part 5:
El Ocaso Encimo De Un Más Verano
by Michael D. Quadrozzi
Some Story Elements by Matthew Atanian
©1998 by Michael D. Quadrozzi and Matthew Atanian
Boy Scouts ½ created by Matthew Atanian
El Ocaso Encimo De Un Más Verano
by Michael D. Quadrozzi
Some Story Elements by Matthew Atanian
©1998 by Michael D. Quadrozzi and Matthew Atanian
Boy Scouts ½ created by Matthew Atanian
On a cold Friday morning of the old-fashioned sort, the sun reluctantly rose over the grounds of the Horace A. Moses Scout Reservation of Russell, Massachusetts. It crept over Coffin Handle Hill and glinted on the dew soaked grass. It continued to creep over the forsaken mire that, by the end of the week, a.k.a. today, the parade field had become. It lighted the paths and warmed the cracked pavement of General Knox Road, and eventually reached the bottom of a hill and the campsites that rested there, where it failed to shed much warmth.
By six o'clock, however, things began to perk up. Bugs started buzzing, birds started singing, and the whole of Creation seemed generally pleased with itself.
All was bliss.
The bliss was shattered by a series of odd noises. First, there was a yell of surprise and alarm, then what might've been a quack, and then a lot of shushing, and then silence.
The source of this auditory barrage was a green canvas tent, of the usual type employed by the camp. This tent was this week being used by Dan Wellington, and he was holding a white duck by the scruff of the neck.
The source of all the shushing was the figure who had just jumped into Dan's tent at this ungodly hour and did not want Dan to use the lighter he was holding close to the duck, which was struggling feebly. Dan recognized the figure as Mike Quadrozzi, one of the senior scouts in his friend Matt's troop. As usual, Mike wore the shabby red baseball cap that bore the much faded and barely readable insignia of Troop 192. Over his uniform he had a dark blue parka, despite the fact that it was summer. Up until now, Dan had thought of Mike as a fairly normal, if not a little manic, person. But then again, fairly normal people didn't burst into other people's tents at six in the morning blabbering on about waterfowl.
After some pleading from Mike, Dan extinguished the lighter, seeming to come out of a trance as he did so. "Oh, hey, Mike," he said cheerfully. "What the hell are you doing in my tent?" He looked at his catch. "What the hell is this duck doing in my tent?" he shouted.
Mike held up his hands. "Calm down, Dan. I can explain," he began, but couldn't after all and fell silent. He thought for a moment. "Just put the duck down."
Wellington looked down at the creature, then at the lighter, and with a sigh dropped the former to the wooden planks of the tent's floor. It quacked quietly and sat down by Mike's feet.
"Thanks," Mike said. There was an awkward silence. Dan looked as if he expected Mike to say something more, and unbeknownst to him, bits of Mike's mind were arguing with other bits over what that something should be.
Mike was as surprised as anyone to find that the bits of his mind that were arguing were mainly composed of the cast of Monty Python.
Out of the murky depths came the high-pitched and passive voice of Michael Palin, "I think we should tell him."
"Are you insane?" sputtered John Cleese, "He's only just found out about Matt!"
"All the better," remarked Palin. "He'll take it easier."
"Oh, very nice!" Cleese's eyes rolled. "The chap will just love hearing that the whole bloody lot are a bunch of forest animals!"
"Dogs and cats aren't forest animals," said Palin. "And besides, you don't have to phrase it like that. It's more like being honest with him."
"Oh, honest, how nice," said John Cleese in mock praise. "While we're off being all sweet and apologetic, we can make him some bloody sticky buns!"
Palin's eyes narrowed. "You're mocking me."
"Oh, piss off."
"Well I'm going to tell him."
Cleese bristled. "Right! Fine, see what I care!"
"I'll do just that," said Palin, turning away with a sniff.
With a mental blast of wind, Mike popped back into Dan's tent and looked around. Wet towels hung from a piece of rope tied across the top of the tent, from pole to pole. It smelled musty, as most of the camp's tents did. The white duck quacked plaintively from its seat on the wooden planks. Mike sighed. "Okay, right. Dan," he glanced up at his fellow scout, "There's something we've got to tell you."
Dan smirked. "We? What, you and the duck?"
Mike smiled back. "Yeah, me and the duck. Come on." He waved for Dan to come after him and turned to leave the tent. Just before pulling back the flap, Mike noticed the large burlap sack under Dan's bunk, and pointed to it. "What's that?" he asked.
Dan finished lacing his boot and looked over at the dusty sack. His face cracked in a wolfish grin. "Oh, nothing much," he said, and followed Mike and the white duck outside into the chill morning air.
The five of them sat in Mike's tent. Dan Wellington, Mike, Hughes, Bill Gelinas and a white duck. A shaft of sunlight sprouted through a gap where the flaps are tied to the tent poles, but other than that it was pretty dark. No one spoke for a minute or two, but everyone yawned. It was just after six o'clock, clearly too early to be having any sort of conversation, never mind a potentially serious one.
Sitting on Aaron's bunk, Dan was visibly confused. "Um, Mike," he began slowly. "What the hell is going on? What do you guys have to tell me?" He looked down at the duck. Something at the back of Dan's mind was nagging at him about the duck. "And what's with the duck?"
The Bills looked at Mike, who briefly removed his red baseball cap to scratch the back of his head. He really wasn't sure how to proceed. "Ah, well Dan--"
He was interrupted as the tent flaps were flung open and Justy Yung stuck his head inside, "Hey, morning everybody," he said cheerfully. "What's the little meeting about?"
Everyone blinked at the sudden rush of light. Bill Hughes was startled. "Jeez, Justy," he said in a voice a lot of people interpreted as whiny, "What are you doing up?"
Justy's head bobbed up and down with delight. "Making the adults coffee!" he looked around at the assemblage. "Hi, Dan!"
Wellington smiled weakly. "Hi, Justy."
Justy Yung was known the Council over as the biggest ass-kisser the organization had ever seen. His targets were anyone of a higher position than he was. Justy presently held no position at all in Troop 192, so that basically included everyone in the tent. "Anything I can get you guys?" he asked.
Mike started to say no, then stopped. He looked down at the white duck. "Actually, Justy," he began, and Yung's eyes lit up with glee. "Could I just have some hot water?"
"Sure!" Justy said, and skipped away towards the tarp covered kitchen area.
Inside the tent, everyone continued to sit quietly. Dan seemed lost in his own thoughts, and the other scouts looked at Mike knowingly but nervous.
Seconds later, Justy returned with a mug of hot water. "Fresh from the stove," he said, handing it to Mike.
"Thanks," replied Mike. "Now go away."
Justy turned as if fetching another item. "Okay!"
The five of them were alone again, and Hughes put his head in his hands. "God, I hate him," he said.
"You know he's just doing all of this because he thinks he has a shot at SPL next elections," said Bill Gelinas, speaking of the annual event where new junior leaders would be chosen.
"I hope he doesn't," answered Hughes.
"Anyway," Mike said, bringing everyone back to the matter at hand. He held the cup of water. He looked over at Dan Wellington. "Watch this," he said simply. Taking the white duck off of the bunk, he put it down on the wooden planks and emptied the steaming cup of liquid upon the creature.
Dan gasped as suddenly the creature was not a white duck but Aaron Abdowmassy.
Abruptly, Dan fell silent. He stared at Aaron, towelling himself off, and the other looked up at him.
"Why so surprised, Dan?" Aaron asked. "You knew about this."
Dan's eyes went wide. That was what had been nagging at him. "Oh yeah!" he said. "I do! Huh." He took out his lighter and began burning off the sticker on the side of the tent that read 'No Open Flames.'
It was Mike's turn to be confused. "You already knew?"
Dan glanced over slowly, as if wondering why Mike was still bothering himself with the subject of people turning into animals. "Yeah. Matt told me after him and Aaron coloured in your buddy tags." he smirked. "I guess I forgot." He examined the smoking ruins of the safety label, pocketed his lighter and lifted the flap. "See ya," he said, and left.
The four of them sat in the tent. Mike was trying to catch up. Hughes plotted Justy's downfall. Bill was silent. Aaron was wet.
A thought struck Mike and he turned to the former duck. "Why were you in Dan's tent, anyway?" he asked.
Aaron shrugged. "Well, I wasn't counting on anyone else being up. I thought I'd get in some early morning flying practice."
The others looked at him questioningly.
"Hey, it's harder than it looks."
"Oh," they all said.
Aaron, covered with a wet towel, eyed his fellow scouts. "Could I maybe get some privacy, here?"
After that, the camp-wide opening ceremony was held, followed by a breakfast of egg and cheese omelettes that left something to be desired, mainly taste. Back at the campsite, the scouts of Troop 192 went their separate ways, either off to their last merit badge class or racing against time to finish that last requirement. The adults, meanwhile, joined adults from numerous other troops and went off to do whatever it was they did when the youth aren't around and weren't seen again until late afternoon.
It was about this time that Mike, Aaron and Bill found they didn't have much to do. So, looking around to make sure no adults were nearby, they began a leisurely game of Magic on one of Crown Point's many picnic tables.
Mike had just put down his first Mountain when Bill Hughes came charging out from between two tents like a small flannel-coloured tornado, waving a bug net over his head and yelling obscene things at a black and yellow butterfly that remained just out of his reach. After a few seconds of mad dashing about, he disappeared over the next ridge.
Some amused glances were exchanged, and then the game resumed. Mike tapped his new mana source and slapped down a Lightning Bolt. He smiled. "Three points of damage, Bill."
Gelinas grimaced. "Sure. Fine. Whatever."
Mike smiled again, having elicited the desired response. "Lot more where that came from."
It was Aaron's turn now, and he drew a card as someone walked into the campsite.
The three looked over to see Matt Atanian come down the path. They all shouted greeting at their friend, whom they had not seen since last night.
"Hi, Matt!"
Matt's only answer was to meander into camp in a daze.
At last he noticed the others and said airily, "Oh. Ah, hi guys."
"Hey, Matt," said Mike. "What's up?"
Matt thought the question over. "Oh, I was just thinking."
Mike eyed him suspiciously. "All night?"
Matt looked around again, noticing the daylight. "Guess so."
"About what?"
Matt smiled and stared into space. "The Girl Scout leader."
And he floated away over the next ridge.
Mike, Aaron and Bill Gelinas were beginning to wonder what was so special about that ridge that everyone had to go over it for, but left it at that and continued with their card game.
And the last day at camp goes on . . .
When the adults returned to the campsite around four o' clock, Mr. McGraw, Scoutmaster-for-the-week and all around bitter old man, whipped his 'signs-up' and fell the troop in for an important announcement.
"All right, you little pukes!" hollered McGraw. "We have been instructed to come up with a skit and or song for tonight's camp wide closing campfire! Troop 192 will participate, and we will have fun, you hear me? Fun, dammit!" Jack McGraw was a military man, and had been in Vietnam, as he never let anyone forget.
After some discussion, it was decided that the troop would perform the 192 original, 'Clappy Song,' and the classic skit, 'Musical Chairs.'
There was an hour and a half yet until dinner, and everyone went their separate ways again.
Bill Hughes deposited his three quarters into the Coca-Cola vending machine, which rested on the porch of Camp Moses' Trading Post. The coins rattled around inside the machine and Hughes punched the button for a root beer. The machine made some buzzing noises, supposedly locating the proper beverage.
From behind him, Mike remarked, "I heard they might've finally fixed this thing."
There was a clang of metal on metal, and a can of Kiwi/Mocha Fruit Juice fell out of the slot.
"Or not," Mike said.
Hughes sighed.
"Hey, did you finish Insect Study?" asked Mike.
"Took me three years," Bill responded, lifting the tab on the can of juice, "But I finally did it." The tab came off with his finger, and he stared at it.
Mike almost smiled, but it was too hot. The temperature had jumped a full thirty degrees in the past two hours, making it one of the more unbearable last days of camp Mike had experienced in a while. And, of course, the mosquitoes were out living it up.
With a determined look on his face, Hughes took out his pocketknife and jabbed at the can, promptly snapping the blade clean off.
"This is one tough can," said Hughes.
"Hey, guys!"
Both Mike and Hughes turned to look as Jon Becker trudged up the hill towards the building. He was a good twelve yards away, but they could still hear his headphones. He never took them off.
Ever.
How many batteries did he bring with him? "Hey, Becker, want a soda?" called Mike, taking the can from Hughes.
"Sure!"
Mike tossed it over, and the other caught it like a wet beach ball. Becker examined it for a minute with a careful bespectacled eye. "Hey," he said. "What's wrong with it?"
"Uh, it came that way."
"Oh," answered Becker. "Well, I'll see ya." He trotted past the Trading Post into the road to the tune of 'Norwegian Carpentry Folk Songs' and out of view, prying at the can with his fingernails the whole way.
The two scouts exchanged a glance, and then sat down on the wooden bench.
"I just lost seventy-five cents," muttered Hughes.
"Yes," said Mike, "but you got rid of Becker."
"Point," conceded Hughes.
Just as the calm of an evening coming to a close was settling over the field, a voice shouted from inside the Trading Post, "Are you two gonna buy anything, because I'm closing up soon for dinner and you've been sitting there for like a half hour and if you don't buy anything now, I'll kick your ass!"
As anyone could see, the kid who ran the store was a cunning salesman.
His name was Roy, and he was an irritable bastard.
"I can't argue with that, Roy," said Mike, stepping through the entrance. Half-empty racks of merit badge books and shirts and things lined the wall by the door. The store's merchandise was greatly depleted at the end of the week; in fact the only thing there seemed to be a surplus of was navy blue Official Boy Scout Toothbrush Cases.
"Buy a toothbrush case," snarled Roy as Mike walked up to the counter.
Mike smiled. "Actually, I'm in more of a Slim Jim mood today."
Roy slowly glanced over at the snack shelf. There were three Slim Jims, a hot ball and some Tic-Tacs left.
"They're forty five cents each," he said.
"Give me two."
Roy grimaced. "Why don't you buy all three?"
"I only want two," answered Mike.
The Slim Jims flew through the air and hit Mike square in the forehead.
Roy rang it up on the cash register. "That'll be ninety cents," he spat, holding out a hand.
In it, Mike placed a nice, crisp twenty dollar bill. He smiled.
"You don't by any chance have anything smaller?"
"Seriously, Roy, it's the only money I've got," said Mike.
Nineteen dollars, ten cents flew through the air and hit Mike square in the forehead.
"Thank you, come again."
"What was that about?" asked Bill Hughes as they walked down the hill, back towards the campsites.
Mike shrugged. "Roy's got a permanent wedgie or something."
Hughes smiled. Mike had a way with words. "I think I liked Matt in the trading post better."
"Yeah."
They trudged on through the muck, their sneakers grinding rotten apples into the mud as they approached the orchard. The sun began its long journey westward across the sky.
Mike took his recently purchased Slim Jims out of his coat and moved them to his pants pocket. When he drew out his hand, he grinned broadly. "Hey, Hughes."
"What?"
Mike opened his hand. "Ninety cents."
The Knox Dining Hall was the heart of the camp. Everything from meetings to retreats to movie nights took place there from time to time, not to mention all the eating that went on. Set down in a grassy clearing by the side of the road, towered over by the forest behind it, the dining hall was a building with character. And today, as the sun sank behind the hills and evening drew ever nearer, crowds of scouts and scouters began forming by the building's three oak planked entrances, waiting for dinner to begin.
The minute hand clicked into place, and bracing themselves, the kitchen staff flung the double doors wide as hundreds of tan and puke green shirted campers stormed into the dining hall. Timidly, they reminded a few of them to kindly remove their hats upon entering.
Troop 192 found their two tables, as did everyone else, and after a short bowing of heads for grace, seats were taken and conversation resumed.
Mike Quadrozzi placed his red baseball cap on the bench next to him and glanced at it forlornly. His head felt naked.
He looked around at the seven others at the table with him. All but one of them was a member of Troop 192. He was their guest tonight, and as the lights overhead flickered off and on, a signal for the waiters to step up and get the food, he spoke.
"So guys," began Mr. Mark Abert, an adult from Troop 180 and the camp archery instructor, "Will you be attending the campfire?" He paused suddenly.
"What's wrong?"
Abert shrugged. "Just thought I heard someone cackle. Oh well."
Mike resumed the conversation. "Troop 192 will be there."
"Good. The campfires are always fun."
Just then, Aaron returned with his tray, burdened with a pitcher of water and a large bowl of sauerkraut. He placed them on the table and went back for the rest.
Mr. Abert cheerfully pored himself a glass of water. This was actually how he went about most things. Cheerfully. On the rare occasions he became angered, he seemed strangely goofy, which is why most everybody liked him and also why he'd been hired to replace the last archery instructor, whom nobody had liked at all.
"Played any Magic lately?" he asked in that funny yet oddly serious way as he filled his glass.
Now, this wasn't an odd question coming from Mr. Abert, for he was on of the very few adults in the council who actually played the game and didn't want it banned, shredded and torched as sort of sin against humanity. Still, at least three of the scouts present were aware of the bizarre consequences their last major game overseas had had. Mike nearly choked on his water. Hughes stiffened in mid-chew of a lump of sauerkraut.
Clearly, Bill Gelinas didn't notice the tension.
"Well," he said. "There was that big Magic game we played with Matt in Chi--" And then he tumbled off the bench as Hughes elbowed him under the table.
"In Chicopee!" hollered Hughes, grinning madly. "Yup, big game in Chicopee last week. Ha ha. Oh look! It appears that Billy dropped his fork!"
"Huh," remarked Abert. "Well, he should get a new one. There's nothing worse than a dirty fork."
"Or a dirty knife," said Mike, who had decided to ignore the others.
"Oh, yes," agreed Mr. Mark Abert.
Aaron returned again with a steaming bowl of a beefy stew substance, heaped with hearty bits of things. He sat down on the bench next to their guest and let out a sigh. The meal had obviously been awkward to carry.
"You're definitely serving yourselves this time," he said.
After Billy climbed back onto the bench, those at the table turned their attention to the food, joining everyone else in the room. Their attention would not be divided between the food and anything else for at least a good fifteen minutes or until something really interesting happened.
As luck would have it, the large double doors at the main entrance swung open and in walked last year's Dining Hall Steward and one of this year's Camping Commissioners, Norm.
A thunderous cheer erupted on all sides as hundreds of diners yelled, "Norm!" at the tall, dark-haired, sunglasses-wearing man.
Acting on the spur of the moment, this year's steward, a dark-skinned young man called Dave, leaped out of the kitchen and took an exaggerated bow to the tune of thunderous booing.
Good-naturedly, Dave went back into the kitchen, leaving Norm to his adoring fans. Roses were thrown, thunderous cheering resumed.
No one liked you if you were steward.
Everyone liked you if you had been steward.
Back out leapt Dave, and the cheering halted. Everybody booed. Luckily, someone had thought to bring rotten produce, and Dave was chased out of the dining hall by a trio of ornery Secondclassmen.
Norm had business to attend to in the kitchen, and as the clapping died down, people went back to their plates.
All of this, of course, happened at every meal.
Dinner was going well; Hughes asked for the sauerkraut. Mr. Abert obliged. Some chewing went on, and then, from the next table over, a voice said, "What the hell's with this can?"
They all turned to see Derek Provost, Troop 180's resident good-natured pervert, stabbing savagely at a can of Kiwi/Mocha Fruit Juice with his butter knife. He was getting nowhere. "Aw, the heck with it!" he said, and as they watched, Provost attempted to gnaw at the soda can's impenetrable top.
And then, after they rushed Derek to the nurse, his mouth bleeding profusely, conversation resumed and dinner continued.
The beefy stew substance turned out to be surprisingly good, given enough salt, and as scouts and scouters alike were finishing up, stacking gravy smeared plates in piles on their trays and gratefully handing them to the waiters, signs were called by an elderly gentleman in the centre of the hall.
He cleared his throat, encouraging the conversation to die down. After silence had been reached, he stood for a moment more just to show that he could, using his walking stick not so much for balance as for a symbol of authority. He did this a lot, and was entitled to. He was probably the oldest guy in the council, and there are those that remark, only half-jokingly, that he knew Baden-Powell personally.
"Good evening," Harris Tanner said. His voice was somewhere between lilting and gravely. "All in all, I'd say this has been a pretty good week of summer camp, and in a little while, we're going to top it off with our traditional closing campfire." He paused suddenly, cocked an eyebrow. "Did anyone just hear a cackle?" he asked.
Tanner shrugged. "Anyway, you've got a little bit of time before then, so we'll let you off the hook early tonight. Get back to your campsites and practice your skits. Everyone's dismissed!"
Those crowds that hurried to get in now hurried to get out, nearly bowling the old man over. Hats were put back on and benches were moved aside as the satisfied masses left the building.
The Dining Hall was empty, save for a few members of the kitchen staff. There was little noise beyond the resonant hum of the large wall fans near the ceiling as they blew out the hot summer air. And then abruptly, the double doors opened and Matt Atanian floated in. He looked around slowly, his gaze foggy after so much staring into space.
"Aw, no," he said. "I missed it again, didn't I?"
The tent flap was thrown open, and Mike Quadrozzi stuck his head inside.
"We're all set with the skit," he said. "Think you can remember your line?"
Aaron put down the copy of Chariots of the Gods? he'd been reading and screwed up his forehead in mock concentration. "Um... oh! Ahem. 'Three days later.'"
Mike smiled. "Could use some work. Try it with feeling!"
Aaron got up off his bunk. "Are we off?"
"We're off."
The two them walked up the hill to join the rest of Troop 192, flashlights in hand.
The Moses Closing Campfire was about to begin.
The troops began to settle down, although a few of the ruder morons continued to shine their flashlights aimlessly around the amphitheatre. The crowds coming in were tapering off. Everything was almost set. And Dan Wellington stood between the two enormous fire lays constructed 'on stage.' He wore a huge grin as he silently considered the large burlap sack at his feet.
He had found it when he had been getting some Scoutcraft supplies out of the commissary the week before camp opened. The object within the bag had been heavily weathered and rusted, and Dan had had no idea how such a marvellous device would have come to rest here at Moses. It seemed like fate, like God himself had seen fit to give him a new toy, and Dan had secretly brought it to Cabin III where, over the summer, he had spent a good deal of his free time restoring the object within the bag to its former glory. He had finished just two days ago and had tested it yesterday. It had worked beautifully, like he knew it would.
Wellington put his sings up and waited a moment for the audience to get as quiet as it would get.
"Good evening!" he then shouted, "and welcome to the Horace A. Moses 1997 Summer Camp Week 3 Closing Campfire!"
As the crowd somewhat enthusiastically cheered, Dan turned his back to them and stooped down to get his prize out of the burlap sack. When he turned back to face the audience, he was holding a quite old yet (thanks to Dan's efforts) quite functional World War II vintage flamethrower. The pilot flame shone on Dan's face, making him look seriously demonic.
As he held it facing the audience, the crowd was rightly so slightly nervous. But then Dan turned to the left fire lay and blasted it with an inferno of pure flame. All the while, he was laughing like a mad man, the sweat pouring off his joy-filled face.
Dan turned to the right fire lay and blasted it as he had the first. It was instantly consumed in a ball of liquid fire. Turning back to the crowd, he aimed the flamethrower straight over his head and shot a pillar of flame into the sky as he laughed triumphantly.
The audience began booing.
Dan released the flamethrower's trigger and looked at the crowd, confused. It then dawned on him that it was still awfully dark in the amphitheatre when there ought to be two huge bonfires going.
Dan slowly looked to his left, and a startled look came upon his face. Slowly, he looked to his right, and was startled once more.
He turned to the audience. "Um, sorry," he said.
The two huge fire lays had been instantly reduced to piles of ash. Dan began to think that maybe he shouldn't have soaked the wood in jet fuel.
A half hour later, after the fire lays had been rebuilt with perfectly ordinary wood and then been lit with a perfectly ordinary match while the kitchen crew held Dan back to prevent him from "helping" in any way, the campfire finally got started.
"—AND IT DID!!" hollered Bill Hughes as he chased Mike off the stage in the closing scene of their skit. The crowd laughed and clapped warmly. A curly-haired man with a guitar was next to perform.
The fire lays were down to embers. The amphitheatre had become dark once more, and the old closing song came to its final verse:
". . . everything to Be Prepared," the crowd sang in unison. It was now silent. No one shone their flashlights, not even the ruder morons. Slowly, each troop rose from their seats and left the clearing.
The week had officially come to an end.
Later that night, back in Crown Point, the five of them sat at the site's tarp-covered kitchen area: Mike, Aaron, Hughes, Bill Gelinas and Matt Atanian, whom they had finally caught up with on the way back from the closing campfire.
The only light came from the one lantern still on by the picnic table. Everyone else had gone to sleep. There was no moon, just an overcast summer sky.
"Good job, everyone," Mike said. "We seem to have escaped disaster today."
"Forgive us if we're not cheering," yawned Hughes.
The crickets sang a few bars.
"I suppose it's time to hit the sack," said Matt.
They all agreed.
And on cue, it began seriously to pour.
All five of them exchanged glances, realizing they probably weren't going anywhere for a while.
"Anyone have an umbrella?"
"No."
Hughes smiled. "Who's up for a game of Magic?"
By six o'clock, however, things began to perk up. Bugs started buzzing, birds started singing, and the whole of Creation seemed generally pleased with itself.
All was bliss.
The bliss was shattered by a series of odd noises. First, there was a yell of surprise and alarm, then what might've been a quack, and then a lot of shushing, and then silence.
The source of this auditory barrage was a green canvas tent, of the usual type employed by the camp. This tent was this week being used by Dan Wellington, and he was holding a white duck by the scruff of the neck.
The source of all the shushing was the figure who had just jumped into Dan's tent at this ungodly hour and did not want Dan to use the lighter he was holding close to the duck, which was struggling feebly. Dan recognized the figure as Mike Quadrozzi, one of the senior scouts in his friend Matt's troop. As usual, Mike wore the shabby red baseball cap that bore the much faded and barely readable insignia of Troop 192. Over his uniform he had a dark blue parka, despite the fact that it was summer. Up until now, Dan had thought of Mike as a fairly normal, if not a little manic, person. But then again, fairly normal people didn't burst into other people's tents at six in the morning blabbering on about waterfowl.
After some pleading from Mike, Dan extinguished the lighter, seeming to come out of a trance as he did so. "Oh, hey, Mike," he said cheerfully. "What the hell are you doing in my tent?" He looked at his catch. "What the hell is this duck doing in my tent?" he shouted.
Mike held up his hands. "Calm down, Dan. I can explain," he began, but couldn't after all and fell silent. He thought for a moment. "Just put the duck down."
Wellington looked down at the creature, then at the lighter, and with a sigh dropped the former to the wooden planks of the tent's floor. It quacked quietly and sat down by Mike's feet.
"Thanks," Mike said. There was an awkward silence. Dan looked as if he expected Mike to say something more, and unbeknownst to him, bits of Mike's mind were arguing with other bits over what that something should be.
Mike was as surprised as anyone to find that the bits of his mind that were arguing were mainly composed of the cast of Monty Python.
Out of the murky depths came the high-pitched and passive voice of Michael Palin, "I think we should tell him."
"Are you insane?" sputtered John Cleese, "He's only just found out about Matt!"
"All the better," remarked Palin. "He'll take it easier."
"Oh, very nice!" Cleese's eyes rolled. "The chap will just love hearing that the whole bloody lot are a bunch of forest animals!"
"Dogs and cats aren't forest animals," said Palin. "And besides, you don't have to phrase it like that. It's more like being honest with him."
"Oh, honest, how nice," said John Cleese in mock praise. "While we're off being all sweet and apologetic, we can make him some bloody sticky buns!"
Palin's eyes narrowed. "You're mocking me."
"Oh, piss off."
"Well I'm going to tell him."
Cleese bristled. "Right! Fine, see what I care!"
"I'll do just that," said Palin, turning away with a sniff.
With a mental blast of wind, Mike popped back into Dan's tent and looked around. Wet towels hung from a piece of rope tied across the top of the tent, from pole to pole. It smelled musty, as most of the camp's tents did. The white duck quacked plaintively from its seat on the wooden planks. Mike sighed. "Okay, right. Dan," he glanced up at his fellow scout, "There's something we've got to tell you."
Dan smirked. "We? What, you and the duck?"
Mike smiled back. "Yeah, me and the duck. Come on." He waved for Dan to come after him and turned to leave the tent. Just before pulling back the flap, Mike noticed the large burlap sack under Dan's bunk, and pointed to it. "What's that?" he asked.
Dan finished lacing his boot and looked over at the dusty sack. His face cracked in a wolfish grin. "Oh, nothing much," he said, and followed Mike and the white duck outside into the chill morning air.
The five of them sat in Mike's tent. Dan Wellington, Mike, Hughes, Bill Gelinas and a white duck. A shaft of sunlight sprouted through a gap where the flaps are tied to the tent poles, but other than that it was pretty dark. No one spoke for a minute or two, but everyone yawned. It was just after six o'clock, clearly too early to be having any sort of conversation, never mind a potentially serious one.
Sitting on Aaron's bunk, Dan was visibly confused. "Um, Mike," he began slowly. "What the hell is going on? What do you guys have to tell me?" He looked down at the duck. Something at the back of Dan's mind was nagging at him about the duck. "And what's with the duck?"
The Bills looked at Mike, who briefly removed his red baseball cap to scratch the back of his head. He really wasn't sure how to proceed. "Ah, well Dan--"
He was interrupted as the tent flaps were flung open and Justy Yung stuck his head inside, "Hey, morning everybody," he said cheerfully. "What's the little meeting about?"
Everyone blinked at the sudden rush of light. Bill Hughes was startled. "Jeez, Justy," he said in a voice a lot of people interpreted as whiny, "What are you doing up?"
Justy's head bobbed up and down with delight. "Making the adults coffee!" he looked around at the assemblage. "Hi, Dan!"
Wellington smiled weakly. "Hi, Justy."
Justy Yung was known the Council over as the biggest ass-kisser the organization had ever seen. His targets were anyone of a higher position than he was. Justy presently held no position at all in Troop 192, so that basically included everyone in the tent. "Anything I can get you guys?" he asked.
Mike started to say no, then stopped. He looked down at the white duck. "Actually, Justy," he began, and Yung's eyes lit up with glee. "Could I just have some hot water?"
"Sure!" Justy said, and skipped away towards the tarp covered kitchen area.
Inside the tent, everyone continued to sit quietly. Dan seemed lost in his own thoughts, and the other scouts looked at Mike knowingly but nervous.
Seconds later, Justy returned with a mug of hot water. "Fresh from the stove," he said, handing it to Mike.
"Thanks," replied Mike. "Now go away."
Justy turned as if fetching another item. "Okay!"
The five of them were alone again, and Hughes put his head in his hands. "God, I hate him," he said.
"You know he's just doing all of this because he thinks he has a shot at SPL next elections," said Bill Gelinas, speaking of the annual event where new junior leaders would be chosen.
"I hope he doesn't," answered Hughes.
"Anyway," Mike said, bringing everyone back to the matter at hand. He held the cup of water. He looked over at Dan Wellington. "Watch this," he said simply. Taking the white duck off of the bunk, he put it down on the wooden planks and emptied the steaming cup of liquid upon the creature.
Dan gasped as suddenly the creature was not a white duck but Aaron Abdowmassy.
Abruptly, Dan fell silent. He stared at Aaron, towelling himself off, and the other looked up at him.
"Why so surprised, Dan?" Aaron asked. "You knew about this."
Dan's eyes went wide. That was what had been nagging at him. "Oh yeah!" he said. "I do! Huh." He took out his lighter and began burning off the sticker on the side of the tent that read 'No Open Flames.'
It was Mike's turn to be confused. "You already knew?"
Dan glanced over slowly, as if wondering why Mike was still bothering himself with the subject of people turning into animals. "Yeah. Matt told me after him and Aaron coloured in your buddy tags." he smirked. "I guess I forgot." He examined the smoking ruins of the safety label, pocketed his lighter and lifted the flap. "See ya," he said, and left.
The four of them sat in the tent. Mike was trying to catch up. Hughes plotted Justy's downfall. Bill was silent. Aaron was wet.
A thought struck Mike and he turned to the former duck. "Why were you in Dan's tent, anyway?" he asked.
Aaron shrugged. "Well, I wasn't counting on anyone else being up. I thought I'd get in some early morning flying practice."
The others looked at him questioningly.
"Hey, it's harder than it looks."
"Oh," they all said.
Aaron, covered with a wet towel, eyed his fellow scouts. "Could I maybe get some privacy, here?"
After that, the camp-wide opening ceremony was held, followed by a breakfast of egg and cheese omelettes that left something to be desired, mainly taste. Back at the campsite, the scouts of Troop 192 went their separate ways, either off to their last merit badge class or racing against time to finish that last requirement. The adults, meanwhile, joined adults from numerous other troops and went off to do whatever it was they did when the youth aren't around and weren't seen again until late afternoon.
It was about this time that Mike, Aaron and Bill found they didn't have much to do. So, looking around to make sure no adults were nearby, they began a leisurely game of Magic on one of Crown Point's many picnic tables.
Mike had just put down his first Mountain when Bill Hughes came charging out from between two tents like a small flannel-coloured tornado, waving a bug net over his head and yelling obscene things at a black and yellow butterfly that remained just out of his reach. After a few seconds of mad dashing about, he disappeared over the next ridge.
Some amused glances were exchanged, and then the game resumed. Mike tapped his new mana source and slapped down a Lightning Bolt. He smiled. "Three points of damage, Bill."
Gelinas grimaced. "Sure. Fine. Whatever."
Mike smiled again, having elicited the desired response. "Lot more where that came from."
It was Aaron's turn now, and he drew a card as someone walked into the campsite.
The three looked over to see Matt Atanian come down the path. They all shouted greeting at their friend, whom they had not seen since last night.
"Hi, Matt!"
Matt's only answer was to meander into camp in a daze.
At last he noticed the others and said airily, "Oh. Ah, hi guys."
"Hey, Matt," said Mike. "What's up?"
Matt thought the question over. "Oh, I was just thinking."
Mike eyed him suspiciously. "All night?"
Matt looked around again, noticing the daylight. "Guess so."
"About what?"
Matt smiled and stared into space. "The Girl Scout leader."
And he floated away over the next ridge.
Mike, Aaron and Bill Gelinas were beginning to wonder what was so special about that ridge that everyone had to go over it for, but left it at that and continued with their card game.
And the last day at camp goes on . . .
When the adults returned to the campsite around four o' clock, Mr. McGraw, Scoutmaster-for-the-week and all around bitter old man, whipped his 'signs-up' and fell the troop in for an important announcement.
"All right, you little pukes!" hollered McGraw. "We have been instructed to come up with a skit and or song for tonight's camp wide closing campfire! Troop 192 will participate, and we will have fun, you hear me? Fun, dammit!" Jack McGraw was a military man, and had been in Vietnam, as he never let anyone forget.
After some discussion, it was decided that the troop would perform the 192 original, 'Clappy Song,' and the classic skit, 'Musical Chairs.'
There was an hour and a half yet until dinner, and everyone went their separate ways again.
Bill Hughes deposited his three quarters into the Coca-Cola vending machine, which rested on the porch of Camp Moses' Trading Post. The coins rattled around inside the machine and Hughes punched the button for a root beer. The machine made some buzzing noises, supposedly locating the proper beverage.
From behind him, Mike remarked, "I heard they might've finally fixed this thing."
There was a clang of metal on metal, and a can of Kiwi/Mocha Fruit Juice fell out of the slot.
"Or not," Mike said.
Hughes sighed.
"Hey, did you finish Insect Study?" asked Mike.
"Took me three years," Bill responded, lifting the tab on the can of juice, "But I finally did it." The tab came off with his finger, and he stared at it.
Mike almost smiled, but it was too hot. The temperature had jumped a full thirty degrees in the past two hours, making it one of the more unbearable last days of camp Mike had experienced in a while. And, of course, the mosquitoes were out living it up.
With a determined look on his face, Hughes took out his pocketknife and jabbed at the can, promptly snapping the blade clean off.
"This is one tough can," said Hughes.
"Hey, guys!"
Both Mike and Hughes turned to look as Jon Becker trudged up the hill towards the building. He was a good twelve yards away, but they could still hear his headphones. He never took them off.
Ever.
How many batteries did he bring with him? "Hey, Becker, want a soda?" called Mike, taking the can from Hughes.
"Sure!"
Mike tossed it over, and the other caught it like a wet beach ball. Becker examined it for a minute with a careful bespectacled eye. "Hey," he said. "What's wrong with it?"
"Uh, it came that way."
"Oh," answered Becker. "Well, I'll see ya." He trotted past the Trading Post into the road to the tune of 'Norwegian Carpentry Folk Songs' and out of view, prying at the can with his fingernails the whole way.
The two scouts exchanged a glance, and then sat down on the wooden bench.
"I just lost seventy-five cents," muttered Hughes.
"Yes," said Mike, "but you got rid of Becker."
"Point," conceded Hughes.
Just as the calm of an evening coming to a close was settling over the field, a voice shouted from inside the Trading Post, "Are you two gonna buy anything, because I'm closing up soon for dinner and you've been sitting there for like a half hour and if you don't buy anything now, I'll kick your ass!"
As anyone could see, the kid who ran the store was a cunning salesman.
His name was Roy, and he was an irritable bastard.
"I can't argue with that, Roy," said Mike, stepping through the entrance. Half-empty racks of merit badge books and shirts and things lined the wall by the door. The store's merchandise was greatly depleted at the end of the week; in fact the only thing there seemed to be a surplus of was navy blue Official Boy Scout Toothbrush Cases.
"Buy a toothbrush case," snarled Roy as Mike walked up to the counter.
Mike smiled. "Actually, I'm in more of a Slim Jim mood today."
Roy slowly glanced over at the snack shelf. There were three Slim Jims, a hot ball and some Tic-Tacs left.
"They're forty five cents each," he said.
"Give me two."
Roy grimaced. "Why don't you buy all three?"
"I only want two," answered Mike.
The Slim Jims flew through the air and hit Mike square in the forehead.
Roy rang it up on the cash register. "That'll be ninety cents," he spat, holding out a hand.
In it, Mike placed a nice, crisp twenty dollar bill. He smiled.
"You don't by any chance have anything smaller?"
"Seriously, Roy, it's the only money I've got," said Mike.
Nineteen dollars, ten cents flew through the air and hit Mike square in the forehead.
"Thank you, come again."
"What was that about?" asked Bill Hughes as they walked down the hill, back towards the campsites.
Mike shrugged. "Roy's got a permanent wedgie or something."
Hughes smiled. Mike had a way with words. "I think I liked Matt in the trading post better."
"Yeah."
They trudged on through the muck, their sneakers grinding rotten apples into the mud as they approached the orchard. The sun began its long journey westward across the sky.
Mike took his recently purchased Slim Jims out of his coat and moved them to his pants pocket. When he drew out his hand, he grinned broadly. "Hey, Hughes."
"What?"
Mike opened his hand. "Ninety cents."
The Knox Dining Hall was the heart of the camp. Everything from meetings to retreats to movie nights took place there from time to time, not to mention all the eating that went on. Set down in a grassy clearing by the side of the road, towered over by the forest behind it, the dining hall was a building with character. And today, as the sun sank behind the hills and evening drew ever nearer, crowds of scouts and scouters began forming by the building's three oak planked entrances, waiting for dinner to begin.
The minute hand clicked into place, and bracing themselves, the kitchen staff flung the double doors wide as hundreds of tan and puke green shirted campers stormed into the dining hall. Timidly, they reminded a few of them to kindly remove their hats upon entering.
Troop 192 found their two tables, as did everyone else, and after a short bowing of heads for grace, seats were taken and conversation resumed.
Mike Quadrozzi placed his red baseball cap on the bench next to him and glanced at it forlornly. His head felt naked.
He looked around at the seven others at the table with him. All but one of them was a member of Troop 192. He was their guest tonight, and as the lights overhead flickered off and on, a signal for the waiters to step up and get the food, he spoke.
"So guys," began Mr. Mark Abert, an adult from Troop 180 and the camp archery instructor, "Will you be attending the campfire?" He paused suddenly.
"What's wrong?"
Abert shrugged. "Just thought I heard someone cackle. Oh well."
Mike resumed the conversation. "Troop 192 will be there."
"Good. The campfires are always fun."
Just then, Aaron returned with his tray, burdened with a pitcher of water and a large bowl of sauerkraut. He placed them on the table and went back for the rest.
Mr. Abert cheerfully pored himself a glass of water. This was actually how he went about most things. Cheerfully. On the rare occasions he became angered, he seemed strangely goofy, which is why most everybody liked him and also why he'd been hired to replace the last archery instructor, whom nobody had liked at all.
"Played any Magic lately?" he asked in that funny yet oddly serious way as he filled his glass.
Now, this wasn't an odd question coming from Mr. Abert, for he was on of the very few adults in the council who actually played the game and didn't want it banned, shredded and torched as sort of sin against humanity. Still, at least three of the scouts present were aware of the bizarre consequences their last major game overseas had had. Mike nearly choked on his water. Hughes stiffened in mid-chew of a lump of sauerkraut.
Clearly, Bill Gelinas didn't notice the tension.
"Well," he said. "There was that big Magic game we played with Matt in Chi--" And then he tumbled off the bench as Hughes elbowed him under the table.
"In Chicopee!" hollered Hughes, grinning madly. "Yup, big game in Chicopee last week. Ha ha. Oh look! It appears that Billy dropped his fork!"
"Huh," remarked Abert. "Well, he should get a new one. There's nothing worse than a dirty fork."
"Or a dirty knife," said Mike, who had decided to ignore the others.
"Oh, yes," agreed Mr. Mark Abert.
Aaron returned again with a steaming bowl of a beefy stew substance, heaped with hearty bits of things. He sat down on the bench next to their guest and let out a sigh. The meal had obviously been awkward to carry.
"You're definitely serving yourselves this time," he said.
After Billy climbed back onto the bench, those at the table turned their attention to the food, joining everyone else in the room. Their attention would not be divided between the food and anything else for at least a good fifteen minutes or until something really interesting happened.
As luck would have it, the large double doors at the main entrance swung open and in walked last year's Dining Hall Steward and one of this year's Camping Commissioners, Norm.
A thunderous cheer erupted on all sides as hundreds of diners yelled, "Norm!" at the tall, dark-haired, sunglasses-wearing man.
Acting on the spur of the moment, this year's steward, a dark-skinned young man called Dave, leaped out of the kitchen and took an exaggerated bow to the tune of thunderous booing.
Good-naturedly, Dave went back into the kitchen, leaving Norm to his adoring fans. Roses were thrown, thunderous cheering resumed.
No one liked you if you were steward.
Everyone liked you if you had been steward.
Back out leapt Dave, and the cheering halted. Everybody booed. Luckily, someone had thought to bring rotten produce, and Dave was chased out of the dining hall by a trio of ornery Secondclassmen.
Norm had business to attend to in the kitchen, and as the clapping died down, people went back to their plates.
All of this, of course, happened at every meal.
Dinner was going well; Hughes asked for the sauerkraut. Mr. Abert obliged. Some chewing went on, and then, from the next table over, a voice said, "What the hell's with this can?"
They all turned to see Derek Provost, Troop 180's resident good-natured pervert, stabbing savagely at a can of Kiwi/Mocha Fruit Juice with his butter knife. He was getting nowhere. "Aw, the heck with it!" he said, and as they watched, Provost attempted to gnaw at the soda can's impenetrable top.
And then, after they rushed Derek to the nurse, his mouth bleeding profusely, conversation resumed and dinner continued.
The beefy stew substance turned out to be surprisingly good, given enough salt, and as scouts and scouters alike were finishing up, stacking gravy smeared plates in piles on their trays and gratefully handing them to the waiters, signs were called by an elderly gentleman in the centre of the hall.
He cleared his throat, encouraging the conversation to die down. After silence had been reached, he stood for a moment more just to show that he could, using his walking stick not so much for balance as for a symbol of authority. He did this a lot, and was entitled to. He was probably the oldest guy in the council, and there are those that remark, only half-jokingly, that he knew Baden-Powell personally.
"Good evening," Harris Tanner said. His voice was somewhere between lilting and gravely. "All in all, I'd say this has been a pretty good week of summer camp, and in a little while, we're going to top it off with our traditional closing campfire." He paused suddenly, cocked an eyebrow. "Did anyone just hear a cackle?" he asked.
Tanner shrugged. "Anyway, you've got a little bit of time before then, so we'll let you off the hook early tonight. Get back to your campsites and practice your skits. Everyone's dismissed!"
Those crowds that hurried to get in now hurried to get out, nearly bowling the old man over. Hats were put back on and benches were moved aside as the satisfied masses left the building.
The Dining Hall was empty, save for a few members of the kitchen staff. There was little noise beyond the resonant hum of the large wall fans near the ceiling as they blew out the hot summer air. And then abruptly, the double doors opened and Matt Atanian floated in. He looked around slowly, his gaze foggy after so much staring into space.
"Aw, no," he said. "I missed it again, didn't I?"
The tent flap was thrown open, and Mike Quadrozzi stuck his head inside.
"We're all set with the skit," he said. "Think you can remember your line?"
Aaron put down the copy of Chariots of the Gods? he'd been reading and screwed up his forehead in mock concentration. "Um... oh! Ahem. 'Three days later.'"
Mike smiled. "Could use some work. Try it with feeling!"
Aaron got up off his bunk. "Are we off?"
"We're off."
The two them walked up the hill to join the rest of Troop 192, flashlights in hand.
The Moses Closing Campfire was about to begin.
The troops began to settle down, although a few of the ruder morons continued to shine their flashlights aimlessly around the amphitheatre. The crowds coming in were tapering off. Everything was almost set. And Dan Wellington stood between the two enormous fire lays constructed 'on stage.' He wore a huge grin as he silently considered the large burlap sack at his feet.
He had found it when he had been getting some Scoutcraft supplies out of the commissary the week before camp opened. The object within the bag had been heavily weathered and rusted, and Dan had had no idea how such a marvellous device would have come to rest here at Moses. It seemed like fate, like God himself had seen fit to give him a new toy, and Dan had secretly brought it to Cabin III where, over the summer, he had spent a good deal of his free time restoring the object within the bag to its former glory. He had finished just two days ago and had tested it yesterday. It had worked beautifully, like he knew it would.
Wellington put his sings up and waited a moment for the audience to get as quiet as it would get.
"Good evening!" he then shouted, "and welcome to the Horace A. Moses 1997 Summer Camp Week 3 Closing Campfire!"
As the crowd somewhat enthusiastically cheered, Dan turned his back to them and stooped down to get his prize out of the burlap sack. When he turned back to face the audience, he was holding a quite old yet (thanks to Dan's efforts) quite functional World War II vintage flamethrower. The pilot flame shone on Dan's face, making him look seriously demonic.
As he held it facing the audience, the crowd was rightly so slightly nervous. But then Dan turned to the left fire lay and blasted it with an inferno of pure flame. All the while, he was laughing like a mad man, the sweat pouring off his joy-filled face.
Dan turned to the right fire lay and blasted it as he had the first. It was instantly consumed in a ball of liquid fire. Turning back to the crowd, he aimed the flamethrower straight over his head and shot a pillar of flame into the sky as he laughed triumphantly.
The audience began booing.
Dan released the flamethrower's trigger and looked at the crowd, confused. It then dawned on him that it was still awfully dark in the amphitheatre when there ought to be two huge bonfires going.
Dan slowly looked to his left, and a startled look came upon his face. Slowly, he looked to his right, and was startled once more.
He turned to the audience. "Um, sorry," he said.
The two huge fire lays had been instantly reduced to piles of ash. Dan began to think that maybe he shouldn't have soaked the wood in jet fuel.
A half hour later, after the fire lays had been rebuilt with perfectly ordinary wood and then been lit with a perfectly ordinary match while the kitchen crew held Dan back to prevent him from "helping" in any way, the campfire finally got started.
"—AND IT DID!!" hollered Bill Hughes as he chased Mike off the stage in the closing scene of their skit. The crowd laughed and clapped warmly. A curly-haired man with a guitar was next to perform.
The fire lays were down to embers. The amphitheatre had become dark once more, and the old closing song came to its final verse:
". . . everything to Be Prepared," the crowd sang in unison. It was now silent. No one shone their flashlights, not even the ruder morons. Slowly, each troop rose from their seats and left the clearing.
The week had officially come to an end.
Later that night, back in Crown Point, the five of them sat at the site's tarp-covered kitchen area: Mike, Aaron, Hughes, Bill Gelinas and Matt Atanian, whom they had finally caught up with on the way back from the closing campfire.
The only light came from the one lantern still on by the picnic table. Everyone else had gone to sleep. There was no moon, just an overcast summer sky.
"Good job, everyone," Mike said. "We seem to have escaped disaster today."
"Forgive us if we're not cheering," yawned Hughes.
The crickets sang a few bars.
"I suppose it's time to hit the sack," said Matt.
They all agreed.
And on cue, it began seriously to pour.
All five of them exchanged glances, realizing they probably weren't going anywhere for a while.
"Anyone have an umbrella?"
"No."
Hughes smiled. "Who's up for a game of Magic?"
FIN.
Disclaimer:
Certain aspects of this series are inspired by Takahashi Rumiko's Ranma ½.
Most characters are based on real people. Horace A. Moses Scout Reservation is based on an actual location.
This story was written without the consent of the Boy Scouts of America, and if they knew of its existence, they'd drop an atomic bomb on the Church in the Acres on Troop 192's meeting night.
P.S. The authors have nothing against Derek "the Leprechaun" Provost, nor do they want to see him harmed in any way, especially by a can of Kiwi/Mocha Fruit Juice. But hey, it was a funny bit.
Most characters are based on real people. Horace A. Moses Scout Reservation is based on an actual location.
This story was written without the consent of the Boy Scouts of America, and if they knew of its existence, they'd drop an atomic bomb on the Church in the Acres on Troop 192's meeting night.
P.S. The authors have nothing against Derek "the Leprechaun" Provost, nor do they want to see him harmed in any way, especially by a can of Kiwi/Mocha Fruit Juice. But hey, it was a funny bit.
Notes from Matt:
Greetings and salutations! Or, as I say in Scouts, "Hi, Everybody!"
I had always intended Boy Scouts ½ to be an ensemble series, but I noticed after writing the first four that the series was focusing too heavily on the character based on myself. Thus, I requested of Mike Quadrozzi that he should write part 5, and after ten decades of waiting, he has finely delivered it to me. I couldn't be happier with the results. Part 6 is coming up soon, which is based on a story line I wrote, but is actually written by that Aaron chap and features some very funny bits, none of which involve sheep in any way.
Derek Provost is mentioned as a pervert. A good-natured one, but a pervert non the less. Just to clear up any misconseptions friends of his may have (and I think I may consider myself amongst his friends), this is a bit of an exageration that all started one time we were watching Macross II, and when one of the female characters stopped quickly and turned, he begged for a rewing and slow-motion, so that he might better watch the "jiggle."
Further note: Mike has just informed me that he made a mistake in the title of this story. Aparently, is should have been El Oscaso Sobre Un Más Verano instead of El Oscaso Encimo De Un Más Verano. Unfortunately for Mike, as this story has been online for some months now, it's far too late to go mucking about with the title, and he shall have to live with his heinous error until the day he dies.
I had always intended Boy Scouts ½ to be an ensemble series, but I noticed after writing the first four that the series was focusing too heavily on the character based on myself. Thus, I requested of Mike Quadrozzi that he should write part 5, and after ten decades of waiting, he has finely delivered it to me. I couldn't be happier with the results. Part 6 is coming up soon, which is based on a story line I wrote, but is actually written by that Aaron chap and features some very funny bits, none of which involve sheep in any way.
Derek Provost is mentioned as a pervert. A good-natured one, but a pervert non the less. Just to clear up any misconseptions friends of his may have (and I think I may consider myself amongst his friends), this is a bit of an exageration that all started one time we were watching Macross II, and when one of the female characters stopped quickly and turned, he begged for a rewing and slow-motion, so that he might better watch the "jiggle."
Further note: Mike has just informed me that he made a mistake in the title of this story. Aparently, is should have been El Oscaso Sobre Un Más Verano instead of El Oscaso Encimo De Un Más Verano. Unfortunately for Mike, as this story has been online for some months now, it's far too late to go mucking about with the title, and he shall have to live with his heinous error until the day he dies.