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section7mfuI rushed in attempt to get this in on time. Missed it by a mile. Still, if I could turn in my paper a day late please, teacher, I'll take the grade point reduction...
“Punk’s Townie?”
Illya shrugged. “All I know is that Mr. Waverly is sending us to a place called ‘Punk’s Townie’ in Pennsylvania. One of our sources reported that a person there using the name of ‘Phil’ had the power to extend winter by six weeks. So he wants us to see if it’s a Thrush plot.”
“I’ve never heard of a place called ‘Punk’s Townie’.”
“Just because you never heard of it, doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. Can you name every town in the country?”
Napoleon sighed. “Pennsylvania in the winter. Lovely. Why would Phil want it to be longer?”
“Wouldn’t it disrupt the economy if there were storms in March?”
“I doubt it.” Napoleon stood up from his desk. “They are used to dealing with storms and snow in that area. As it is already, they expect snow until the month of April. Spring comes late in the Poconos.”
Illya stood up too. “Trust me; it arrives even later in Siberia. “But not as early as us. According to Mr.Waverly we have to meet Phil at 3 a.m. tomorrow. So we need to leave now.”
Napoleon gave him a look of utter disbelief. “3 a.m.? Is Phil nuts?”
“If he’s Thrush, it goes without saying he is.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The agents found their way to Pennsylvania without too much trouble. Punk’s Townie was a little harder. It was dark, and the road signs were tough to read. They had sketchy directions - “it’s somewhere near Route 80,” Research had said. Given that Route 80 ran the breadth of Pennsylvania, that was not much help.
So they crossed the Pocono Mountains and entered what was known as “The Pennsylvania Wilds” hoping to see a road sign. Unfortunately, they were having trouble locating any, although they located an elk. Or, more exactly, the elk discovered them by crossing the road in front of them, causing Illya, who was driving, to brake hard and mutter under his breath. Napoleon made a remark about Illya being right at home with the snow and wildlife. In return, his partner pointed out that no Russian in his right mind would be driving a convertible, even if the top were up, in the winter. In the dark. The car was cold and the inside of the window was beginning to frost up.
So was Illya. Napoleon rode for a while in a cold car, surrounded by a Siberian winter, biting his tongue. Finally, he could not stand it anymore and he spoke. “Hey, there’s a sign for a restaurant at the next intersection. Let’s pull off, get something to eat and ask the natives for directions.”
Illya’s mouth quirked. He knew Napoleon was trying to win him over with food. If Napoleon was willing to pay, Illya was willing to be won over. But not without making Napoleon work for forgiveness. He put on an innocent look. “Natives? I had always heard the Indians were good trackers.”
Napoleon sighed. “You know exactly what I mean. Stop giving me a hard time if you want me to pay for the amount of food that I can see you are planning to eat.”
“I’m planning on fueling up for a long cold winter.”
Napoleon just sighed again.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The diner was just like many other diners they had been in in the past. A long counter with red stools, some of which had ripped and had white lightening streaks of padding in them, and a few Formica tables in booths. The agents took a booth in the back where they could watch the front door and the rest rooms and waited for the waitress. Sadly for Napoleon's fun, the "waitress" turned out to be a heavy-set man with a beard thirteen hours beyond a twelve shave and an apron with grease spots down the front. The spots matched the ones on the menus.
“It must be good food,” Napoleon pointed out. “Look at all the truck drivers.”
“It must be the only diner in a hundred miles,” Illya responded. Still he ordered a meal – soup, sandwich, fries and coffee. Napoleon played it safe with a cheeseburger.
Actually, the food was quite good. It was also nice and warm and the coffee was steaming hot. The agents took a few minutes just to enjoy the warmth of the cups against their hands, but eventually they knew they had to get back on the road. They went up to the counter to pay at the cash register. The cook/owner/waiter, and probably chief bottle-washer, stepped over to ring them up. While he was doing so, Napoleon took the opportunity to ask, “Do you know of a place called ‘Punk’s Townie’?”
The owner looked puzzled, but he thought for a moment, then handed Napoleon back his change, along with a “nope.”
Illya tried again. “We may have the name slightly wrong. It sounded like ‘Punk’s Townie’ to us, though.”
His accent must have triggered something, because one of the men looked up. “Do you mean ‘Punxsutawney’?” There was a slight note of disbelief in his voice. “Are you gonna go see Punxsutawney Phil?”
The agents turned as one. “Well, yes. But how did you know?” Napoleon asked him.
The cook looked at him in astonishment. “You’re going to Punxsutawney for Groundhog Day and you don’t know about Punxsutawney Phil and the prediction?”
Napoleon shook his head. “I’m sorry. We really don’t know much about it. Could you give us some background?”
The cook reached behind him and took a salt and pepper set down from a shelf. “Well, this here is Phil…”
Illya picked up the salt shaker and looked at the yellow animal. “I beg your pardon, but just what type of animal is this? Some type of rodent?”
The man at the counter looked at him in disgust. “Rodent? It’s a groundhog. On Groundhog Day he comes out of his burrow. If he sees his shadow, we’ll have six more weeks of winter.”
“Oh,” was all Napoleon could say.
But, as shown by the gleam in his eyes, Illya’s scientific streak appeared. “How often is Phil accurate?”
Another diner entered into the discussion. “Well, as a rule, spring doesn’t come to this area until mid-March. Phil has predicted a long winter every year since 1951. Usually, he predicts a mild one about every tenth year.”
Napoleon had shook off his stupor. “Every ten years? When did Phil start doing this?”
The cook scratched his head. “Sometime at the turn of the century, wasn’t it, Joe?”
Joe turned out to be the man at the counter. “1887, if I remember correctly.”
“1887!” Napoleon’s voice actually squeaked on the last number. “Well, thank you so much, gentlemen. Have a cup of coffee on me for your trouble.” He handed the cook a few singles and headed out to the parking lot.
He could tell Illya was bursting to speak, but fortunately his partner maintained silence until they reached the parking lot.
“Napoleon, that can’t be right! No groundhog would live that long.”
“No groundhog would predict weather either.”
Illya got a pensive look. Napoleon recognized the look. It meant his partner was rummaging in his mental encyclopedia. Finally Illya spoke. “I wouldn’t say that. Remember, February second is Imbolc.”
“Imbolc?”
“It was a pagan holiday celebrated by the Celts. They thought that if a hibernating animal cast a shadow on Imbolc, winter would last another six weeks. The legend said spring would come early if there wasn’t any shadow.”
Napoleon tipped his head and looked at his partner. “You think Thrush is using an old Celtic legend? It wouldn’t be the oddest thing I’ve ever heard of them doing.”
Illya shrugged. “Actually, I think that we should just call Mr. Waverly, tell him that his informant garbled his information and that it’s a small-town Pennsylvania celebration.”
“And when he asks us what Phil said?”
“You don’t think we can just tell him Phil predicited a long winter?” Illya stopped and thought. “I suppose not. Let’s look around for a souvenir stand. I’m sure Mr. Waverly would just be thrilled by a groundhog salt and pepper set.”
“Your idea, you give it to him,” Napoleon ordered.
Illya smiled as he opened the car’s door. “Certainly.”
Napoleon looked at him. “You are looking way too smug.”
Illya gave one of his rare grins. “I’m not the senior agent on the mission.”
Napoleon snorted. “You finally admit it.”
Illya’s grin grew bigger, if such a thing was possible. “Yes. I’m not the one who has to make the call to Mr. Waverly.” He got into the car hurriedly and shut the door, putting it between himself and Napoleon.
Napoleon got in the passenger’s seat, pulled out his communicator and gave his partner a speaking look. “Well, let’s find a motel and then go back to New York first thing in the morning.”
“As long as it’s not at three a.m.,” Illya agreed and then aimed the car out of the parking lot and for the highway.
Sources:
http://www.groundhog.org/
http://www.visitpa.com/
Punk's Town
by Periwinkle
by Periwinkle
“Punk’s Townie?”
Illya shrugged. “All I know is that Mr. Waverly is sending us to a place called ‘Punk’s Townie’ in Pennsylvania. One of our sources reported that a person there using the name of ‘Phil’ had the power to extend winter by six weeks. So he wants us to see if it’s a Thrush plot.”
“I’ve never heard of a place called ‘Punk’s Townie’.”
“Just because you never heard of it, doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. Can you name every town in the country?”
Napoleon sighed. “Pennsylvania in the winter. Lovely. Why would Phil want it to be longer?”
“Wouldn’t it disrupt the economy if there were storms in March?”
“I doubt it.” Napoleon stood up from his desk. “They are used to dealing with storms and snow in that area. As it is already, they expect snow until the month of April. Spring comes late in the Poconos.”
Illya stood up too. “Trust me; it arrives even later in Siberia. “But not as early as us. According to Mr.Waverly we have to meet Phil at 3 a.m. tomorrow. So we need to leave now.”
Napoleon gave him a look of utter disbelief. “3 a.m.? Is Phil nuts?”
“If he’s Thrush, it goes without saying he is.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The agents found their way to Pennsylvania without too much trouble. Punk’s Townie was a little harder. It was dark, and the road signs were tough to read. They had sketchy directions - “it’s somewhere near Route 80,” Research had said. Given that Route 80 ran the breadth of Pennsylvania, that was not much help.
So they crossed the Pocono Mountains and entered what was known as “The Pennsylvania Wilds” hoping to see a road sign. Unfortunately, they were having trouble locating any, although they located an elk. Or, more exactly, the elk discovered them by crossing the road in front of them, causing Illya, who was driving, to brake hard and mutter under his breath. Napoleon made a remark about Illya being right at home with the snow and wildlife. In return, his partner pointed out that no Russian in his right mind would be driving a convertible, even if the top were up, in the winter. In the dark. The car was cold and the inside of the window was beginning to frost up.
So was Illya. Napoleon rode for a while in a cold car, surrounded by a Siberian winter, biting his tongue. Finally, he could not stand it anymore and he spoke. “Hey, there’s a sign for a restaurant at the next intersection. Let’s pull off, get something to eat and ask the natives for directions.”
Illya’s mouth quirked. He knew Napoleon was trying to win him over with food. If Napoleon was willing to pay, Illya was willing to be won over. But not without making Napoleon work for forgiveness. He put on an innocent look. “Natives? I had always heard the Indians were good trackers.”
Napoleon sighed. “You know exactly what I mean. Stop giving me a hard time if you want me to pay for the amount of food that I can see you are planning to eat.”
“I’m planning on fueling up for a long cold winter.”
Napoleon just sighed again.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The diner was just like many other diners they had been in in the past. A long counter with red stools, some of which had ripped and had white lightening streaks of padding in them, and a few Formica tables in booths. The agents took a booth in the back where they could watch the front door and the rest rooms and waited for the waitress. Sadly for Napoleon's fun, the "waitress" turned out to be a heavy-set man with a beard thirteen hours beyond a twelve shave and an apron with grease spots down the front. The spots matched the ones on the menus.
“It must be good food,” Napoleon pointed out. “Look at all the truck drivers.”
“It must be the only diner in a hundred miles,” Illya responded. Still he ordered a meal – soup, sandwich, fries and coffee. Napoleon played it safe with a cheeseburger.
Actually, the food was quite good. It was also nice and warm and the coffee was steaming hot. The agents took a few minutes just to enjoy the warmth of the cups against their hands, but eventually they knew they had to get back on the road. They went up to the counter to pay at the cash register. The cook/owner/waiter, and probably chief bottle-washer, stepped over to ring them up. While he was doing so, Napoleon took the opportunity to ask, “Do you know of a place called ‘Punk’s Townie’?”
The owner looked puzzled, but he thought for a moment, then handed Napoleon back his change, along with a “nope.”
Illya tried again. “We may have the name slightly wrong. It sounded like ‘Punk’s Townie’ to us, though.”
His accent must have triggered something, because one of the men looked up. “Do you mean ‘Punxsutawney’?” There was a slight note of disbelief in his voice. “Are you gonna go see Punxsutawney Phil?”
The agents turned as one. “Well, yes. But how did you know?” Napoleon asked him.
The cook looked at him in astonishment. “You’re going to Punxsutawney for Groundhog Day and you don’t know about Punxsutawney Phil and the prediction?”
Napoleon shook his head. “I’m sorry. We really don’t know much about it. Could you give us some background?”
The cook reached behind him and took a salt and pepper set down from a shelf. “Well, this here is Phil…”
Illya picked up the salt shaker and looked at the yellow animal. “I beg your pardon, but just what type of animal is this? Some type of rodent?”
The man at the counter looked at him in disgust. “Rodent? It’s a groundhog. On Groundhog Day he comes out of his burrow. If he sees his shadow, we’ll have six more weeks of winter.”
“Oh,” was all Napoleon could say.
But, as shown by the gleam in his eyes, Illya’s scientific streak appeared. “How often is Phil accurate?”
Another diner entered into the discussion. “Well, as a rule, spring doesn’t come to this area until mid-March. Phil has predicted a long winter every year since 1951. Usually, he predicts a mild one about every tenth year.”
Napoleon had shook off his stupor. “Every ten years? When did Phil start doing this?”
The cook scratched his head. “Sometime at the turn of the century, wasn’t it, Joe?”
Joe turned out to be the man at the counter. “1887, if I remember correctly.”
“1887!” Napoleon’s voice actually squeaked on the last number. “Well, thank you so much, gentlemen. Have a cup of coffee on me for your trouble.” He handed the cook a few singles and headed out to the parking lot.
He could tell Illya was bursting to speak, but fortunately his partner maintained silence until they reached the parking lot.
“Napoleon, that can’t be right! No groundhog would live that long.”
“No groundhog would predict weather either.”
Illya got a pensive look. Napoleon recognized the look. It meant his partner was rummaging in his mental encyclopedia. Finally Illya spoke. “I wouldn’t say that. Remember, February second is Imbolc.”
“Imbolc?”
“It was a pagan holiday celebrated by the Celts. They thought that if a hibernating animal cast a shadow on Imbolc, winter would last another six weeks. The legend said spring would come early if there wasn’t any shadow.”
Napoleon tipped his head and looked at his partner. “You think Thrush is using an old Celtic legend? It wouldn’t be the oddest thing I’ve ever heard of them doing.”
Illya shrugged. “Actually, I think that we should just call Mr. Waverly, tell him that his informant garbled his information and that it’s a small-town Pennsylvania celebration.”
“And when he asks us what Phil said?”
“You don’t think we can just tell him Phil predicited a long winter?” Illya stopped and thought. “I suppose not. Let’s look around for a souvenir stand. I’m sure Mr. Waverly would just be thrilled by a groundhog salt and pepper set.”
“Your idea, you give it to him,” Napoleon ordered.
Illya smiled as he opened the car’s door. “Certainly.”
Napoleon looked at him. “You are looking way too smug.”
Illya gave one of his rare grins. “I’m not the senior agent on the mission.”
Napoleon snorted. “You finally admit it.”
Illya’s grin grew bigger, if such a thing was possible. “Yes. I’m not the one who has to make the call to Mr. Waverly.” He got into the car hurriedly and shut the door, putting it between himself and Napoleon.
Napoleon got in the passenger’s seat, pulled out his communicator and gave his partner a speaking look. “Well, let’s find a motel and then go back to New York first thing in the morning.”
“As long as it’s not at three a.m.,” Illya agreed and then aimed the car out of the parking lot and for the highway.
Sources:
http://www.groundhog.org/
http://www.visitpa.com/
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