Dave's Third Eye has a serious word with Dave

*Dave's third eye is speaking*   Dave - you must face reality.  Val has clearly gone completely insane.  Not only that - she's homicidal.  To use a possibly off-putting but descriptive technical term, Dave, your wife is a homicidal maniac.   This is a highly dangerous situation. You must deal with it.   I'm sorry to have to say this but this whole thing is so stressful I'll be throbbing painfully until you do, I might even get to the glowing, spontaneous combustion stage and that won't be pleasant for either of us.  

*Dave is speaking*   I wonder if I should contact Dr Wilson to get her a psychiatric referral and/or some kind of psychotropic industrial strength tranks.  Val's more of a St John's Wort type of person but I think we're probably past that stage.  Even if I added in some Evening Primrose...I mean I'm raving myself now.  Let's be honest she needs either high grade meds or locking up in a secure facility.  Probably both.  I wonder if it's menopause-related.  Goes without saying that I daren't mention that in front of Val.  

*Dave's third eye is speaking*  yes that's women's talk Dave and we never go there.  No, you have to think of the public safety aspects now.  She's concocting lethal potions in order to bump people off, and telling everyone it's a good thing.  She's saying it's over 55s only, and that it's voluntary, but she isn't going to stop there is she.  She's a seasoned killer now Dave, she's got a taste for it and she's asked you to join in.  Two words Dave.  Premeditated murder. Another two -  Saughton prison.   Need I say more?

*Dave is speaking* no, you needn't.   However,  you might give me some pointers as to what to actually do about it.   Do I call the police, psychiatric services or what?

*Dave's third eye is speaking* I'm afraid it's 'or what' Dave. 

*Dave is speaking* what do you mean?

*Dave's third eye is speaking* well, how did Val put it. Let me think...wield the cushion over the vital area, or something...

Next time- Dave fetches a cushion to wield over Val's vital area...then realises that he's about to do the very thing to Val that she asked him to do to the victims sorry guests, and which he refused to do through an excess (some might say) of principle or squeamishness...his third eye starts to throb violently and threatens to spontaneously combust due to the stress of it all...

The Holistic Voluntary Wellness Self Euthanasia Care Space

 'I wonder if I can somehow remove my third eye', thought Dave.  'I don't think I can cope with being in a permanent state of enlightenment.  I feel I need some Valium or something.  Something to bring me down...'

'Dave!  What are you doing out there!  Get those logs chopped right now,  the mobile sauna needs topping up, my hot stones are going cold and I've run out of kindling.   And haven't you dug out the composting toilet yet, it smells disgusting.  Guests are complaining.'  

'OK Val.'  Forget about the Valium, thought Dave, pulling on his Wellingtons.  And as for the composting toilet - the clue is in the name.  It's a composting toilet, therefore, it smells disgusting.  You wanted the bloody thing.  I tried to warn you but would you listen?  No.  Because you never listen. There was no point in trying to explain this to Val.  There was no point in trying to explain anything to Val.  

Later...in Dave and Val's cottage, over some goji berry tea...

'Dave I've got an idea I need to discuss with you.  Nettle flapjack?'  Val proffered a handwoven willow basket filled with lumpy brown-ish rectangles. 'They're three months old but they're totally fine if you dunk them.'

'No thanks Val.  I'm still full after the roadkill soup you made for lunch,'  said Dave warily.  He only got offered flapjacks if Val wanted him to do something.  And it was always something bad.

'That's OK, they were left over from a guest's welcome pack. Why do people never eat them? So ungrateful.  They probably expect Twixes or something.  Anyway,  what I wanted to tell you, I mean ask you...I mean tell you....or discuss or whatever...I'm converting one of the yurts into our own mini Switzerland Dave!  I'm getting a grant from the Scottish government, as long as I rewild the back field, fit solar panels and an air-sourced heat pump and ante up three grand.   It's going to be a holistic voluntary wellness self euthanasia care space.  Where people who fulfil certain important criteria can either indulge themselves by self-euthanasing via an injection of a holistic cocktail of lethal wellness drugs I carefully distill from locally eco-foraged fungi and toxic plants, or ingest it in the form of a pleasant herbal-style tea.  Which obviously would take longer to take effect but would be ideal for anyone with a needle phobia.  I might even throw in a Toblerone.'   

'What are the criteria?'

'Oh, they'd have to be over a certain age.  Let's say, 55?  Just plucking that out of the air but it sounds about right.  And, they'd have to pay a fee, obviously.  Half up front,  half on completion.  I'd take Paypal, cash, debit and credit cards but not Klarna.'

'You've clearly thought this through Val.  Leaving the legality of it aside for a minute - how would you - or we - dispose of the - how shall I put it - remains?'

'Bury them in the back field, Dave.  The one that I'm rewilding and planting up with yellow rattle and stuff.  Where they would compost down into the soil and become a useful part of the ecosystem instead of taking up space on an already overcrowded planet.  That's where you come in.  You've got a pick and a couple of decent shovels, haven't you?'

'And what if - heaven forbid - someone attempts but fails to 'complete'?'

'No worries at all, they have two options which they pre-select on the disclaimer form prior to arrival.  They're either left in a permanent coma-style vegetative state - mentally alert, yet physically completely paralysed, or vice versa, depending on the proportion of specially foraged herbs to fungi used in the solution - or, for an additional fee, finished off, let me put it that way.'

'Finished off?  How?'

'Dave you're fully capable of wielding one of my home made crocheted nettle fibre cushions over the vital area.'

'The vital area.  You mean the face don't you.  Good grief Val.  When we got married I knew you were a strong-minded woman but I didn't expect this.'

Next time - Val discloses that her mother is coming to stay for an indefinite period.  Dave perks up as he wonders if she might be the first candidate for the holistic voluntary wellness self euthanasia care space...

Dave considers monetising his third eye

 'I'm not deploying my third eye for shit!' snapped Dave. 'How dare you even ask me that.  It's for metaphysical purposes ONLY, plus seeing in the dark.  Which is great because I'll never need to use night vision goggles again.  It'll be much easier when I'm out setting the wildlife cam looking for pine martens and owls and stuff.'

'Burglars.  Rats.  Cockroaches.  You could start renting it out to paranoid property owners Dave.  It could be a side hustle,'  sniggered Geoffrey.

'Pervs,' suggested Tuppence.  'Doggers.  Not that I'd know anything about it but a third eye that can see in the dark would be fairly handy in those circumstances.  You could rent it out by the hour. Heh heh.'

Dave shook his head and strode off.  I'm not even going to bother explaining to these moronic twits that my third eye cannot be removed, therefore it cannot be rented out, he thought.  My services as the possessor of a third eye however are a different matter, and I suppose I could put an ad on Gumtree regarding charging a small fee for doing night security patrols round people's property.  Mind you, that would be pretty boring, and a bit of a waste of the eye, and besides don't paranoid property owners have dogs already?  A crazed XL bully would surely be a better bet.  And in any case, money's not everything and I'd far rather be by the river scouting for otters than giving people who don't appreciate the profundity of it, the benefit of my third eye in exchange for a few quid.  I'll think it over.  Oh and I definitely won't mention it to Val, because she'll one hundred per cent want me to do it.  Her nettle jams aren't selling well, what a surprise, and she's had some bad reviews on Tripadvisor about the cleanliness of the yurts so she's freaking out about losing business and maintaining income generation.  By which she means me getting a regular job, instead of just punting my otter vids on Youtube.  Luckily she doesn't even know about the eye yet.  Hopefully it'll stay that way.

No,  I think I already know, within myself, that commercialising the eye would be wrong.  I received it as a gift from the glittering eye in the sweat cottage, as a means of, or tool for, elevating my psyche if you like and developing my relationship with my higher, better, self.  I can't just rent it out for cash.  I feel that something bad would definitely happen if I did that.

Next time - Dave uses his third eye to try to resolve some stuff that's been buzzing around his brain...

Why are human beings so far apart, even if they're in the same room?  Can't we all get along?  Why does my heart hurt, and will it always be that way?  Why do I have to earn munny in order to live - why isn't everything free?  Why did humans invent munny anyway? Are globalists going to abolish it and make us all slaves?  Why on earth did I marry Val, and am I stuck with her forever...I'm hungry, I wish I had some sausages...even a Twix...

Plans for a Hate Crime Dobbing in Centre and Two for One Brazilian Butt Lifts

 

 'We're going to drive new traffic to our yurt business by making it a dobbing in centre for hate crimes.  So Val says.  She says anyone promoting hate deserves everything they get and she's prepared to catch them herself,  lock them into her therapy yurt and chain them to the massage table till the coppers arrive.  She's even bought a hi-viz jacket and a cattle prod.  But I don't feel right about it,' said Dave. 'I don't want to grass anyone up.  When I was in the sweat cottage recently I...'

'Indeed,' said the T-G,  'It has the potential to be catastrophic in terms of local community cohesion.  Neighbour pitted against neighbour and so forth.'

'Val says it's great publicity for our business.  It'll make us seem current.  She says we need to move with the times and diversify.  She's making a sign for it right now from locally-foraged shells and sea glass with 'HATE CRIME REPORTING CENTRE' on it in seaweed fronds.  And she's made nettle scones with H A T E on the top.  People can buy a set of four and have HATE nestled right there in an eco-cellophaned nettle-fibre refillable basket. They can then literally consume HATE and expel it via the customary orifice, thereby destroying it.  She's also going to throw in two for one Brazilian butt lifts for anyone reporting a hate crime cos she's just completed an online course in how to do the liquid injection ones.  I get what she means but I just don't feel comfortable.'  Dave fiddled anxiously with a fingerless glove. 'Especially with an open-ended concept-style thing like hate.  It's not a word I even like to say to be honest.  It's kind of strong.  You know when I was in the sweat cottage recently I...'

'What is a hate crime?'  I interrupted.

'Not sure,' said Dave. 'But when I was in the sweat cottage recently I...'

'It sounds like something best not to get involved with,' said the T-G loudly, poking at a pot hole with his sword stick. We were out for a walk by the tourist car park, assessing the local infrastructure in view of his plans to open Tupfinder Towers to the public.  'In my experience as the local magistrate-style person-in-charge type thing,  evidence, proof, impartiality and a sound knowledge of how the law applies are crucial when administering justice.  This rubbish sounds like it was made up on the back of a fag packet.'

'I couldn't agree more,' I said, my voice fading and echoing as I fell into a super-deep pothole.

'As I was saying,  when I was in the sweat cottage recently I...'

'Da-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-ve....He-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-lp me-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-eeeeeeeeeeee.'

next time - Dave finally manages to tell us what exactly occurred in the sweat cottage, and Val remains determined to forge ahead with her plans.  

** for readers outwith Scotland, who may be puzzled by the above -  we have a new Hate Crime law here.  Hate crimes can now be reported at specially designated hate crime reporting centres, including a mushroom farm and a sex shop.  I'm not making this up.

Dodgy Brazilian butt lifts have also been in the news.  

What a strange world we live in...

Val's internal interminable monologue as she no bakes no bake gravel flapjacks

 So before the Cancer Research UK 29 day yoga challenge started, we left Dave pondering - well, pondering all kinds of things out on the moors.

I expect he was having a mid-life crisis-style-event.  Or not.  Because I don't believe in mid-life crises, myself.  Staring old age in the face as I am I've gone through enough 'crises' to know they don't just occur in 'mid-life'.  There's nothing special about mid-life, that requires a crisis of its own.  They happen all the time, depending on circumstances.  Twenty five or sixty.  Age makes little difference.  Sure, you learn a bit as you go through life. Menopause?  Nah, bollocks to that.  Likewise the andropause.  But you forget a lot also.  Although, if I understand Hegelian dialectic correctly (laughter) nothing is ever really 'forgotten'.  It's merely subsumed into the whole, creating the being we are forever in the process of becoming.  Hegel would lose the 'forever'.   

But I digress.

Back at the yurts,  Val was not baking her specialty -  'no bake' hardcore smashed gravel flapjacks.  Her fifth batch that day.  She was breathing heavily and muttering to herself as she smashed gravel with a large mallet and mixed it with golden syrup and rolled oats before pressing the mixture into a tray lined with clingfilm and refrigerating it overnight (full recipe not available, sorry).

'I know Dave's testosterone levels have plummeted.  Plummeted from, let's be honest, a very low base, to the infinitesimal.  He's not the man I thought I married.  Or is he.  Perhaps I was just stupid.  Blinded by his facility with a trailcam and his knowledge of all things otter.  I wonder if I should DIVORCE him!'  Val smashed the mallet extra hard as she said 'DIVORCE'.  A fragment of gravel flew ceiling-wards and clattered into the uplighter.  'Or perhaps he's experiencing the andropause.  Maybe I should cut him some slack.  Or perhaps NOT!'  Val's mallet hit the dwindling pile of gravel again and the hand-crafted kitchen table - hand-crafted by Dave, from local sustainable sources - i.e. the small stand of coppiced oak behind the yurts - shuddered.  Val paused, as she remembered Dave diligently sanding planks of oak and whittling the table legs out in the shed on cold winter evenings with only a small brazier and his fingerless gloves to keep him warm.

'Perhaps Dave's not so bad.  Perhaps it is the andropause and he just needs some more hot stoning, and an ear candling session to rev him up a bit. And a double strength boiling goji berry oil colonic irrigation is always a good answer no matter the question.  Mind you,  Dave's been going through the andropause ever since I met him thirty years ago.  Never mind.   If he ever returns from the moors I'll make a new man of him.'  

Val threw her mallet into the air and caught it deftly, before pressing the final flap jack mixture into its tin tray and popping it into the refrigerator.

more later - when Dave returns from the moors in a spiritually enlightened state, loses his bobble hat and gets a surprising job offer...

Sic Transit Gloria Mundi

'Dust into dust,' murmured the T-G, who was sitting in a vast green leather armchair sipping a glass of absinthe toasting his toes in front of a roaring driftwood fire.  His bare feet rested on a brass fire dog while a pair of multi-coloured stripey toe-socks dangled from the mantlepiece.  The blunderbuss, with which he'd blasted us out of our previous situation (see previous post), was propped by the mullioned window alongside a pair of sea-boots and high-powered infra red binoculars. 

There was a loud creak as the heavy oak door was shoved open by a muscular fore-arm.  Mrs T-G bustled in carrying a plate of black sausage rolls (her specialty) and placed them on the oak monastery table which stretched across much of the room.

We were in the 'Tower Room' of Tupfinder Towers,  enjoying the hospitality of the T-Gs.  

'You'll need to sweep that chimney T-G,' reminded Mrs T-G,' We don't want it going up again like before.  And you won't be doing your chilblains any good with your feet right in front of the fire like that by the way.'

'Yes yes dear,' soothed the T-G., staring into the dancing flames.

'I'm only saying,' she sniffed as she left the room.

Mrs T-G never socialised with visitors, or indeed anyone.  In fact, she was rarely seen, even inside her own home.  She liked sitting in the large kitchen by the range, polishing copper pans and preparing the pastry and fillings for her famed black sausage rolls.  Nobody knew what she thought about while she sat there all alone ruminating with her tin of Brasso and her yellow dusters.   And I'm sorry to say it,  but nobody cared.  

'She's always been like that,' the T-G would say when badgered by Val Nark, who was convinced Mrs T-G was menopausal and would benefit from an ear-candling session.  'She's a lone wolf.  She doesn't want friends, or indeed ear-candling.'

'Dust into dust,' he murmured again, topping up his glass from the decanter at his elbow.

'What do you mean, T-G?'  I asked.  Geoffrey fluffed his feathers and leaned in closer.

'The human race is over.  Grieve for it now, while you can.  The great days, the great battles, the great days of wisdom are fading into the dark.  The ancient yew by the chapel has watched the rise and fall of Man over many centuries.  And it will watch its End.  Humanity, despite the best efforts of a few, is finished.'    

'Does this mean that Evil has finally won?' asked Geoffrey. 'Is that what you're saying, T-G?'

'Are we the few?' I wondered silently,' And is it worth struggling on?  Is there ANY hope?'

The pale light of the rising Moon shone through the mullioned window and reflected on the polished oak monastery table as the T-G topped up his glass of absinthe.

more later

Dave Nark - Covid Tester and Wildlife Vidder

 A year on, almost, from the previous post.   And we don't have 'covid marshals' any more.  No - we have 'vaccines' and 'vaccine certificates'...and covid testers...

'So.  Dave Nark's a covid tester now.  Sticking cotton buds up people's noses in a caravan in the tourist car park for what he claims is a 'competitive salary'.'   The T-G had stopped by for a glass of piping hot Madeira and was reading a crumpled copy of last week's 'Daily Bugle'.

'He needn't bother sticking one up my nose,'  I said, throwing a piece of driftwood on the fire.

'Or mine', agreed Geoffrey.

'Or indeed mine,' said the T-G.  

'Is he still posting those wildlife vids on Youtube?'

'I believe so Tuppy.  He did get banned for a while after his trail cam filmed a staycationer doing the toilet in the burn.  He posted it without realising, or so he said.'

'Gracious.'

'Indeed.  Number twos, as well.  Val was mortified.  People were saying Dave was a pre-vert.  She was terrified the negative publicity would ruin her ear-candling and hot stones for well-being business.  She was running out of furlough money and it happened at exactly the wrong time, so she told Mrs T-G anyway.  Not that there would ever be a right time for that kind of thing.'

'Good grief.'

'Indeed.   Apparently the clip went viral before it was removed.  They've put portable toilets in the car park now so there's no reason that kind of thing should happen again.  Black Bogey?'   The T-G proffered his worn Spanish leather tobacco pouch.

'Thanks T-G.  How does Mrs T-G feel about it all?' I asked.  'Is she pro or anti vax?'

'Oh she's been double-jabbed, like me,' replied the T-G. 'We've had no side effects to speak of, other than the pustule eruptions, the chronic halitosis and the growth of the tail.  And of course Mrs T-G has the enormous wart on the end of her nose - but that was there before.'

'When I went for my jab I asked - ' Geoffrey spluttered and had to pause to control his laughter - 'I asked - ' Geoffrey doubled over in hysterics - ' I asked -'

'Oh do get on with it Geoffrey.  We've heard this one umpteen times already and it doesn't get any more amusing in the telling.'

''I asked if I'd be able to play the piano after the jab,' he blurted, ' Of course, replied Dr Wilson, looking amazed as he waved a needle in my face.  That's great,  I answered. Because I can't play it now!  Ba-boom!'  Geoffrey rocked back and forth with laughter while the T-G and I lit our pipes and stared grimly into the glowing embers.

'Interesting times,  Tuppy,' said the T-G.  'Interesting times...'

more later

Dave Nark - covid marshal

 Tuppence staggered in at dawn this morning and threw himself on the sofa.

'Thank fizz you've got a hole in the wall for a front door uncle Tuppy cos I'd never have managed a proper door handle,' he wheezed, pulling the tartan knee rug over himself as he curled into a foetal position.

'Thank fizz?  are we in an Enid Blyton story Tuppence?  next you'll be wanting lashings of ginger beer, treacle tart and heaps of cook's special plum cake.'

'I wouldn't say no.'

'Where've you been all night anyway?  And why wouldn't you manage a door handle?  You look awful.'  I kicked a fresh log on to the smouldering embers and wafted yesterday's 'Bugle' in front of it to get a flame.  

'Don't ask.  Well, do.  I don't mind talking about it.  I've binned Alexa.'

'Really.'

'Well all right, she binned me.  There, I said it.  Are you happy now?  She only got off with Alvin, the frozen foods manager at Speedispend's pre-lockdown completely non-socially-distanced street party last night while I was providing the musical entertainment with my band.  You'd think she'd want to stick with ME, the mercurial, brooding, Byronic musical genius, the undoubted future STAR of the 2030 Jools Holland Hootenanny - but no, off she went with fizzing Alvin and his frozen fizzing fish-style fingers.   I was in the middle of a fantastic rendition of Egg's classic from 1970, 'The Song of McGillicudie the Pusillanimous' when I saw them openly flouting the social distancing guidelines together.   It totally put me off my half hour moog solo, to the extent that I fell backwards off my organ stool, getting my fingers trapped in a tightening coil of the electric cable as I did so, and toppled the entire amplifier stack as I yanked at the cable in the - ultimately successful - struggle to free myself.  Nobody helped.  Not even the rats.  I was utterly humiliated and I've been wandering the moors ever since.  My fingers are still swollen - look.'

'You'd better have a mug of hot Madeira and get off to your bed then.  I'm sure everything will seem better after a bit of kip. What's that noise?'

CRUMP CRUMP CRUMP

'Somebody's thumping the wall with a big fizzing stick!'

CRUMP CRUMP CRUMP

A lump of plaster fell off the ceiling.

'Hey just a  - '

'OPEN UP.  THIS IS YOUR LOCAL COVID MARSHAL. WE HAVE REASON TO BELIEVE THAT YOU ARE BRAZENLY FLOUTING THE COVID LAWS.'

'That's Dave Nark's voice!  What the fizz is going on Dave?'  I poked my head through the hole in the wall and peered at him.  He was sporting a yellow hi-viz jacket and a peaked cap, and was carrying a clip board and a mobile telephone.

'That's Sir to you if you don't mind.   I'm here to put you all under house arrest for not adhering to the new covid rules.'

Turns out that Dave's Youtube vids weren't bringing in enough dosh to keep him and Val in teabags never mind anything else, and so he applied - successfully, weirdly enough - for a job as Covid Marshal at the princely sum of £8.72 an hour.

'At least I've got my pride!' said Dave.

'Really,' I replied. 'You'd better come in and have a cup of hot Madeira to keep the cold out.  That rain's dripping off your cap and right down the back of your hi-viz jacket.  Before you know it you'll have a sniffle and have to self-isolate for fourteen days.'

'But you're a separate household.  We're not a bubble.  We cannot - I cannot - I cannot - '

'You don't understand the rules, do you Dave.  Never mind - nor does anyone else.  Just come in and take the weight off for half an hour.'

'Oh what the fizz.  Don't mind if I do.  I'll just scan the horizon with my hi-powered binoculars - the ones I usually use for watching wildlife for my Youtube vids - to see if any potential grasses are watching.'

NEXT TIME - a potential grass WAS watching, and we are forced to track them down and 'correct' them in the customary manner.  Dave sees the error of his ways and packs in the job as covid marshal, leaving a vacuum that only Nature - or some venal jobsworth - could fill...

Well, we went out to the headland last evening as planned and we burned the wicker man to the ground.  All that's left now is a pile of wood ash, some blackened chicken wire - and some bones.  More on those later.  I sat at a safe distance, sipping a triple strenf absinthe and laudanum koktale and crunching my way through a packet of 'Kalms' while Tuppence danced naked beside the leaping flames.
I needed the Kalms because as we made our way across the moor towards the headland Tuppence began to wonder whether the wicker man was cis or trans.  'If he's trans I won't burn him Uncle Tuppy.  He'll be a fantastic representation of liberation from the hegemony of the binary sexual economy.'
'Even though you said before that he's a vile and disgusting representation of capitalism and binary-legged hegemony?'
'Yes.'
'How will you know if he's trans though?  It's a very basic figure with no defining characteristics other than two arms and two legs.  And a head.'

'I'll know.'

As it turned out,  he didn't know.  If I'm honest, I don't think he cared - or at least, he cared more about setting the huge thing ablaze.  

As the vast knees crumbled into ash and the torso fell forwards over the cliffs, tumbling onto the rocks below in a dense orange cloud of sparks and wood smoke and leaving two stumpy, smouldering 'feet',  Tuppence cried, 'So passes the tyrannic age of the binary-legged money-grubbers!  Look upon your work ye mighty and despair!' 

'Don't you mean 'my works' ye mighty?'  I pulled a copy of Palgrave's Golden Treasury from my bumbag and leafed through it.  

'Oh who cares about such details now Uncle Tuppy.  We're free!'

'How does burning a wicker man make us free?'

'It just does.  For one thing, it gets the anger out of your system when you destroy things.'

'What about Val and Dave Nark's floundering tourism business?  What about the yurt?  What about Val's ear candling?'

'You can't do social distancing and ear candling.  Everyone knows that.  Val and Dave will just have to diversify.  Anyway I really enjoyed the conflagration Uncle Tuppy.  I'm sure lots of other people did who were watching, as well.  I was surprised to hear the blood-curdling screaming noise it made as it burned - I wonder if we'll ever know what caused that.  Probably just some damp wood reacting to the heat or something.  Not to worry!   Now I'm going to find something else big to burn and I think I know what it's going to be.'

Next time - Tuppence burns Val and Dave's yurt to a crisp.  Val and Dave don't know this yet as they're staying in a friend's airbnb in Leicester and have been 'locally locked down' due to the coronavirus spike.  We also discover that Stormy Petrel has gone missing from the Puff Inn and was last seen clambering determinedly up the wicker man's left leg, followed by a mysterious black-clad figure...this leaves the Puff Inn sans patron just as they've erected a gazebo and extended the beer garden for safe consumption of outdoor comestibles...who could be responsible for Stormy's disappearance?  Could it possiby be...a rival local busniess person, or persons?