Rocky, Jr. pleaded with his Mom. He didn’t want to go home. The Foggy Bottoms Resort and Spa had the best garbage cans and the freshest water for miles around. Mom wasn’t hearing any excuses. She was afraid that the Face of Everyman would give Junior some uppity ideas about earning a living and paying taxes.
Uncle Louie was a renown Crawdad Caller. The family sought out his unique skills to prove once and for all the question of crawdads in the Foggy Bottoms Resort and Spa. Unca’ Louie would start with a low moan and work up to a piercing shriek. Supposedly this would cause any fresh water crayfish to rise to the surface for an easy harvest. About then the Face of Everyman awoke with a start. If they’d only asked, he could have told them.
the Face of Everyman felt as tho’ he were in a Shakespearean play. Treachery seemed everywhere. Alas, to sleep, perchance to dream . . . Roving bandits seemed to control the entire Foggy Bottoms Resort and Spa. If only Batman and Robin hadn’t retired. The venerable sage deeply regretted yard-selling the search light used to summon the dynamic duo.
State Fish and Wildlife inspectors were dumbfounded to realize that Rocky was actually washing his peanut butter sandwich. They replayed the footage of the Foggy Bottoms Resort and Spa security camera again and again. It was the Face of Everyman who verified their findings. Orts had drifted his way and channeled his dreams into a series of gastronomic delights.
Ever since Rocky was laid off as a cartoon cell animation artist time weighed heavily on his hands. His waking hours were spent foraging and streaming hospital dramas on TV. He easily relates to the brave surgeons who scrub their hands with great care before each difficult operation. He often asks the Face of Everyman when there might be a hospital built on the Foggy Bottoms Resort and Spa. He is eager to start operating. The venerable sage thought of calling in a Code 5150; but his masked friend seemed harmless enough; at least at this stage.
The Holiday season of Good Cheer seemed everywhere in the Foggy Bottoms Resort and Spa; so much so that the Face of Everyman lost track of how much Eggnog he was serving his guests. He was dismayed to see that little Elvis had been licking the swizzle sticks. Even that small amount was more than a youngster’s stomach could handle. The venerable sage asked his Mom to take him home while he could still walk.
Once again “Boxcar” Johnson had violated the terms of his parole. He was often lonely. As the only lodger of the halfway house at the Foggy Bottoms Resort and Spa he came and went pretty much as he pleased except when Security cameras caught him otherwise. Seen above, well after midnight, talking to the Face of Everyman. It didn’t matter that it was Chaos Theory or even String Theory; he was going down.