Bancroft thought of himself as a visionary.  Here and there in the Foggy Bottoms Resort and Spa he could be seen looking towards the future.  His conversations were delivered in the form or pronouncements.  Few, except the Face of Everyman, could understand such sayings as: a rising tide can lift the Titanic.  No one dared ask for the time of day for fear of being forced to listen to something akin to a ruling from a high court.


Barclay wanted to write his memoir.  He sought out the Face of Everyman.  Should he balance his heroic war stories with remembrances of his bucolic life here at the Foggy Bottoms Resort and Spa?   Well”, said the venerable sage, “I’d devote a chapter to each battle and see how that goes.”  “Then each love affair”.  “Wrap those with chapters of recollections of  life here at FBRS, your achievements at the Montetorkie school and in NASCAR sports”.  “My guess?” “After three years of hard work; ‘Bob’s your uncle'”.


Each day former lodgers of the Foggy Bottoms Resort and Spa stopped to say hello to the Face of Everyman.  Robespierre was noncommittal about whether or not the venerable sage would get to meet any of his new family.  Container plantings purchased by the kindly ol’ pensioner didn’t really have enough undergrowth for good nest building.  Perhaps, he and Cozette, would return when the plantings offered more mature cover.


Police detectives from the village circulated this file photo of Robespierre.  There had been inquires from guests of the Foggy Bottoms Resort and Spa about bogus social media stock purchased from a bird fitting his description.  the Face of Everyman “vaguely” remembered printing a few artfully engraved stock certificates.  In fact he took a flyer and bought a hundred shares.  Naturally, in awkward situations like this, the venerable sage remained mute.