Why Grandma, What Big Tennis Shoes You Have

Chief Moonbeam made his way to The Blue Cheese Pub. It was a seedy dive on the edge of town. Tacked beside the door was an old poster advertising "The Three Little Bops performing here for one night only" which hung limply as a reminder of better days. Pack rats wandered in and out of the joint.

The wolf knew he wasn't getting in dressed as he was. No one was going to mistake him for a pack rat. He made a quick trip up to a nearby friend's grandmother and borrowed a track suit, tennis shoes and a white wig. Nobody gave him a second look when he reappeared and sat himself down at a table.

One pack rat was calling for a Miss Cooper to set out another round of drinks. He was paying. "Hey Nickie," said the server in a barely controlled growl, "I hope you are thinking of coughing the dough up front."

"Why sure I am doll face," said Nickie flashing a roll of aluminium foil. All of the other pack rats gasped. "And there's more where that came from."

The pieces were finally coming together for Chief Moonbeam.

Copyright May 1996 Katherine Phelps