Patrick Griffin's Last Breakfast on Earth Read Online Free PDF Page B

Patrick with his soybean-holding hand. “Come here, son, I want a word with you.”
    â€œI’m Oma, by the way, Oma Puber.”
    â€œI’m Patrick,” he replied, fascinated as a gust of wind set her crow-black hair whipping about her shoulders, “Patrick Griffin.”
    She offered him a Mona-Lisa smile as he turned and headed up the path.
    â€œWhat on the Minder’s green Ith—” said the father as his eyes settled on Patrick’s face, and ears.
    Patrick stopped at hand-shaking distance and tried to smile.
    â€œFather, there’s tofu whip on your cheek,” said Kempton.
    The big-eyed man handed his bean pod to his wife and absently wiped at his cheek.
    â€œAllow me, son,” he said, reaching out and gently grabbing both of Patrick’s ears.
    â€œThey’re real ,” he gasped.
    Patrick shrugged.
    â€œSee?” said Kempton, offering his father what looked to be a bottle of hand sanitizer. “I told you so.”
    The woman tentatively stopped crying. “Really?”
    After wiping his hands, the man waved at a security camera atop a polished aluminum street pole and stumbled back up the path toward the house. “Wait here, everybody. I must have left my binky in the kitchen.”

 
    CHAPTER 11
    Service Outage

    Grunting and gasping like he was getting into a way-too-hot bath, Ichabod Coffin rolled onto his back and immediately wished he hadn’t—the back of his head felt like he’d been smacked with a board, and his wrists ached, too. Perhaps he’d tried to stop himself from falling? Perhaps he’d tried to fend off—
    The creature with the antlers!
    He felt up and down his body and, failing to find any torn fabric or gaping wounds, raised his hands to his face. There didn’t seem to be any blood—clearly he hadn’t been mauled.
    Had he had a stroke or a heart attack? If so, he felt pretty okay. Well, okay other than for questioning his own sanity. Had the creature—whatever it was—actually spoken to him? Had he hallucinated?
    He rolled over and sat up. At which point he noticed a water glass and a small card on the floor next to him. He picked up the latter and squinted at the large, handwritten block letters.
    FORGIVENESS IS THE CALLING CARD OF THE BRAVE. –BCP §307¶404
    He flipped the card over and—with some difficulty—read,
    JOHN ANDERSON PERTOLOPE, ESQ.
a.k.a. Mr. BunBun
Trans-World Consultant and Fomenter
    He clucked his tongue in anger. What was going on here? Some sort of prank? It made him furious to consider this, but at the same time, it was some reassurance: clearly he hadn’t lost his mind. Obviously it couldn’t have been a talking bear or a giant antlered rabbit, or really, an animal of any sort. It had been somebody—a person, a criminal—in costume. It made perfect sense. Criminals, of course, often wear disguises.
    He replaced the card and looked at the water glass. He was quite thirsty but it obviously had been put there by whoever had left the card and he shouldn’t disturb the crime scene. The police could dust it for fibers and fingerprints.
    He stood and, steadying himself on a chair, reached for his iPhone. It was clearly time to call 911.
    But the smartphone wasn’t in the pocket of his robe where it should have been. He let loose a torrent of very bad words as he bent and looked under the dining room table, where it wasn’t, either. The hooligan had clearly taken it.
    Running his hand along the wall for support, he headed back to the den and saw, with some measure of relief, his Macbook Pro still on the coffee table. What was missing, however, was the house’s cordless phone.
    He considered why a burglar would steal a thirty-dollar phone when a three-thousand-dollar lamp and a two-thousand-dollar computer were right there in plain sight. Probably they had taken it precisely to prevent his calling 911.
    He shuffled to the