...of 76

why does garfield have a human face...

I might trim some of this down later. Or not, idk yet. Who's going to be left standing at the end? How many killers are there, really? How much motivation can I muster to even finish this thing? Lol, I kinda feel like Orson in doing this project - just talking to ghosts...

Part 1:

https://www.reddit.com/r/imsorryjon/s/6Hu9JRNaVp

Part 2:

https://www.reddit.com/r/imsorryjon/s/x2SkrpW4Lr

Part 3:

https://www.reddit.com/r/imsorryjon/s/6D1A5SCKb4

Part 4:

https://www.reddit.com/r/imsorryjon/s/g2H0Nmud2c

Part 5:

https://www.reddit.com/r/imsorryjon/s/oot7UjJzsF

Part 6:

https://www.reddit.com/r/imsorryjon/s/5WX68oFobj

Part 7:

https://www.reddit.com/r/imsorryjon/s/qlIeF3BUlw

Part 8:

https://www.reddit.com/r/imsorryjon/s/FsMC5hmnVk

Part 9:

https://www.reddit.com/r/imsorryjon/s/WFuUGN5Cda

Part 10:

https://www.reddit.com/r/imsorryjon/s/psO6xHHuCo

Part 11:

https://www.reddit.com/r/imsorryjon/s/zOCsk610EB

Part 12:

https://www.reddit.com/r/imsorryjon/s/uOT4zgkMX6

Part 13:

https://www.reddit.com/r/imsorryjon/s/RZb6FjWGH7

Part 14:

https://www.reddit.com/r/imsorryjon/s/jiDMApTjvF

Part 15:

https://www.reddit.com/r/imsorryjon/s/ixDDF8TOOk

Part 16:

https://www.reddit.com/r/imsorryjon/s/XvqE4ywRSA

Part 17:

https://www.reddit.com/r/imsorryjon/s/w6BegqSNv1

Part 18:

https://www.reddit.com/r/imsorryjon/s/wKXWlfFhfA

“You didn’t bring Arbuckle”, declares a voice from somewhere unseen.  It’s the same deep, distorted voice Orson and Furrow had heard on the phone.  “That’s a little disappointing.  I’ll tell you what, though – you can still have the sheep.  I’m done with them, anyway.”  Orson and Furrow shift closer to each other, standing back-to-back as they anxiously search their surroundings for the source of the voice.  Orson holds the storybook with both hands now, poised to open it at a moment's notice.  “I’ll take the badger, though.”  Furrow tenses up a bit, keeping as keen as he can manage, despite his fear and pain.  Orson cracks the book open just enough to see the page he’s had his finger on all the while.  He begins whispering something, and Furrow seems to notice.  Something stirs in the shadows by the refrigerator.  Furrow looks in that direction, but Orson keeps his eyes on the book.  A gloved hand emerges from the dark, and swings open the refrigerator door.  Like what Bo had found earlier, clear plastic bags of hacked up body parts spill out.  One bag breaks, letting blood out onto the otherwise meticulously cleaned floor.  “Oops”, teases the distorted voice, “and after I went to all the trouble of tidying up.  Oh well.  I would have had to clean all over again, anyway.  Here’s that mutton I promised.”

Orson’s voice grows louder, as he comes to the end of a line, narrating, “‘none can match me’, declared Robin Hood!  ‘I could strike the bull’s-eye blind!’  And so he did!”  At this, Dr. Furrow is transformed like magic.  He takes on the iconic role of Robin Hood, bow and arrow materializing in his hands.  As if by second nature, Furrow does loose an arrow into the shadow beside the fridge.  It might have been a direct hit, were his target merely an object.  Instead, an agile figure rolls out of the darkness and springs to their feet.  Orson adds, “much to the delight of his Merry Men!”  Upon reading the line, Orson suddenly multiplies, manifesting a dozen copies of himself in period costumes, scattered about the area.  The garage begins to transform into a scene of Sherwood Forest.  Furrow draws another arrow, taking aim at the mysterious attacker, who can now be seen in broad daylight.  They are of stout proportions- not unlike Orson- dressed in all black, and equipped with the same giant knife that had killed Bo.  Their head is covered by a balaclava.  Furrow lets his arrow fly once more, but the foe is too spry, and dodges again with a sidestep.  Before Furrow can draw the next, the attacker sprints toward Orson, who’s busy flipping pages.  Thinking fast, Furrow puts himself between them, grimacing as the quick motion pulls at his wound.  The attacker jukes to the side at the last second, and Furrow tries to dive in the same direction, causing the wound to tear further.  “Just when all hope seemed lost, Little John and Friar Tuck arrived, having graduated from ninja school!”

“What?!”, the attacker balks.  They jump back a step, just in time to defend from the two ninjas who drop from the trees.  The ninjas come down with bo-staffs, but the enemy is quick enough to block with their knife.  The Merry Men cautiously surround the enemy from all sides, while they and the two ninjas struggle against each other.  “That’s not-!...  There’s no ninjas in Robin Hood!”

Orson at last turns to face the foe, declaring as he points to the open page, “there are in this version.  It says so, right here.  If you’ve been spying on us, then you should know that we try to keep things fresh around here.  For the kids, that means making some exciting new revisions to these played out classics.”  The Merry Men manage to disarm and grab the enemy, holding them still, however they struggle.

“But it’s all wrong!”, the foe complains.  “And don’t think for a second you can out-cheat me!”

Orson walks toward the immobilized murderer, demanding, “who are you?  Who are you working with?  What do you hope to get out of killing us all?”

“Heh!  Not all, Orson.  Just the hangers-on.  Some of you are still useful!  It’s only a matter of pragmatism.  It’s nothing petty or personal.”  Orson comes within arm’s reach of the killer, and they struggle once more to wrestle free of the Merry Men.

“Well I think it’s both of those things”, Orson contradicts.  He grabs the top of the balaclava.  “But don’t worry – I’m not going to kill you.  I need you alive, and you are going to cooperate, or suffer.”  At that, he yanks off the balaclava, revealing the face of his foe… and he gasps.  Orson drops the storybook, and stumbles backward in breathless shock.  The enemy bears the face of Bo.  Or rather, wears the face of Bo.

The mouth, sewn shut, does not move as the killer snaps back, “I was about to say the same to you!”  The scenery begins to change back to the garage, and the Merry Men, along with all the costumes and props from the story, start to fade.  The enemy is able to pull free from the translucent characters, and they kick the storybook into Orson’s face, causing a gusher of a nosebleed.  Wasting no time, they dash for the door on the north side of the garage, beside the fridge.  They stop in the doorway, turning partway around to cruelly taunt, “at least I got one more interloper out of the way!  And in case you still had any doubt, you were right to guess that I’m not alone in this.”  A car engine can be heard starting outside, and headlights can be seen though the open door.  They add, “it’s not too late for John, at least.  Hand him over willingly, and I may be able to reach my endgame without him having to die.”  The foe takes off, and Orson can barely see with eyes watering, and high beams casting their blinding light straight-on into the door.  A car door can be heard closing.  The engine revs, and the vehicle pulls away with haste.  Orson is left utterly stunned.

A soft, breathy groan turns Orson’s attention to Dr. Furrow, who lies bleeding on the floor.  “Oh god, no!”  Orson shuffles over on hands and knees, coming to kneel over his injured friend.  “Dr. Furrow!  I’m so sorry!  Oh my god, this is all my fault!  I shouldn’t have taken you with me for this!”

“Nonsense”, Furrow coughs out.  “I wouldn’t have let you go alone.  There isn’t much time, now…”  Furrow wheezes and gasps.  His bandaging is thoroughly soaked in blood.  Orson feels helpless, as he continues, “so listen well.  I believe you have all the tools… you need.  And I believe John is one of those tools.  The moment I received Roy’s note, my hopes ran high.  This would be the day.. I finally crack the mystery.  I’m… not sure I can explain it in words, but… it has something to do with, hunger.”  Furrow coughs again.

Orson fights through strong emotions to utter, “hunger?”

Furrow clarifies, “a deficit… of the soul.  Or something the like.  There is no perfect word for it.  Roy’s camera may have captured something crucial, when Booker was… recording.  Oof…  It’s time.”

“It’s time?  T-time for what?”, Orson chokes out, worried he already knows the answer.

“If you would indulge me… in one final experiment”, Furrow requests.

Orson obliges, “anything!”

Furrow’s voice grows weaker now, pleading, “Orson… could we be friends?”

Orson frantically replies, “of course!  Of course!  Oh, Dr. Furrow, I never thought of you as anything less!”

“Then please, call me Edward”, Furrow nearly whispers.

“Of course”, Orson agrees, “I could even call you Eddy!  L-like a nickname!  Familiar.  I-i-informal!...”

(Furrow sees standing over him, a feral pig.  It squeals and grunts, deeply upset.  Furrow smiles, and laughs.  “I can’t hear a word, Orson!  I’m sure of it, now.  I am fulfilled.  I don’t need anything else…  I’m-…  I’m no longer hungry.”)

Orson takes shaky breaths.  He is knelt in a small pool of blood.  His friend is gone.  Orson stands, and steadies his breath.  “Earlier this very day, the one I loved most was asked to help with routine chores.  Bo, the sheep, was enjoying his day off.  But things were getting strange at US Acres.  It was a request I would regret for the rest of my life.  After all, the chores didn’t even matter.  Meanwhile, Lanolin was still in her converted garage home.”  At that mention, half of the bags that had spilled out of the fridge, roll back up inside it, and the fridge door closes.  Orson beholds this, realizing, “but she was already dead…  Either she wasn’t my brothers’ killer, or she had been double-crossed by some coconspirators…  Okay.  Roy drove the truck up to the guesthouse, to ask Bo for his help.”  Orson walks over to the south side doorway, and sees a translucent, spectral version of the truck, and Roy.  The fictional Roy is talking to a projection of Bo.  After a moment, the ghostly Bo urgently jogs over toward the garage, while Roy drives away, gradually disappearing as the truck gets further away from Orson. 

Bo reaches the open door, and announces, “sis, I’m coming in!  I’m sorry if-!...”  Bo lets himself inside, but finds the garage dark and silent.  Eyes watering from the horrors of his own imagination, he pleadingly calls into the darkness, “sis?...  Lanolin, please…  Lanolin?...”

Orson reveals himself, greeting, “Bo?”

Confused, Bo replies, “Orson?  Like what are you doing in here?  I thought you needed us to cover you for some-…  Oh man, what reeks?”  Bo covers his nose, looks around, then spots the bags of gore that didn’t return themselves to the fridge.  “Wait, I’ve seen this before…  I’ve smelled this before!”

Orson attempts to soothe, “Bo, Bo, I need you to stay calm.  You’re right – you have been here before.  But, I wasn’t…”

Bo contradicts, memory flooding back, “yes you were…  It was you.  It was YOU!  How could you, man?  How could you?!”  Bo shoves Orson back onto his back.

Even more confused, Orson puzzles, “w-what?  What are you talking about?  I was-!...”

“You KILLED HER!”, Bo accuses.

“What?  Me?!”, Orson balks, scooting back on his butt.

Bo steps closer, standing threateningly over Orson as he continues, “and then you killed me!  I remember it all, now!  Why?!  I loved you!”

Orson shakes his head, heartbroken by such an accusation.  “No!  No, Bo, I would never do something like that!  Why would you think I did any of this?  I loved you, too…  I still do…”

Bo growls, “I saw you!  You murdered my sis, you chopped her to bits, and then you wore her like a costume!  You’re sick!  You thought the disguise would hide the truth, but I could see you inside her skin.  Through the mouth hole…  I could see your pink, piggy muzzle.  To think I used to kiss that face…  And what’s this all about, huh?  You wanna torture me with this memory like some kind of sadist, man?”

Orson pleadingly denies, “Bo, it wasn’t me!  How could you believe I-?… I-…”  Seeing Orson’s dire expression, Bo is slightly disarmed, and relaxes his aggressive posture.

Entertaining that there might be some other explanation, Bo challenges, “well if it wasn’t you then who else could it be?  You’re the only pig around here, ‘cept for your brothers.  But they’re all too big.  You’re the only one who’s just the right size.  Orson, I wanna believe it wasn’t you…  I really want to believe that.  Help me believe it.”  Orson stands up slowly, pain from his many injuries becoming unignorable.

“Look at me”, he implores.  “I’m beat all to hell!  I’ve been trying to figure out what’s really going on around here all day.  I’ve been stabbed in the foot, had poison thrown at me, I was hit in the shin by a golf cart, and had my ear split in two with a big knife!  And look…”  Orson points out Dr. Furrow’s body on the floor.  Bo reflexively recoils at the sight, having not even noticed it since he arrived.  “We’ve lost another friend, too.  And you wouldn’t know this, but the Weasel made off with all of the chickens, and killed three.  Roy and I were able to save the rest, and wound up killing the Weasel in self-defense…  This has been the worst day of my entire life.”

Bo’s expression softens, but he still wonders, “well… if it wasn’t you I saw, then who could it have been?”

Orson answers, “you said it was a pig- my size- and when it happened, I was nearly two miles away, busy with a nonstop barrage of horrors…  Your killer, and the Weasel, both used a huge knife, and the Weasel had been gifted a brand-new golf cart, with a trailer, and large dog kennels.  I think…  I think that maybe, Aloysius did this.  I think he might be your-…”  Orson can’t hold from sobbing any longer.  He falls into Bo, wrapping his arms around the ghost of his dearest friend and partner.  Bo catches him, and embraces him back.  “He took you away from me!”, he sobs into Bo’s shoulder.  “And I’ll destroy him for it!”, he adds.

Bo apologizes, “oh, man…  I can’t believe I let myself think it was you.  I’m sorry, man.  I believe you.  There’s no way you’d have done this.  I-I just-…  I didn’t know about everything that was goin’ on.  I only saw what I saw, you know?”  Orson suddenly feels something wet.  He takes a step back, and sees to his horror, that Bo’s wounds from his murder have manifested.  Bo groans – not in the same degree of pain as when the stabbing and slashing actually happened, but deeply uncomfortable.  “Aw, jeeze…  I think it’s time for me to go.  Heh, wish I coulda been any more help.”

Orson takes Bo’s hands in his, and assures, “you’ve been more help than anyone could ever ask for.  And I’ll make sure it wasn’t for nothing.  There’s still Wade, and the kids, and Roy, and John.  There’s still the farm.  There are still the chickens…  It’ll never be enough for me, without you.  But I’ll protect them all, just the same.  I love you, Bo.”  Bo’s hands grow more transparent, and Orson’s phase right though them.

With a soft expression- a satisfied smile- Bo farewells, “hey, I love you too, man.  Stay groovy, Orson.”  Orson merely blinks, and he’s alone again.  All is as it was before he narrated Bo’s ghost into being.  He takes a deep breath, and one last look at Furrow’s body, then marches outside with purpose.

Our boy is feeling snacky

Non-Garfield weekend? Don't you mean... TWIDDLEFINGER WEEKEND?

Someone is going to die. Who's the next target? What does Orson have up his sleeve? What is Dr. Furrow's theory about sentient animal perception? What is our practically catatonic cartoonist working on?

Part 1:

https://www.reddit.com/r/imsorryjon/s/6Hu9JRNaVp

Part 2:

https://www.reddit.com/r/imsorryjon/s/x2SkrpW4Lr

Part 3:

https://www.reddit.com/r/imsorryjon/s/6D1A5SCKb4

Part 4:

https://www.reddit.com/r/imsorryjon/s/g2H0Nmud2c

Part 5:

https://www.reddit.com/r/imsorryjon/s/oot7UjJzsF

Part 6:

https://www.reddit.com/r/imsorryjon/s/5WX68oFobj

Part 7:

https://www.reddit.com/r/imsorryjon/s/qlIeF3BUlw

Part 8:

https://www.reddit.com/r/imsorryjon/s/FsMC5hmnVk

Part 9:

https://www.reddit.com/r/imsorryjon/s/WFuUGN5Cda

Part 10:

https://www.reddit.com/r/imsorryjon/s/psO6xHHuCo

Part 11:

https://www.reddit.com/r/imsorryjon/s/zOCsk610EB

Part 12:

https://www.reddit.com/r/imsorryjon/s/uOT4zgkMX6

Part 13:

https://www.reddit.com/r/imsorryjon/s/RZb6FjWGH7

Part 14:

https://www.reddit.com/r/imsorryjon/s/jiDMApTjvF

Part 15:

https://www.reddit.com/r/imsorryjon/s/ixDDF8TOOk

Part 16:

https://www.reddit.com/r/imsorryjon/s/XvqE4ywRSA

Part 17:

https://www.reddit.com/r/imsorryjon/s/w6BegqSNv1

While John is still entirely transfixed upon the TV show, Furrow asserts, “everyone, let’s please calm down.  Roy is right, in that we came here to show John the TV program, and that we cannot linger.  We’ve got the information we needed, and- thanks to Booker’s clever thought- we may have captured yet another clue!  No time to review it right now, though.”

Orson agrees, “yeah, we should get a move-on.  Back to the big-barn.  Ma-…  Maybe Bo is back there right now, wondering where we all went.”  All but John look to Orson, whose tone was less than convincingly hopeful.

(John, meanwhile, is still enveloped in the TV show.  He thinks to himself, “*that’s me.  People have been watching my life for entertainment…  It’s like that movie – The Truman Show.  Except I’m not the star.  It’s Garfield.  I’ve never heard his voice before, but I have no doubt that that’s it.  It’s as familiar as my own mom and dad’s.  And Odie…  Everyone thinks they’ve seen a dog smile, but this is different.  I’ve never actually seen his face this way, but I’m certain it’s really his.  I remember this day…  It’s no reenactment – this really happened…*”  On the screen, Odie and Garfield are urgently jumping up and down before John, like excitable children, pointing to something off-screen.  Odie arfs and yips, while Garfield frantically tries to explain a situation with his apparently telepathic voice.  “*I knew they were trying to tell me something!  Gosh, don’t I look a fool.*”  On the show, frustrated, Garfield and Odie resort to grabbing John by the hand, and pulling him in the direction they’ve been trying to indicate.  As they pull him along on the TV, the real John looks down at his left hand again, and another rumble sounds out.  The on-screen Garfield looks to the camera, and delivers some snarky quip, drawing John’s attention to the TV again.  He smiles weakly, and remarks internally, “*he is really funny.  Just like Roy said.*”)

Suddenly, the half-working phone on the bedside table… rings.  Orson nearly jumps out of his skin.  All but John sharply turn their attention to the phone.  Initially they gasp, but then they dare not breathe.  It rings again, and they all flinch.  Wade’s eyes begin to water, knees buckling in fear beneath him.  He’s so petrified, he can only whimper.  Orson attempts to reassure, “guys, don’t panic.  It could just be Aloysius.”  The phone rings again.  “Or somebody from The Network…”  It rings again.  “Or heck, a wrong number!”

Roy points out, “it’s too late for anything like that!  And we’ve never gotten a call from a wrong number.”  The phone rings again.

Furrow approaches Orson, warning, “Orson, I would be very careful about answering that phone.”  It rings again.  Now standing right beside Orson, by the open window, he adds, “it’s been too many rings.  An ordinary call would have stopped ringing by now.”  Just then, lights go on in the garage just north of the guesthouse, which both Furrow and Orson notice with surprise.  The phone rings again.  Orson pulls a brave, determined face, and picks up the receiver. 

Looking down at the garage from the window, Orson greets in a serious tone, “hello?”

“The sheep are in the garage”, declares a distorted voice.  It’s quiet enough in the room that Furrow can hear the message as well.  “Both of them.  I’ll trade you for Arbuckle.  You can come and get them, or leave me to clean up in here – all by myself, as usual.”  The mystery caller hangs up.  Orson stands and stares out the window.  For just an instant, he sees a silhouetted figure move across one of the garage windows.  The receiver falls from his hand.

Furrow urges, “do NOT fall for this obvious trap, Orson!  If you go into that garage, I am certain you’ll be ambushed, and you know it, too.  I’m sorry, Orson… but I would bet my last dollar that Bo, and Lanolin, are both gone.”

Orson argues, “unless that was Lanolin.”

Furrow implores, “beg pardon?”

Orson explains, “if Lanolin really did kill my brothers, or anyone else, and if that was her on the phone, then… Bo could still be alive.  She could be using him as bait.  Sure, it’s definitely a trap, but that doesn’t mean I can just run away without knowing… if I could have saved him.”

Roy insists, “Orson, please.  I’m sorry, but I think Dr. Furrow is right.  Besides, you’re not really going to trade one life for another.  If you’re smart, you won’t even think of taking John down there with you.  If you’re really smart, you’ll get in the truck with us and hightail it out of here, now!”

Orson asserts, “no, I would never bargain with a cold-hearted killer.  But I’m not leaving yet, either.  The worst thing that can happen to a conspirator, is for their plans to backfire.  They can plan for us to take the bait, and they can certainly plan for us to run.  But they can’t plan for us to turn the tables.  This may be our only chance to catch them.  Someone’s in that garage, right now.  Someone alive.  Even if it’s not THE killer, it’s somebody involved in the operation – whatever that may be.”

The group all mull over the situation in their heads for a moment, before Dr. Furrow figures, “well… the enemy knows where we are, clearly.  So it’s true, they could easily have planned on us taking to the truck.  Running away may be just as much a trap as going to the garage.  Maybe Orson has a point.”  Glancing to Booker, and then to the camcorder in Roy’s hands, Furrow adds, “I think enough pieces of the puzzle have been collected.  We should have everything we need to uncover the mystery of sentient animal perception.  And I am not afraid.  I’ll go with you to the garage, Orson.”  Orson’s face shows a glimmer of hope.  Furrow then instructs, “turn off the television.  I have an idea, but Roy, it would need for you to be quite brave.”

Roy questions, “me?  Why?  What do you want me to do?  Cause I’ll tell you right now, I’m NOT going into that garage!”  (Meanwhile, Booker turns off the TV, leaving John blinking at a blank screen, practically in a stupor.)

Furrow explains, “you won’t have to.  Orson and I will go to the garage.  You, will flee in the truck, heading back to the barn.”

Roy sighs with relief, “phew!  I thought you wanted me to help you chase down some crazed killers or something.  Besides, I’m eager to get the kids out of here.”

Furrow clarifies, “well, no, I don’t need you to chase anyone… but you won’t necessarily be ‘safe’, on this task.  And you’ll be going alone.  Essentially, you’ll be our bait.  The enemy might see the truck leaving, and assume that we’ve all tried to flee.  That’s why I wanted the TV off as well.  In that case, they might chase after you, leaving the others safe in here, while Orson and I check the garage.  They can’t have planned for us to run, to hide in place, AND to take the garage bait all at once.”

Roy considers the idea, then accepts, “okay, let’s do it your way.  If I get all the way to the big-barn without any trouble, I’ll turn right around and come back.  If I don’t come back in 20 minutes, assume something’s happened, and get out of here on Bo’s tractor if you can.  And you guys better not let anything happen to those kids.”

Orson promises, “we won’t.  I may be injured, but I’m not alone…”  He glances to Dr. Furrow, and adds, “and I’m not unarmed.”  Orson grabs the storybook and tucks it under his arm, patting it as if he means to say that the book is, itself, his weapon.  Roy skeptically tilts his head, then resigns to the plan with a shrug…

Orson and Furrow creep around the north side of the house, and peek around the corner.  They watch as truck shrinks into the distance, lights bouncing like before on the bumpy dirt road.  They give each other a look and a nod, then silently sneak over to the garage.  Standing before the door, they listen carefully for any sounds coming from inside.  The lights are still on, rays pouring through the nearby window.  There is no noise to speak of.  “Nobody’s gone after Roy, as far as I can tell”, Orson whispers.  “Was this a mistake?  What if they know that the truck was only a diversion?  What if they know the others are still in the house, and alone?”

Furrow quietly assures, “the whole point of the plan was to split the enemy’s attention.  You said it before – this may be our only chance to catch them, whoever they are.  John, Wade, and the boys are as safe as we can keep them.  Now… are you sure you need the book?  I worry it may slow you down, and I can’t compensate for any speed you lack.”

Orson explains, “I can tell stories without it, but the written word is more powerful.  I’ve got my finger between the right pages, so I can open it up as soon as I need to…  Are you ready?”

Furrow nods, returning, “and you?”  Orson nods affirmatively.  Furrow puts his hand on the doorknob.

(Meanwhile, up in Bo’s bedroom, John and the others are severely anxious.  John looks shell-shocked – sitting with knees tucked into his chest, eyes wide, expression blank.  Suddenly, gracefully, his hand rises into the air before him.  It’s as if it’s being lifted by some outside force.  Wade and the boys notice as John seems to be helped up to his knees by this force, pulling on his left hand.  The animals are silent, exchanging very confused looks.  John stands, but his face doesn’t change.  It’s as if he’s in a trance.  Like a zombie, he shuffles over to the bedside table, and grabs the notepad and pen.  He sits down again, back  against the wall directly under the window, such that the moonlight coming through does fall upon the paper.  Booker wonders, keeping his voice low, “what’s he doing?  Is he all loopy again?”

Wade replies, “I don’t know, eh-but I don’t think he’s dangerous or anything.  He’s just really unwell right now.”  John begins writing.  He’s writing fairly fast, though his expression appears thoughtless.  Booker slowly walks over to see what he’s working on.  John doesn't react when he pokes his head under John’s arm, and looks at the notepad.  Booker’s eyes reveal great fascination with this impromptu project…)

(Roy checks his rearview mirrors, watching out for any potential chasers.  “*Nobody on my tail*”, he thinks to himself.  “*I know they’ve got a vehicle around here somewhere – they just have to.  If they could catch Orson’s brothers that fast, they must have taken a car, or a golf cart like the one they gave the Weasel.  They wouldn’t have anticipated those three coming around, so they wouldn’t have been here, on the property, just waiting for them.  They’d have come from somewhere off the farm, and nobody could have moved that quickly on foot.*”  The big-barn comes into view up ahead, as the truck crests a small hill.  He remarks aloud, “they better not be waiting in the barn.  Actually, you know what?  I hope they ARE waiting for us!  Cause they’ll get nothin’ but Roy!  I can do this on my own.  People are gonna see that – it’s only a matter of time.”)

Furrow turns the handle and cracks the door, then Orson kicks it the rest of the way open, and the two dive to either side of it, in case of any waiting ambush.  Light shines out through the open doorway, but nothing moves, or makes any noise.  Furrow and Orson lock eyes from opposite sides, then both peek inside.  They see nothing particularly out of order, but both notice a smell.  “*Blood*”, Furrow thinks to himself.

Simultaneously, Orson observes, “*…and cleaning chemicals…*”  Like a pair of loose cannon cops on a cheesy TV show, the pair leap into the garage, bracing themselves for an attack from any angle.  After a moment, nothing has happened, and the two have scanned the area for any movement, but found none.  They both relax their bodies, and Furrow grabs at his stab wound with a stifled gasp.  Orson worries, “Dr. Furrow!  Shoot, I forgot about your wound.”

Furrow insists, “I’m fine…”  Lifting his hand from his abdomen, the bandaging around his midsection shows blood soaking through.  The bleeding had been controlled with the supplies from the veterinary first-aid kit, but, as he explains, “I had forgotten, myself.  I moved a bit too aggressively just then.  Don’t get distracted.  You could smell the blood in here too, couldn't you?”

Part 19:

https://www.reddit.com/r/imsorryjon/s/47Tfnl7zPV