I Couldn't Make This Stuff Up

Series Four:

Thursday, October 7, 2010 at 3:43pm:

An employee called me over the walkie-talkie pretty freaked out, claiming we had to stop production immediately and that I needed to get down there right away so they could show me something.

My first question is always, "Is there blood? Did someone lose a finger?"

"No, no," they replied, it was something "much worse."

Even for a fat bastard, it less than :45 seconds for me to get from my office to the other side of the plant. When I arrived, the two of them were standing there looking dazed and one of them had a wad of paper towels in their hand.

"What the hell is that?" I demanded.

"Paper towels."

"What is IN the paper towels?"

"Oh, well, lemme tell ya what happened here. I was getting ready to start another batch and I see this cricket walk across my work table, and then it hops onna floor and starts walking toward that door right there."

"Right, and?"

"Well, I jumped off the steps, caused it spooked me pretty good, and then I ran over to scoop Little Fella up."

"Uh-huh. So, did you get hurt? What is in the damn paper towel?"

"Oh, Little Fella."

"The cricket?"

"Hey! That's a good name for him! 'Little Fella, the Cricket'!" The other employee smiled and nodded in agreement.

"Give me the paper towel."

"What are you gonna do with him?" They asked, the wad of paper towels inching toward a pocket.

"Give me the paper towel."

"You're not gonna kill Little Fella, are ya?"

"No, heavens no. I'm going to take Little Fella outside to the soccer field behind the building, and then kiss him on the forehead and release the creature back unto Nature, where he will be truly happy and free. Okay? Now, give me the paper towel."

And then we had this ridiculous, bittersweet, Disney-esque scene as one of the employees got a little misty as they said goodbye to "Little Fella", but knew they were doing the right thing, no matter how it did pain the heart.

"Thank you. Now get back to work. Start mixing, now!" Little Fella left this plane of existence about three seconds later after I turned the corner and smashed him into the wall and threw him in the trash.

In that small space of time, the rumor mill produced a story that somebody HAD lost a finger, and I in turn spent a good portion of time the rest of the night fielding absurd questions, quelling concerns, and generally telling my crew to get the hell back to work.