Chapter 40

  On The Hunt

  Let it be inscribed upon the hallowed scroll of destiny, etched in the golden annals of legend, that on this most fateful of mornings, , did embark upon a perilous and most righteous quest.

  The dawn, benevolent and resplendent, bathed his noble form in light—though, alas, it also revealed the ignoble smudges of dirt that clung to his venerable hide. Undeterred, he ascended a fallen log—nay, a

  spanning the abyss of fate!—and raised a stubby root in solemn decree.

  "Verily! The path of justice is long and beset with peril! But fear not, for I, Sir Spudsworth, chosen champion of the Great Gardener, shall unearth the villainous knave who hath cruelly felled my loyal squire—"

  A rustling in the underbrush! An ambush? A treacherous band of knavish tubers? No—worse.

  From the tangled green shadows emerged his loyal yet wildly undisciplined Royal Root Guards—a valiant fellowship of Aether-Touched Magic-Beast Raccoons, bound by honor, mischief, and an unquenchable hunger for discarded morsels.

  Sir Nibbler, ever the scholar, gnawed with grim determination upon a discarded leather belt of dubious origin. Sir Rocky, his eyes sharpened with the scrutiny of an alchemist appraising dragon’s breath, inspected a pouch of half-eaten dried fruit. Sir Scraps, ever the vigilant, launched a preemptive assault upon a butterfly that had, most suspiciously, chosen to exist within his immediate vicinity.

  And Sir Chonk—oh, Sir Chonk!—lay sprawled upon his back, belly bared to the morning sun, awaiting enlightenment from the divine starches of the cosmos.

  Sir Spudsworth surveyed his troops, pride and exasperation warring in his noble heart. "Ah, my steadfast warriors! Defenders of the sacred harvest! Seekers of the starch-laden truth! Speak! Have you uncovered the fiend behind this most grievous crime?"

  Sir Scraps belched. Sir Rocky continued rifling through his pouch.

  Sir Spudsworth sighed, heavy with the sorrows of a leader burdened by the follies of lesser creatures. "This, dear comrades, is why history exalts knights… and raccoons."

  But lo! Sir Nibbler, nose twitching with arcane precision, scurried atop the log, chittering with urgency. Sir Spudsworth, battle-honed instincts flaring, followed his gaze. Beyond the trees, fresh tracks—undeniable evidence of villainy—led deeper into the heart of the forest.

  The noble tuber straightened, his voice swelling with the fervor of prophecy.

  "Onward, my valiant Root Guards! Justice—and perchance, a well-earned snack—awaits!"

  And thus, with righteousness in his heart and raccoons in his wake, the valiant quest resumed.

  The morning sun hit Sir Spudsworth just right,

  giving him that whole look he was so desperately aiming

  for. He struck a pose atop a fallen log—like some kinda golden idol to

  starch—and raised a leafy appendage, voice swelling with self-importance.

  "By the glory of the Everlasting Fields,

  we stand upon the precipice of—"

  Nibbler groaned, dragging a paw down his face.

  "He’s doin’ it again."

  "Just ignore ‘im," Rocky muttered,

  shaking a cloudy vial like he actually knew what he was doing.

  Scraps, for his part, was otherwise

  occupied—stalking a butterfly like it owed him money. He pounced.

  Then came the stomach growl.

  A deep, ominous that shook the

  crime scene like a bad omen. The kinda noise that made small creatures

  reconsider their life choices. Chonk clutched his gut, eyes glassy with the

  weight of suffering.

  Rocky sighed and held out a paw. "Hand it

  over."

  Scraps, ears low, placed the butterfly into

  Rocky’s waiting grasp. With all the ceremony of a guy making a cocktail outta

  whatever’s left in the fridge, Rocky ground the thing into powder, mixed in

  some unidentifiable gunk, and swirled it with a flourish.

  "Here ya go, Cap’n."

  Chonk took a gulp, smacked his lips, and sighed.

  "So… you was right. Probably poisonous."

  Rocky shot him a flat look. "Probably?"

  Before His Majesty Sir Spudsworth could get back

  to monologuing, Nibbler shoved a tuft of fur, a leather belt, and a highly

  suspect pouch into his rooty mitts.

  "Hold the evidence, your royal

  weirdness."

  Scraps gave Spudsworth a reassuring pat. "He

  means well, Spuds. Don’t let ‘im get to ya."

  Spudsworth straightened, as dignified as a

  dirt-flecked potato could be. "Egads! Poison, you say?"

  Rocky held up a half-eaten acorn, sniffing it

  with the scrutiny of a raccoon determining if a pizza crust was still good.

  "Yeah. Almost like someone us to find it."

  Scraps, nose twitching at the dirt, muttered,

  "Tracks. Big ones. Somethin’ heavy."

  Sir Spudsworth puffed out his leafy chest.

  "Ah, my devoted Royal Root Guards! Your diligence is unmatched! Fear not,

  for I shall now—"

  "Shut it, Spuds," Nibbler grumbled.

  Rocky rolled the acorn between his paws. Sniffed

  again. Ears flicking. " one’s poisoned too." His voice

  dropped to that real dramatic level. "Almost tastes like… betrayal."

  Spudsworth paled—well, as much as a potato

  pale. "For the love of starch, don’t the evidence!"

  They all stared at him.

  "...Right."

  Verily, let it be proclaimed across the land that on this most fateful of days, Sir Spudsworth—hallowed knight of the Everlasting Fields, Guardian of the Sacred Soil, Defender of the Realm (and occasional, dignified connoisseur of mulch)—stood before his most loyal Root Guards, prepared to deliver a decree that would echo through the annals of history.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  The air was thick with destiny. He inhaled deeply, drawing in the rich aroma of damp earth and distant compost, the very scent of honor itself. With great ceremony, he raised his leafy fronds skyward, the morning sun casting a most gallant glow upon his noble tuberous form.

  "And so, by the sacred decree of the Everlasting Fields, we shall—"

  "Creek’s that way."

  Sir Spudsworth twitched. His moment—his grand, world-shaking proclamation—shattered like a tender sprout beneath a heedless gardener’s boot. He turned, aghast, as Nibbler flicked a casual paw toward the trees, utterly unmoved by the gravity of the occasion.

  Scraps, ever the scent-hound, took a sniff, his whiskers quivering. "Yeah. Something skittery. Smells like guilt."

  Spudsworth wilted. "But I wasn’t finished."

  Rocky, ever pragmatic, patted his stubby shoulder. "You never are, Spuds."

  A noble sigh escaped him, the kind of sigh that might one day be immortalized upon the grand leaves of history. Yet, alas, even the most valiant of leaders must endure the cruel fate of being perpetually interrupted. Such was the burden of true greatness.

  Deep within the underbrush, a trembling figure found itself ensnared by fate.

  Reginald "Reggie" Nutwhisker III—rogue, trickster, hoarder of acorns, despoiler of sacred compost heaps—quivered beneath their collective gaze, his tail twitching like a cornered serpent.

  Chonk, the mightiest (and roundest) of the Royal Root Guards, loomed above him, his impressive girth casting a most ominous shadow. The stillness was broken only by a low, menacing growl from the depths of Chonk’s formidable belly—surely a declaration of justice, and not merely the lament of an empty stomach.

  "You reek of treachery," Chonk intoned, his voice grave.

  Reggie’s whiskers twitched. "I—I always smell like this!"

  Rocky, ever the alchemist, produced a vial of murky green liquid, swirling it with all the casual menace of a potion master preparing a most unfortunate remedy. "One sip, and the truth shall be plucked from your very soul."

  Reggie’s beady eyes darted wildly. "I swear, I don’t know nothin’ about no poisoned acorns!"

  Sir Spudsworth stiffened. A most curious choice of words. He had not spoken of poison. Not yet.

  Nibbler’s ears flicked. He crossed his arms, the corners of his mouth twitching into something that was not quite a smirk. "Funny. We never said it was acorns."

  Reggie froze.

  Scraps, his nose still twitching at the scent of duplicity, leaned in, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "Well, well. Looks like we got ourselves a confession."

  Sir Spudsworth folded his fronds behind his back, nodding solemnly. Yes, this was the burden of leadership—to guide one’s people, to root out treachery, to uphold the sacred balance of the Everlasting Fields.

  And yet, deep within the quiet recesses of his noble soul, a single thought echoed.

  Would it be so much to ask for a moment of uninterrupted monologue?

  The air was thick—probably tension, maybe just pollen. Either way, it made Chonk’s nose itch, which was bad for business. Worse for his patience.

  Reginald "Reggie" Nutwhisker III sat trembling on a mossy stump, tail twitching like a guilty conscience. The perp was sweating acorn oil. They always did when the heat was on.

  Chonk rolled a single hazelnut between his stubby paws, his voice rough as asphalt. “Talk, squeaker, or the nut gets it.”

  Reggie’s beady little eyes darted between the nut and Chonk’s unwavering stare. “I—I don’t even like hazelnuts!”

  Chonk smirked. “That so?”

  With slow, deliberate menace, he tossed the nut over his shoulder. Nibbler snagged it midair, crunched down, and gave an exaggerated sigh of satisfaction.

  Reggie let out a strangled squeak, paws clutched to his chest. “Nooo… not the nut…” His voice cracked like a damp twig.

  Chonk leaned in, pressing a forearm down just enough to remind Reggie who was in charge. “Ohhh… I’m sorry, buttercup. That hurt your feelings?”

  Scraps sighed, all mock sympathy. “Reggie, Reggie, Reggie… just do what the Cap’n says. He’s on edge.”

  Rocky snickered, reaching into his vest and pulling out a tattered leather bag. EVIDENCE was scrawled on the front in what could generously be called handwriting. He gave it a shake.

  “How ‘bout we give him a taste of his own medicine? Y’know… an eye for an eye.”

  Reggie went stiff. “No… you wouldn’t… you couldn’t… could you?”

  Chonk cracked his knuckles. “Only one way to find out.”

  Scraps glanced around at the onlookers, then lowered his voice. “Cap’n… too many witnesses.”

  Nibbler turned, waving a paw. “Alright, break it up! Nothin’ to see here! Scram! Beat it! Move along, ya nosy freeloaders!”

  A skunk in the back made a rude gesture.

  Nibbler scoffed. “Oh yeah? Your mother.”

  Ah, the interrogation? 'Twill resume in a future, most thrilling chapter of

  Stay tuned, my loyal followers, for this grand tale of suspense and triumph shall continue anon!

  “For the love of—” they all groaned in unison, a chorus of exasperation, as if their very souls had been boiled into submission.

  But Sir Spudsworth could not—nay, would not—be dissuaded! The burden of justice lay heavy upon his broad and starchy shoulders, and he alone bore the noble calling of truth-seeker! He stood resolute, a steadfast sentinel in the fields of deceit, his polished skin gleaming like the golden dawn before the harvest. His voice rang out, thunderous and bold, shaking the very soil beneath his tuberous feet. Each grand gesture sent his armor clanking with the force of destiny itself, echoing not just through the garden, but through the annals of history!

  And yet—ah, bitter betrayal!—his compatriots did not share his fervor. Their dull, uninspired faces betrayed no admiration for the knightly pursuit of justice. No spark of wonder glimmered in their eyes. No gasps of awe escaped their lips. They slumped like overcooked root vegetables, their patience long since mashed, seasoned, and served upon the cold platter of indifference.

  The very air around him thickened with discontent. It buzzed not with excitement, but with that dreadful, unspoken truth—defeat. Not his, of course, but theirs. They had surrendered to the creeping malaise of mediocrity, content to wallow in their apathy while he——pressed ever onward, the last stalwart guardian of honor in this forsaken land of the poisoned watering well and the vanished princess.

  Tragic. So very tragic.

  But no matter. The hero’s path is oft a lonely one.

  And would not falter.

  Chonk rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t pop right outta his fuzzy little skull. “Yeah, yeah, we get it, Spuds. Big ol’ hero, saved the day. You want a medal? A parade? How ‘bout we start with givin’ us a break from your never-endin’ monologues, huh?”

  Scraps, never one to miss a chance to stir the pot, flung his paws in the air and strutted around in an exaggerated impression of Spudsworth. “Behold! Knight of the noble soil! Defender of the shrubbery! Scourge of the compost heap! All hail the mighty——Potato Knight!” He finished with a dramatic bow, nearly toppling into a discarded soda can.

  Rocky barely glanced at the performance. He was too busy scanning the sky like it held the answers to life’s great mysteries—or at least an escape route. “Yeah, yeah, Spuds, we know the drill. You wax poetic about justice, we all pretend to care, and then we actually get back to the important stuff. So, y’know… maybe skip to the part where you shut up?”

  Reggie, still hiccuping from his emotional meltdown, cradled the broken remains of his once-glorious hazelnut like it was a fallen comrade. His voice cracked as he wailed, “Can we just

  here? My nut, guys. My beautiful, beautiful nut. It’s all I had.”

  But Spudsworth, undeterred by the overwhelming lack of enthusiasm, sucked in a mighty breath, puffed out his chest, and struck a pose like he was about to be sculpted for a monument no one asked for. “Ah! But my fine compatriots, the mystery is from solved! The truth must be—”

  “For cryin’ out loud, ”

  The outburst rang through the alley, startling a couple pigeons off a dumpster. A tense silence followed, broken only by Reggie’s quiet sniffles and the distant hum of critter traffic.

  It was obvious to anyone with functional ears that Spudsworth’s sense of importance had surpassed even his size—an inconvenient trait for anyone unlucky enough to be within range. But, as always, it was the price of working with a potato who thought he was a king.