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“I’m glad you guys are here. My home was just burgled.”
    “When?”
    “A few seconds ago.”
    “By who?”
    “A farmer.”
    “How do you know he was a farmer?”
    “He was wearing overalls and smoking a corn cob pipe.”
    “Are you sure you weren’t dreaming?”
    “Yes.”
    “Why are you holding a plunger?”
    “To fight off the farmer.”
    “Did he take anything?”
    “No.”
    “Did he harm you or your family?”
    “No.”
    “Did he try to plant corn in your living room?”
    “No.”
    “Is this farmer still in your home?”
    “No, he disappeared. Jumped out the window I think. Perhaps if we each run like hell in opposite directions we can catch him.” Dale bent his leg back and stretched his hamstring. “I’m game if you boys are.”
    “Put your leg down, sir,” Truax said, “This, uh, farmer business will have to wait. We’re here about a much more urgent matter. We’d like you to answer a few questions, if you don’t mind.”
    “Sure thing. How about next Wednesday evening? I think I can fit you in, oh I don’t know, around sevenish?”
    “How about right now?”
    Dale crossed his arms. “How about never?”
    “How about we arrest you and drag you out of there by your ankles?”
    “Now works.”
There was a farmer
Had no dog, leapt through window
What was his name-o?

2
This Pribbling Ship
    Excerpt from the diary of John Alden
Rendered into modern English by Dr. Theodore “Mayflower” Jenkins
    N OVEMBER 9, 1620
    I take quill in hand to record the circumstances of my time on this pribbling Ship. The Mayflower is what they call it. More like Shiteflower if you ask me.
    My poor body is in disarray. Lack of exercise and shoddy victuals are partly to blame, but there is more to it than that. It is a struggle to get out of bed each morning, and even more of a struggle to put on pants. Why bother covering up my prick and arsehole when I am surrounded by nothing but Pricks and Aresholes on this Ship. I tell you these people are driving me to madness.
    That Areshole sailor Roger has been strutting around the deck again, boasting about how most of us will die a horribly painful death during the Voyage. He prances up and down the deck shouting things like “Arrrr me hearties, I be lovin’ the smell ‘o Death in the mornin’. It be smellin’ like Separatists!” And “Shiver me timbers, be that Death I seen looking over ye belt-buckled hat? It tis! Avast, run for ye lives!”
    Now that I think about it, I suspect Roger may be a pirate.
    No matter. God was kind enough to make Roger fall ill today, and I see a most painful death in his future. I know the signs well. It starts with a simple cough, or perhaps a sore on the neck, and in no time at all you are vomiting out your spleen. Surely it is the Lord’s work that Roger has this fate to look forward to. At least the Almighty is still on the side of good, decent men like me.
    Now if the Almighty would just find it in His heart to smite that beef-witted Edward Margesson chap, things would be wonderful. Every day from him it’s nothing but Cod talk.
    “Hark! Would you look at all that fine-looking Cod in the sea!”
    “Why I bet I could stroll across the ocean upon the backs of all that Cod. Like Jesus did.”
    “I have a shiny piece of silver here for anyone who can guess how many Cod I have stuffed underneath my hat.”
    “Lo! Get your thieving hands off that Cod! I saw it first and therefore it is mine. Yes I saw that one too. And that one. They’re all mine, damn you!”
    “John, guess what I’m thinking about right now. Guess. I bet you can’t. Bet you can’t guessssss.”
    Cod, Edward. You’re thinking about Cod, you tottering bastard. And if you don’t stop it you are going to be swimming with them.
    On to less important matters. Yesterday we spotted Land! There was much cheering, and I was patted on the back many, many times. Then Dr. Fuller’s apprentice William Button decided to jump Ship and make a swim for it. Dr.