Tag: novel

By me, with art by Sam Messerly.

Click here to read from the beginning.

After dropping that bomb on his audience, Warbell then gave some details about who to contact and how to help with his effort. However, the crowd was getting louder by that point. Some people had started yelling, asking questions. The commentators came on to try to restore some order to the broadcast, and the camera cut to a farther away shot of the audience and police jostling. Some in the audience sounded ecstatic and hopeful, some sounded angry, and increasingly the different voices were blending into a cacophony.

The commentators were eating it up.

“But Frank, who has a boxing match, and then announces a medical breakthrough? I mean, who does that?”

“Well, Jane, it’s hard to say. Maybe he wanted to end the broadcast with one last punch.”

In the background, I could hear Warbell boom out, “If there is anything you can do to help, you won’t just help me! You will help yourselves as well!”

Then, as I watched the crowd continue to bellow and holler and jostle, Warbell vanished. One moment he was there, standing behind the line of agitated policemen. The next, he was gone. The effect was immediate as the crowd fell back and began to scatter with confusion.

“Where did he go? Oh, gosh, where did he go?” said Frank the commentator.

“Is that dinosaur a ninja?” asked Jane.

“This isn’t funny, Jane,” said Frank. “What is going on?”

I blinked and shook my head, wondering if the whole thing was a stunt, or a dream. The whole situation with Warbell had been surreal from the start, and I am not sure that a vanishing tyrannosaurus was the weirdest thing yet (dinosaur massages or adjustable carnivore/herbivore techno-teeth kind of take the cake), but the neverending sequence of weird made me feel like I had fallen deep into of The Twilight Zone (or maybe even Ultra Q given the prevalence of large monsters).

My phone buzzed, and I picked it up. It was a message from Colander.

“Do you trust Warbell yet?”

I thumbed out a quick reply.

“What did Warbell do to earn my trust?”

And really, he hadn’t proved anything. Warbell made an announcement about supposedly doing research on the disappearing death virus, but I wasn’t sure what that meant. What did he mean that the Dino Kingdom of Peace and Forever (or whatever the heck it was called) had technology we didn’t have? Where was this kingdom anyway? What did Warbell think was the source of the virus, and why did he care? Was Warbell working alone, or with others? Maybe he had been talking with them in my garage?

Colander sent a reply.

“You should talk to him. He gives really good massages.”

Geez. Colander actually went to get a massage from that old lizard? I tossed my phone on the sofa and went to the kitchen to do some dishes and a few other chores around the house. Maybe fifteen minutes later, I heard a knock on my door.

The hairs on the back of my head stood up and my mouth went dry. I walked to my door and peaked out the peep hole. There was nothing there.

And then I saw it. Something floating in the dark evening light. It was hard to make out just what it was until it moved.

“It’s me,” it said. “Are you there, Wal?”

It was Warbell’s head, floating in the air.

Read the next chapter.

By me, with art by Sam Messerly.

Click here to read from the beginning.

The reporters interviewed Punchface first about his pseudo-victory.

“I knew I could defeat even the king of the dinosaurs,” he said while nursing his hand—apparently he broke several fingers punching Warbell’s massive jaw. “In other words, the terrible lizards aren’t so terrible when they are faced with the might of my terrible fists! Ooh, ouch.”

Then finally it was Warbell’s turn.

“What do you think of people sports?” said one reporter.

“Well,” said Warbell, “If they are all like this, I think I’ll refrain from participating in the future. Someone asked me to try Muay Thai next, but I am afraid it wouldn’t work out very well. Though I do have long legs at least.”

“Do you think human-dinosaur sports might have a future?” asked another reporter.

“It’s hard to imagine,” said Warbell. “You don’t have swimming competitions against dolphins, and sane people don’t try to wrestle bears. Why make it even worse with dinosaurs? Though maybe chess would be good.”

There were several rounds of inane questions, but then a reporter asked a question that made Warbell pause.

“Are you familiar with the Tyrannosaurus Alexis?” asked one reporter, a lanky fellow with awkward glasses and an impressive goatee.

“What?” said Warbell.

“There have been a number of dinosaur fossils found near and around Final Pumpkin,” said the reporter. “One of them was a nearly complete tyrannosaurus skeleton. It was called Tyrannosaurus Alexis because the paleontologist had a hamster named Alexis at the time, and he felt the hamster had the personality of a predatory dinosaur.”

Warbell seemed dumbstruck for a moment, and I was rather surprised as well. Who names their hamster “Alexis”?

“Where is Tyrannosaurus Alexis?” asked Warbell quietly.

“Over in First Pumpkin City,” said the reporter. “At the First Pumpkin Paleontological Museum and Café—it’s on semi-permanent display. Should be only about twenty miles from here. There are a number of other dinosaur fossils from around Final Pumpkin as well.”

“I see,” said Warbell. “If I may, then please let me change the subject. I have a special announcement to make.”

Warbell paused, and I felt my pulse quicken. The old lizard took a look around the assembled crowd.

“This may be a little premature,” Warbell said. “But I think I may know what caused the disappearing death virus.”

An audible gasp rang out from the crowd. All eyes turned to Warbell. My own peepers were so wide I felt I’d never blink again.

“I need to be sure, however,” Warbell continued. “Dinosaur kind has technology that your people do not yet possess. I am using that technology to assist in uncovering the cause of the disease, but I need your help. I did not want to say anything unless I felt relatively certain. But time is important with this matter. If I am correct, then the longer we wait, the worse this situation will become—possibly exponentially worse. I realize it is difficult for many of you to discuss your medical history even with your king, but I am asking because I don’t want this horrible affliction to continue amongst you my people—and it doesn’t threaten only you. If I am correct, the disappearing death virus threatens animals and plants as well—all life on earth. But I want to be sure, and so if any of you, any of you, has had symptoms related to the disappearing death virus, please, make an appointment and come talk with me. It could mean life or death for you and your people in the future.”

Read the next chapter.

By me, with art by Sam Messerly.

Click here to read from the beginning.

The fight was, predictably, pretty unfulfilling. There was no way Punchface and Warbell would be able to square off in a traditional boxing ring. Warbell would have filled the entire ring. And the old lizard would not have been able to return to his corner after each round. If he turned around, he would probably hit Punchface with his tail, which might be enough in itself to KO him. What they did to ameliorate this problem was to use ropes to mark off a square-shaped section of land several times larger than a traditional boxing ring for the two to carry out their shenanigans within. There were also huge banners set up with images of Punchface and Warbell in full battle regalia. Punchface was trying to look intimidating in the image on his banner, but Warbell just had on a cheesy grin in his image. And let me just say that I never expected nor wanted to see a dinosaur in boxing shorts.

And of course there were crowds, incredible crowds. It appeared hundreds, thousands had come from miles around to watch the match. People were cheering and hooting and hollering until they were hoarse.

But the actual fight… well, it was pretty boring after all the fanfare. Warbell would lower his head so that Punchface could punch him (Warbell never bothered to block, and couldn’t have blocked if he wanted to really). Thus Punchface would make like his nickname and just sock, jab, and uppercut again and again as Warbell placidly stood and took the blows. Then, when Punchface got tired, Warbell would start trying to move forward and get some hits in. But Warbell rarely actually hit Punchface at all, let alone landing a solid strike. For one thing, Punchface was good at dodging since he’d been boxing professionally for years, and Warbell had only taken up the gloves part-time for a few weeks. For another thing, it was incredibly difficult for Warbell to see where he was punching. He kept twisting and turning his head and wobbling around swinging wildly while Punchface danced away.

It was rather comical for a while—until it got profoundly dull. Each round would proceed in the same fashion. Punchface, though visibly tiring, was too proud to give up. Warbell, meanwhile, was completely unphased by Punchface’s assaults, and just as clearly bored stiff.

At some point in the eighth round, Warbell frowned and spoke what everyone was thinking.

“This is ridiculous,” he said. “You are landing a lot more hits, so you are scoring more points, but only because I am allowing you to hit me. I could just raise my head and you wouldn’t be able to sock me in the noggin even once. You’d have some difficulty hitting above my belt, and if you hit below it, I’d just step on you. Of course, I can’t hit you, either. What did you expect from this fight?”

“No backing down now,” Punchface mumbled through his mouth guard. “You can’t run out on me before I make you a tyrannosaurus wreck.”

His pronunciation of “tyrannosaurus” sounded like “die lan o tho luss” because of the mouth guard. I could barely understand what he said. The referee (who was just as bored as everyone else) signaled for them to start back up with the punching, and they went all ten rounds without a moment of excitement. The judges then announced (whilst yawning) that technically Punchface won, but that they were going to declare the fight a tie because of… I don’t know, I didn’t catch the reason. I think I had fallen asleep.

But after that, as the post-match interviews started, I jerked up and I slapped my cheeks and pried my eyes open. The next part was what I was really interested in.

Read the next chapter.

by me, with art by Sam Messerly.

Click here to read from the beginning.

I thought about ignoring the text message, but I kind of felt like watching Warbell get punched in the face, so I turned on channel 7 even though I was in the middle of the scene where Captain Scrapstache manages to subdue the Bermuda triceratops by skewering one peg leg on each of the dinosaur’s horns. The fight between Raul “Punchface” Panfester and Warbell hadn’t started yet, and instead they had some commentators chattering on about the historical significance of pitting the king of the dinosaurs against the current king of the boxers. Another commentator began a rundown of all the other fights Punchface had won, and how if you added up all the men who he’d KO’d, they would be collectively about the same weight as Warbell. Then they had a journalist begin working the crowd, interviewing the weirdest people they could find.

“So basically what you’re saying is that Punchface just has to fight as if he has to KO everyone he has ever KO’d all together in one night because this dinosaur is the same size as everyone he has ever fought before combined?” asked some guy with a sharp mustache and absolutely no hair otherwise.

“If anyone has an uppercut that can down a dragon, it’s Punchface,” said another man with a massive tattoo of Raul Panfester scrawled across his left pectoral.

Punchface himself came to make his pre-fight boasts, and he blathered on and on, making the usual puns.

“I’mma gonna make this beast extinct!”

“I hear dinosaurs have a brain the size of a walnut. I never KO’d a walnut before, but I am going to take a crack at it.”

And etc.

Eventually Warbell came on the screen, but he didn’t seem interested in smack talk. He just smiled.

“After the fight, we will have a special question and answer period with me,” he said. “I want to talk about some of the things I have been investigating because I need your help—the help of everyone watching this program. There is a lot to talk about.”

I sat forward in my seat. The investigations he has been working on? Did Warbell mean about the “disappearing death virus”?

A pretty girl was asking Warbell how he felt about the fight, but I wanted to yell at her to ask about the virus. I got a text from Colander.

“What do you think he is going to talk about?”

I quickly texted back.

“I am sure it’s more than just a couple fossilized dinosaur droppings this time.”

The staff were preparing the ring for the fight, and there was a mini-documentary playing about the creation of Warbell’s specially designed boxing gloves, how they had to make artificial thumbs, and the process of training Warbell in how to use them. There were some really ridiculous shots of Warbell throwing awkward jabs at a punching bag outfitted with Punchface’s ugly mug, but I couldn’t concentrate on the fight anymore.

I was so agitated that I went to make three bags of popcorn just so I could distract myself by eating too much until we got to the interview.

Read the next chapter.

By me, with art by Sam Messerly.

Click here to read from the beginning.

At first, shortly after it happened, after the funerals, I didn’t care what caused my leg to fall apart. I blamed myself. If only I had reacted more calmly. If only I hadn’t lost control of the vehicle. I could have used my other leg to drive, after all. If only I had just hit the brakes. Coasted onto the side of the road. Parked my vehicle. My parents would still be alive.

For the first few months I was just too busy blaming myself. Blaming oneself is time consuming. Every time you do it, it’s hard to move. It’s like your body slows down. A heavy weight encumbers your movements. Everything takes longer to finish. And then you blame yourself again, and then again, and it gets more severe. It’s like chains pulling you down, down, heavier with every action.

Which isn’t to mean I never wondered about the “disappearing death virus.” But not even the doctors could figure out what that was. I guess for that reason I thought there was no way someone like me could figure it out. It just seemed like someone cast a spell on me, like the “virus” was really black magic or some kind of curse.

And I felt that way about the appearance of Warbell also. It wasn’t natural for a dinosaur to just appear on my doorstep. Why wouldn’t I be suspicious?

Plus there were the Dinosaur Yacht Slaughter movies. They taught me a lot about dinosaurs. In those films, due to pollution and a sun cycle that only comes once every 100 million years, the birds in a particular part of the ocean start to de-evolve into dinosaurs and as a consequence fall from the air and smash all the local ships and boats except a yacht driven by a rich paraplegic and five super models. All those bird-dinosaurs were really evil, even the brontosaurus that fell on a battleship and then stuffed entire human bodies down its throat like a boa constrictor. One of the best scenes is when the bronto uses its lumpy neck like a club to engage in an intense fight against a military tank with inflatable treads cruising across the ocean waves.

Gosh, I love those films. But they also taught me never to trust a dinosaur.

Those were some of the things I was thinking about several weeks after Warbell moved out. I sat at home and watched Dinosaur Yacht Slaughter 8: the Bermuda Triceratops. I was having a hard time concentrating on the plot—the titular triceratops had just appeared in the cabin of a pirate ship and was shooting spinning fireballs from its horns or something. The actor playing Captain Scrapstache was really good, though—he had three peg legs and made it believable.

And I kept thinking about what Colander had said. I had to at least admit the idea of Warbell causing widespread death and destruction seemed highly implausible. But I just kind of wanted to hate someone other than myself for a while.

At about that time my phone buzzed. I nearly lost it when I saw it was a text from Colander.

“Channel 7! Right now!” it read. “Warbell is going to box Punchface!”

Read the next chapter.

By me, with art by Sam Messerly.

Click here to read from the beginning.

The rest of the conversation kind of unraveled from there. What I had been hoping would be a nice conversation, a way to unwind, maybe even something more, turned into a tense and awkward confrontation. By the end, Colander touched the back of my quivering hand and said she hoped I could find peace in this situation but told me not to blame someone else for my pain.

And really that just made me hurt more. Because I had been blaming myself all this time. And as I sat in the Molten Java Café, the events of that day erupted through my mind once again.

April 22, 2015. I was traveling with my parents across the country. We were going to attend my older sister’s wedding in Chicago, but at the time we didn’t have enough money to buy plane tickets. I was the one driving in my new pickup truck I had purchased for my electrician business.

I was proud of that truck. Because I thought it was big, tough. Safe.

I don’t know what happened, really, and the more I thought about it, the less I understood it. We were going down the highway through Iowa, highway 35. Seventy miles an hour. My mom and dad were riding next to me, bickering about whether or not they had turned out the lights in the bathrooms—they were forever forgetting. I was laughing, teasing them that I could install a clapper. It was 4:36 in the afternoon. I remember there were a lot of cars out on the road, and we had hit quite a few grasshoppers bouncing through the crisp spring air. I still remember the little popping sounds as they hit the windshield

Because that sound was one of the last I heard before it happened. The splat of a grasshopper, then something burning in my leg. Pain. So much pain. Just suddenly, consuming me. And blood, streaming, staining my pant leg.

In that moment, in my panic, I lost control of the big, tough truck I was driving. We jerked, skidded, flew off the road, into the ditch, flipped, spun. Everything whirled around me, screams swirling into my ears, then impact, cracking, silence.

And when the doctors tried to figure out what had happened, when they took a look at my leg, parts of the skin and muscle and even bits of the bone were just missing. Not broken off, not in pieces in the car, just gone. Patches had vanished from other parts of my body as well. The medics had a terrible time trying to stop the blood loss, but they managed it.

The doctors said it was a miracle that I survived.

But no one else in the truck had a miracle that day.

And I wasn’t the only person who suddenly, inexplicably lost parts of their body at that moment. Many across the nation experienced something similar. Bits and pieces of peoples’ bodies—sometimes muscle, sometimes bone, sometimes most of an internal organ—just disappeared, causing pain, confusion, death. Colander lost her sight in one eye, but luckily didn’t lose anything else.

That wasn’t the last time it happened, or even the first time really. There were other incidents as well, sometimes involving people from Final Pumpkin, though not always. Of course Murdock was just the latest, but there were many other incidents around the country and around the globe. But the doctors couldn’t figure out how these occurrences came about, and the theories became wilder and crazier every day.

Flesh-eating viruses.

Radiation.

Body-melting invisible death rays.

Miniature momentary black holes.

Of course I wanted to know what had caused the incidents (dubbed the “disappearing death virus” by excitable journalists). But much more than that, I was just shocked, stunned, terrified it would happen again.

My insurance honored their contract and gave me a new truck not long after my life was totaled.

For some reason, I don’t drive it very much.

Read the next chapter.

By me, with art by Sam Messerly.

Click here to read from the beginning.

“So what is it you want to talk about?” asked Colander, sipping her hot water.

We were at the Molten Java, a volcano-themed coffee joint wherein the coffee mugs came in the shape of volcanoes and the side dishes were rock candy and pastries with lots of strawberry jam. Colander, as usual according to her, had just ordered a hot water (“It tastes better than coffee!”) and a choco-cherry chunk cruller. Today her eyepatch had an image of her grandfather, since it was apparently the old feller’s birthday.

I had asked her out to chat, something I had been wanting to do for months really. The split with Warbell was enough of an excuse to finally kick me into action. And besides having an excuse to hang out with the most interesting bachelorette in Final Pumpkin, I really needed to talk.

“I’m not the official king tyrannosaurus ambassador anymore,” I said.

“Yeah, I know,” she replied, nibbling at her cruller. “You and your tyrannosaurus ex are like gossip topic number one around here these days. As the librarian, I get to hear every conspiracy theory. Someone assumed you had fallen in love with Warbell, but things didn’t work out. The prevailing guess was because it’s hard to kiss lips that big.”

“Are you serious?”

“Sometimes,” Colander said. “And there really was a patron who came to the library, and really did put forth the theory I just explained. I thought it was plausible.”

“What do you mean?! I’m not in love with…”

Colander was smiling, and I stopped.

“No, I didn’t think it was plausible you were in love with a dinosaur,” she said, eyes twinkling. “I just thought it’s true that it would be hard to kiss if you’re dating a t-rex. So, what happened? Is that what you wanted to talk about? Personally, I would love to be roomies with a dinosaur. I’d learn so much!”

“He admitted it, Colander,” I said. “Warbell had something to do with the disappearing death virus.”

“You mean researching it?” she asked.

 “Not research,” I said, my voice rising. “He said he caused it. The whole disease happened because of him!”

“But he hasn’t even been here for very long. A few weeks, tops. The disease…”

“Colander, he said that it was his fault! This is what I was afraid of all along, this…”

“Walter, how? That doesn’t even make any sense! Warbell saved Murdock’s life!”

She looked at me sternly before continuing, and she emphasized each word in turn:

“Warbell. Didn’t. Kill. Your. Family.”

Read your next chapter.

By me, with art by Sam Messerly.

Click here to read from the beginning.

I ran for my rifle, stumbling, a mess of rage. I found the weapon in my closet, pulled it out, struggled with the cloth zip cover. I finally managed to rip off the covering, grabbed the stock awkwardly, stumbled towards the door, tripped and banged against the wall. By the time I was out the door, I thought Warbell would be long gone.

He was still there. He had not moved since I dashed into the house. I felt hot tears in my eyes, burning, and I knuckled them away. I had brought my rifle outside in the bright morning light, despite the security team, despite the absurdity of trying to kill a full-sized tyrannosaurus with a single rifle. My anger dissolved my rationality. One of the security men came running my way. My rifle was still pointing at the ground.

“I’m sorry,” Warbell said. “I have to finish this.”

I dropped my rifle before the security guard could yank it from my hands. I pointed a finger at the old lizard before me.

“Get out of my garage,” I said. “Get out of my life. I won’t be your stupid ambassador anymore. Get out of here!”

Then the security guards took away the rifle, grabbed my arms, roughed me over, had me on the ground in my pajamas as they yelled incoherent words I couldn’t understand through my wall of rage. But as one of the security guards shoved my head against the grass, I watched the old lizard, and the old lizard watched me.

Later that day everything was removed from my garage. All of Warbell’s things were taken out and moved somewhere, anywhere far away. I didn’t want to know where. I just wanted him gone. I know Warbell came and helped move things. I saw him come, but I huddled in my room, shutters pulled.

And I got remonstrated by Mayor Pilky, and at least one newspaper columnist criticized me roundly in the local paper later that week, though few details were given concerning the reasons for the drama. I couldn’t tell people that Warbell was the source of the disappearing death virus—there was no proof. What could I say? How could I prove anything? Yet on the other hand, I didn’t go to jail, despite the dinosaur being our “king.” Apparently the old lizard never pressed charges.

It had just lasted a few weeks, really, that I had a tyrannosaurus living in my garage.

Read the next chapter.

By me, with art by Sam Messerly.
Click here to read from the beginning.

I marched over to the bushes and picked up one of the “dinosaur eggs” that I had been obsessing over and held it out towards Warbell with a scowl on my face.

“You are telling me this is a t-rex turd?” I asked.

“Maybe t-rex,” Warbell said. “It’s about the right size and shape. But other dinosaurs have similarly sized stools. Don’t worry, though; it’s fossilized so you won’t get stinky fingers from handling it.”

“Geez, what a waste of time,” I said, and threw the rock across the yard. It rolled onto the sidewalk, then plonked off the curb onto the street.

“Hey, I thought your people put things like that in museums,” Warbell said. “Maybe you should try and sell it.”

“Well, since you arrived, now all the paleontologists have as much fresh monster feces to study as they could ever want, right?” I said.

“True,” Warbell said. “That’s part of my income. Almost every day scientists come to purchase my poop. You should be thankful it’s not just all over your lawn.”

Trust me, I was grateful. I really was. But I was not in the mood to express my gratitude on that day. Instead, I asked him point blank the question that had been eating me up.

“Did you cause it?” I asked. “All those deaths and injuries. The disappearing death virus. Is that why you are trying to stick your big lizard nose into the personal lives of the people of Final Pumpkin?”

Warbell actually took a step away from me, shaking his head.

“Tell me the truth!” I yelled.

“No,” Warbell said. “I don’t know yet what happened.”

“You don’t know if you caused this?” I tapped my artificial leg as I spoke. “What do you mean, you don’t know? What do you mean that you don’t know if you ruined my life?”

“I am trying my best to find out what happened,” Warbell said. “Trust me.”

“Trust you?” I said “Trust you? Are you serious? You are keeping secrets from me. You won’t tell me why you are really here even though I let you live in my garage. You are talking with someone at night in your dinosaur language, too, right? Don’t think I can’t hear it. Who are you talking to? And now you’re saying that MAYBE you caused the deaths of hundreds, maybe thousands of people around the country? No one even knows how many people have succumbed to the disappearing death disease!”

Warbell looked me right in the eyes before speaking.

“Yes, I think that your mysterious deaths may be my fault, or I should say our fault,” he said. “But that’s—”

Even before Warbell could finish speaking, I just lost my mind.

“I’ll kill you!” I shouted. “I have a rifle! For what you did, you should die, you monster!”

Read the next chapter.

By me with art by Sam Messerly.

Click here to read from the beginning.

Of course, there are complications when a fellow like me wants to determine whether a dinosaur is speaking dinosaur talk to someone late at night. As mentioned before, at first I had just thought he was snoring. It’s true that Warbell’s “snores” were unusually complicated with an astonishing multiplicity of grunts, growls, woots, and warbles. But then again, I have met some folks with some pretty strange snores (the perils of dorm life back in college), so I didn’t want to jump to conclusions too quickly. And I didn’t actually hear anyone respond to Warbell’s nocturnal monologues. Which could just mean Warbell had some kind of walkie-talkie, maybe built into one of his teeth.

Or he was just talking in his sleep.

Warbell and I were not talking to each other a great deal anyway at that point. In fact an eavesdropper might assume I was attempting to learn dino-speak given how often I would grunt or snort or otherwise make unpleasant noises when Warbell tried to engage me in conversation. The conversations might go something like this:

“How was your breakfast today?” asked Warbell

“Rowf,” I replied.

“Did you have a bowl of cereal?”

“Snort!”

And so on, with Warbell sometimes pretending to understand what I said until I was just quiet, lips zipped.

But for all my grumping and grouching, my sub-neanderthal conversations did not crush Warbell’s zeal for tracking down the truth of… whatever it was he was searching for. And in fact the dinosaur seemed to have been gathering a lot of great data for his project even before officially becoming a t-rex masseur.

I realized I’m really not a very clever person. I couldn’t seem to figure out what was really going on.

Of course, it also didn’t help that one day I just dumped the rocks I found underneath the house into the bushes at the front of the house. Sure enough, the next day I found Warb standing near the shrubbery.

“This is really interesting, Wal,” Warbell said. “Never thought I’d actually see one of these.”

“Ugh,” I said. “Grunt.”

Warb plucked out one of the rocks—the one that was still intact. He laughed as he turned it over.

“What’s so funny?” I asked testily.

“Oh, well,” said Warbell, the huge grin returning to his face. “You probably don’t want to hear this, but apparently at some point dinosaurs were using the space where your house is as a restroom.”

“Come again?”

“You have several pieces of fossilized dinosaur poop in your bushes,” said Warbell.