As a seasoned reporter, receiving cryptic messages from my editor was nothing out of the ordinary. However, when Stan Dirkson’s text simply read “get bogfoot,” I found myself navigating the mysterious world of cryptic instructions. With my typical journalistic diligence, I fired back, “who? where?” only to receive an ambiguous response: “don’t be sutpid in woods.”
Intrigued and slightly bewildered, I decided to heed Stan’s advice and embarked on a cautious journey to the local State Forest, known for its boggy landscapes. Armed with a sense of adventure and a touch of skepticism, I set out to uncover the truth behind the elusive Bogfoot.
Navigating the forest trails around a peat bog, I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of anxiety. The cautionary image of becoming a “bog mummy” lingered in my mind, a fate I was not willing to succumb to, especially considering my history with the living dead. As I treaded carefully, my eyes scanned the surroundings, seeking any sign of the mythical Bogfoot.
It was during this careful exploration that I stumbled upon an unexpected acquaintance – our local sasquatch. Our encounters had been sporadic, and while I wouldn’t classify us as friends, a casual camaraderie had developed over time – we were certainly friendly.. Curiosity overcoming me, I questioned the towering creature about the enigmatic Bogfoot.
In response, the sasquatch offered no words but extended a colossal hand. In an impromptu exchange, I handed him the last remnants of my granola bar, which he devoured with surprising haste. His curiosity not yet satisfied, he proceeded to rummage through my backpack, eating my lunch and leaving me temporarily befuddled. To cap off this bizarre encounter, he shoved me to the ground and delivered a few light kicks – a humiliating inversion of my own high school days.
Returning to my editor with a mix of excitement and bewilderment, I regretfully admitted that I hadn’t uncovered the legendary Bogfoot. However, Stan had moved on to a new fixation: a heated rant on Mothman being merely a winged version of Dogman, who’s just a werewolf anyway. The man’s ever-shifting interests left me exasperated, and I couldn’t help but harbor a growing disdain for his whimsical obsessions.
My pursuit of Bogfoot led me through a maze of caution, damaged friendships, and peculiar encounters. While the legendary creature eluded my grasp, the journey itself revealed the absurdity that often accompanies investigative reporting. As for Stan Dirkson’s eccentricities, I must admit that I hate the man, and his entire staff.
Mohammed Sinclair
