The Absolutely True Adventures of Orphan Bob and The Killer Strawberries

Prologue

Some people call me a bold-faced liar. Funny thing is, I can only recall fibbing once and that got me into a lot of trouble with Sister Schadenfreude at the Turk Broda Sisters of Mercy Orphanage and Charm School where I was raised. “Sin” was a four letter word there and “lying” was the biggest four letter word of them all. I told my last lie on February 3, 1956. I still bear the scars today.

Chapter 1- The Raffle

Sometimes it’s best to start in the middle and work your way out. Sort of like eating an Oreo cookie. So that’s what I am going to do.

My best friend this week, and for the last 857 weeks has been Red Greenfield, also known to his teammates on the Killer Strawberries Hockey and Gentlemen’s Club as The Vice, short for Vice Ice Marshal. He presides magisterially over The Compound For Minor Vice on Driftwood Lake, but only when his life companion, the unflappable Madame LaChaise Lounge is not around. She is frequently absent from the Compound and can usually be found tearing strips off the numbskulls who run the provincial Government. When she is around, the Compound is run a little differently than under her paramour’s dictatorship. I still go there when she is residence, especially when I feel the urge to improve my posture or to relearn the meaning of the word “obsequious”. I owe a lot of the humility in my humble nature to her firm tutelage.

Not only is The Vice is good hockey player in his own mind, he’s a darned good procrastinator. He once burned down his house just to get rid of a pile of dirty dishes which had accumulated during one of Madame Lachaise’s absences. In any event, my friend, the Vice, is an avid Leafs fan…maybe a little too avid according to his amateur psychologist and sometimes defence partner, Dr. Bonehead Butc her Brophey.

Last February 2, in the Year of Our Lord MMMMXXOX, The Vice’s and my much maligned Leafs, heartbreakers extraordinaire, were to play the hated Senators in Ottawa, the City That Fell Asleep. Now, The Vice is a very lucky man…luckier than good…much luckier. I had bought for him at Christmas a small yet significant $2.00 token our friendship. It turned out to be the winning raffle ticket for the game against the Senators. Not only did he win a pair of once-in-a-lifetime tickets on the glass at the blueline, he also got princely accommodation for two at the same hotel where the Leafs would be staying. Upon learning of his great fortune, he was delirious with joy. I think he may have wet his pants too.

Upon hearing of The Vice’s good fortune, I waited by the phone, deliciously anticipating the invitation to Ottawa. But a strangely ominous silence emanated from the Compound for over 72 hours. And then, out of the silence, a heart-wrenching missive appeared on the Vice’s internet vanity site. The scoundrel was going to run a contest to determine who would go with him to see the sainted Leafs. I clutched my choking heart and almost passed out from the pain of disillusionment. My buddy, my favourite abettor in escapades best left unreported, had failed me miserably.

Once I regained what remained of my composure, I dialed the Compound’s unlisted number (705-456-8743) and caught the Vice at home, mixing margaritas in his bathtub. In his most unctuous voice, he explained to me that he had not yet got around to purchasing a Christmas present (already over two weeks late) for his impudent spawn, The Brat. He wanted to make up for his inexcusable procrastination by allowing her the opportunity to make a reasoned claim on the second half of his raffle prize. I understood his dilemma immediately, having met The Brat on several regrettable occasions.

I will not go into the sickening sycophantic depths to which The Brat sank on this occasion. Suffice it say that she tugged unashamedly upon her poor father’s aging heartstrings. What was truly galling was the fact that The Brat wasn’t after the extra ticket at all. She hates sports, men and little rabbits. What she wanted was to get even with me for outsmarting her on numerous previous situations. Hell hath no fury like a woman scotched.

Reluctantly, I decided to enter the contest, an underdog at best. With the fumes of unforeseen betrayal still lingering in my sobbing bosom, I composed myself and my thoughts. It was the first time I would ever let anyone know so much of my hidden past. My entry follows.

TO BE CONTINUED