“Hey, White Beard.” Mike greeted. Bob grinned–stroked his chin-whiskers. Yeah, some got it–some don’t.
“Where’s Alan hiding?”
“I don’t know–saw his girlfriend yesterday. Said she was working at Dugan’s or some other place,” Mike answered.
Mike hadn’t seen Alan since the day before.
Gravelly voiced Mike, was the group’s unofficial spokesperson. Alan had been charged with bringing picnic supplies.
“He was a no-show, because he’d stayed up he whole @%&$# night,” Mike speculated.
“Just made it worse for everybody else.” Mike said between coughs.
“How many we got left?” Asked Bob.
“Here’s more hot dog buns. They’ll work the same for brats.”
“Mike–do you want me to run out for some more?”
“There’s no need for it.”
“That cat–comes around here every night looking for a meal.”
“It had better stay away from my food. Scat, cat!” Dave threatened.
“Don’t chase it off, Dave,” Mike said. “We’ve never had any rats. Or, snakes, either.”
The stray tabby ran, hid somewhere in the kudzu along the park’s edge, near the railroad tracks.