This is a continuation of the blog post, A Curse Upon Our Toes
(click the link to read it). Otherwise, this post might not make any sense.
Well, in all honesty, I can’t guarantee it’ll make sense anyway, as it’s about
a sorcerer with a magic accordion who cursed someone with generational
toe-funk. So, yeah . . .
I needed to find the descendent of the sorcerer and defeat
him if I ever wanted to cure my toenail and thus be able to wear sandals in
public without causing a panic. I had no idea where to start.
First, I tried the internet, where searching for ‘sorcerer
with accordion’ didn’t get me any hints. Yes, I did this. I then decided to try
a music store, assuming that the sorcerer would need to get his accordion oiled
occasionally.
NOTE: I have no knowledge of accordions. I don’t know if you
oil them, tune them, set them on fire, or put them in a warmth bath with a
glass of wine while playing smooth jazz. In all honesty, I keep spelling it ‘accordian’
and only fix it because Word has trained me to react when the little red line
appears under things.
I strode into the music store, potato in hand, and made a
bee-line to the kempt young man at the counter.
He glanced up. “Hi, how can I help you?”
“I’m looking for the descendent of a sorcerer in possession
of a magic accordion. Do you know anything?”
“Huh?”
I leaned against the counter, placing my potato between us. “Long
story short, a sorcerer put a curse on my family and I have to break it. His
descendent has his accordion and I need to wrest it from him. What do you know?”
The young man seemed confused. He kept looking from me to my
potato and back again.
“Ignore the potato.” His name-tag said ‘Jeff.’ I wasn’t sure
if that was the name of his name-tag or his name, so I let it slide.
“I don’t really-“
I leaned in and slid the potato a few inches towards him. “Don’t
play games, kid, I wasn’t born yesterday. Though if I was, we wouldn’t be
having this conversation.”
“Sir, I think you’re going to need-“
“What’s your name?”
He pointed at his name tag. “Jeff.” It made sense.
“Okay, Jeff. You’re playing hard ball. I can respect that.”
I stuck my hand in my pocket. “I gotta fistful of Abraham Lincolns here. You
tell me what you know, they’re yours. What do you say?”
“Abraham Lincolns?”
“Yeah. Sixteenth President of the US. About seven-feet tall,
if you count the hat.”
Jeff glanced around. “So, if I tell you what I know, you’ll
give them to me?”
“That’s the deal.” I spun the potato around.
Leaning over the counter, Jeff dropped his voice. “Well, you
see . . . “
“Yeah?”
Jeff pointed at the sign behind him. “This is Guitar Land.
We don’t deal in accordions.”
I frowned. “Good point.” I picked up my potato. “I guess I’ll
be going.”
“Wait,” Jeff held out his hand. “I told you what I know.”
With a sigh, I pulled my hand out of my pocket. “I guess you
did, Jeff. I guess you did.” I dropped seven pennies into his palm. Jeff stared
at the pennies. I stared at Jeff. I don’t know what the potato stared at.
“These are pennies,” Jeff said.
“And they’ve got Abraham Lincoln on them.” I shrugged. “I
spent all my money on the potato.”
Look for the continuation in a couple weeks.
Cheers,
-Jason