Sorry about the door
Irk felt something else in the envelope, and shook it out onto the bed. It was a Polaroid, apparently taken at the pub last night. In the photo, Irk was sitting at the bar and chatting with the bartender, looking away and clearly not paying attention. Next to Irk, on the bar, was his drink – and next to his drink was a gloved hand tipping a small vial of … something into his glass. That explained the confusion and the lack of clear memories of the night’s events – he was drugged, and whoever did it clearly wanted him to know about it.
Stunned and confused, Irk fell back against the pillow as the letter fluttered to the floor. He didn’t know why, and didn’t know what he did. This couldn’t be about the Bag of Stuff argument – that didn’t make any sense. Was there some sort of mix up, some sort of misunderstanding? Someone had obviously gone to great lengths to plan all of this – but why target Glen?
Irk had no idea what to do next. He couldn’t go to the police – he had never had Glen licensed, and so keeping him at home wasn’t exactly legal. He supposed that, for lack of a better plan, he’d wait for further instructions and check around for any other clues that may have been left behind.
And, he thought, he’d better try to patch up the back door.
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