“So you’re going to go through with it, then.” Grand Alf the Gizzard said slowly, pushing back his tall, pointy grey hat, and knocking a charred clot of pipeweed into his palm from the bowl of his long-stemmed pipe.
“I am,” Frito replied. “I’ve been planning this for a long time. I feel I need a holiday—a very long holiday. I feel all thin. Sort of stretched, really, like a packet of MRE peanut butter scraped over too much Pilot Bread. I want to see mountains again Grand Alf, and then find somewhere where I can rest in peace and quiet without a lot of relatives prying around. I might even find somewhere I can shoot a moose.”
Grand Alf the Grey scratched his long beard, discovering something therein which he popped delightedly into his mouth. His shaggy eyebrows shrugged sharply as he looked keenly at Frito. “I believe your plan probably is best. Have you packed your gear?”
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