There was a loose baseboard near the floor register. Frank pried it off with a butter knife. Two beady, accusatory eyes stared out from the darkness. Beans was wedged between the studs, coated in chili, vibrating with a kind of profound, furry fury. He looked like a mutant hot dog that had lost a fight with a blender.
It came from the wall.
The quandary presented itself on a Tuesday. Frank had made his "Famous Five-Alarm Memorial Day Chili" for a neighborhood potluck. It contained three types of beans, ghost peppers, and a secret splash of espresso. It was, by all accounts, a masterpiece. He’d left the pot on the counter to cool, lid slightly ajar. the frank and beans quandary
Frank owned the pot. Frank was a structural engineer with a tidy mind and a three-ring binder for his grocery receipts. Beans owned the small, damp apartment above Frank’s garage. Beans was a rescued ferret with a genius for mischief and a particular vendetta against zippers. There was a loose baseboard near the floor register
Here was the true quandary: to pull the ferret out meant enduring more bites, more chili, and the distinct possibility of getting his hand stuck. To leave the ferret meant dismantling the wall with a sledgehammer, which his landlord would not appreciate. Beans was wedged between the studs, coated in
Then he heard it: a tiny, wet hork . A sound that speaks of regret, of chili-induced reflux, of a creature questioning every life choice that led to that moment.
It started, as these things often do, with a pot of chili and a tragic lack of foresight.