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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic


When Eggy and Bummer dine at the Styx Dive Bar, they devise an ill-advised plan.
ill-advised was the last of their problems.


A  Short  Story

Nicholas Cochran


Egbert always remembered the admonition—or advice: follow the money. What he did not remember, was this hackneyed trope did not apply to black bears. 

At the same time, born with the wattage of a fridge bulb, Eggy Von Walnutter lived dangerously down to his name, one he affixed to himself after twenty-eight years as John Smith. Who knows where the Egbert came from, but the Von Walnutter came from some horrible Christmas experience revolving around a nutcracker, some walnuts, and a dingbat Aunt named Jezebelly Barnburnt, who, along with her sister, harbored the genes of a moron and the I. Q. of a squirrel. 

Eggy was always game for anything that would allow him to transcend the lunacy of his self-affixation, a last name that provided guffaws for Scrabble players and sniggers for porn lovers.

Eggy, a tiny fellow of barely five and a half feet, subconsciously thrust his idiotic handle upon himself in hopes of getting better dates. All he got were strange dames who were only interested in his name; and often had handles that were definitely in the ball-park of dumbdom; such as Romanee Fluke or Elteezer Flunder. In fact, Eggy believed these wannabes called into question his uniqueness and stuck most of them with the tab at Eggy’s favorite suds bar, The Styx. He told Jonchostag, the Rumanian bartender, to give them a couple of free ones, on him, as long as they didn’t pursue him.

Big Jonchostag was referred to as Big J. by any and all who found his name a Mensa test for the Pronunciation Team. Big J. had muscles in his ear lobes from steroids, whey powder, garlic, and twelve hours a day at Gold’s. Be that as it may, Big J.’s hearing was not affected. He followed Eggy’s requests with a sweet fealty. Big J. considered Eggy a substitute for a pound-bound pooch and addressed him in growls and coaxes; a routine, once seen, never ever willingly remembered; or referred to again, unless called as a witness and sworn to tell the truth or be forced to listen to Lawrence Welk albums twenty-four/seven in a room decorated by Liberace. 

Eggy gave his usual instruction to Big J regarding Miss Bumbley Snootbugger, a comely lass with no more sense than her name would suggest. She was about to tie into her second freebie when Eggy returned and apologized for his behavior. One of the regulars hailed Eggy on exiting the threshold of The Styx and advised him said Miss B. was loaded—in addition to her brassiere—with coin; tons of it.

Daddy was up to his goofy little arse in Amazon stock. He bought the stock under the mistaken impression he was buying real estate along the river where Hilton and Hassler were fighting like polecats for rights to buy the only available land on which to build crappy accommodations. As a result, J. Beringsford Snootbugger never checked out his purchase of forty thousand shares until Jeff Bezos started talking about drone delivery, an idea, J. B. thought very impressive. In truth, the Snootbugger man barely retained a dim notion of the transaction. Thus, by some twisted knickers of fate, Snootbugger, Esq. discovered he had—by mere dint of waking up each morning—grown eighteen per share into sixteen hundred and twenty per share. Bumbley’s imbecilic paterfamilias was now worth over sixty-four mill. Ms. Bumbley was an only child, and a hundred times smarter than her wingnut daddy-o, a man who persisted in demanding shares in Bear Stearns, nine years after they went belly up.  

Eggy decided to sidestep the root of her singular nom de plume and investigate both the brassiere and the sixty-four mill with a more balanced approach. At the same time, he sensed a feeling of self-betrayal. After six years of dating only women with extra-planetary names, he thought that perhaps he was letting down the goofball side and edging toward normalcy. This ‘normalcy’ bit was an area where Eggy was a stranger, but . . . there was that brassiere; or rather the stupendous residents of same, yearning to be free, crying out for relief, release, and ruffling. On second appraisal, Eggy saw Ms. B. through a different prism: call it the refraction of action, both physical and monetary. Eggy saw Ms. B. as an angel draped in the serene beauty of green and gold, with flecks of platinum and silver. 

He re-entered the booth of recent occupation, gently slid B. along the worn leather of her side of the booth, and quickly parked himself on the other while he snapped his fingers for Big. J. to bring a menu. This renewed interest of Eggman, as she misheard his soi-disant Christian name, suitably impressed Bummer, as she was known to friends and foes  Yet, she wondered very hard what it could possible be that caused him to do a one eighty—and so quickly. She unconsciously adjusted her bra in an automatic action born of years fending and fighting off breast hounds. 

As noted, Eggy was hardly the man of letters found on a Common at Oxford. Nevertheless, Eggy  acquired a certain idiot-savant capacity to be surprisingly gallant with the distaff side when there were ulterior motives in play. Eggy figured there were three in play here and only one of them was money. Bum beamed. Eggy beamed back, and gently took her hand in his. “I have been a blind fool, Bumbley. I apologize for my behavior and ask your forgiveness;” He finished up with an exaggerated leer that summoned the Joker to mind. 

“Oh, Eggy . . . you may call me Bum.” Instantly, Eggy’s mind positively danced with the multitude of references Bum provided to his vocabulary and idioms. Tickle-my; pinch-my; swat-my; release-my; let’s hear it for the; mad. Bummer continued to smile while Big J. handed them menus. They clucked and chortled over the meager menu offering the usual dive delights. That was when the Black Bear Steak jumped out into the conversation. “Wow!”“Awesome!” “Boss!”  Eggy couldn’t resist: “Rich!” He anxiously watched for any reaction from his Bum. He  detected nothing beyond the semi-drool while she thought about bear meat. 

They both ordered the bear. Eggy had to ask how a bar like The Styx, latched onto a supply of such a rare delicacy. Big J. shrugged and gutteralled a ‘how the Christ should I know?’ before leaving them still wondering where, how, and by whom was this sensational culinary treat caught, killed, skinned, and delivered. All these scintillating questions arrived at the same moment in the cranial compartments of the two dip-Styx diners. They immediately stared at each other, daring the other to make the first remark about the quest they should—must undertake; right after demolishing the bear and vacuuming in several horns of Bud.

Giggling and gurgling, they made their way to Eggy’s pad where they undressed each other and then fell forward onto the bed into the deep sleep of overexcited gonads and far too much booze. They woke up at separate times during the night and put on their clothes before falling once more into a deep doze. 

Shortly after waking for real, Eggy was not surprised to see himself dressed. What did shake him a tad, was the sight of Bum, also fully clothed, but with her blouse and her bra on backwards. He shook his head a few times and told himself that he would work them—all that—out later.

Upon discovering her garmental confusion, Bummer gave a strong peep and disappeared into the bathroom. A few moments later she strode out and kept on walking until she reached Eggy’s front door. Eggy rushed to stop her leaving, assured her he had nothing to do with her disarranged clothing, and he still wanted her to accompany him on the hunt for the Bears of The Styx. 

This was the seminal point in the Eggy-Bummer saga. Either of them could have quashed their dippy desires to follow the Black Bear. But both feared the other would consider them both wussy and irrelevant. They both possessed enough character to know their courage as well as their ability to commit, was under fire. Only a positive agreement to undertake the hunt would suffice to secure their continuing relationship. Eggy’s mind was full of 37D cups and a chain of Black Bear Drive-ins across the Continent, paid for with Bum’s millions. Bum’s mind was full of wild adventures and outdoor sex under the stars while they stalked their quarry. It took some time for Eggy to persuade Bummer they were doing this only to trace the supply chain, not to kill the poor things; guys in the chain would do that. This left Bum with only thoughts of un-cupping under the stars, which was okay; she figured.


Two months after their first Styx date, they were following a gang of rustlers and poachers. The intrepid duo was tracking the bad guys somewhere very close to; and, at times, damn well inside Yellowstone National Park. Night sprung upon them while they were cuddling beside a campfire next to the Yellowstone River.

Alarmingly, they heard several shouts of panic issuing from the tents of the rustler-poaching rabble. More serious shrieks of amputation and maiming followed these frightening cries.  

Eggy jumped up while Bum recupped. In a flash, they raced toward the source of the escalating slaughter. As he turned the bend of the fire road and ran toward the howling of hell, the memory of a chat with his father beaned Eggy, when the old man told him that you should always follow the money, but never follow . . .damn; it just wasn’t there! Then it was there; it and four more much larger than the first.

All the Rangers found was Eggy’s belt and a 37D cup brassiere.




Submitted: February 10, 2016

© Copyright 2021 Nicholas Cochran. All rights reserved.

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