“Creed, I require your assistance.”

He spooned his pea and vodka soup.

What was that sound? A squirrel? Didgeridoo?

“Creed!”

He looked up. It was Scharutey.

“Jim is a menace—

He understood, and stood up.

“In ’63 I killed a Hippopotamus with a blowgun.”

“Why aren’t you wearing pants?”

He was confused.

"Because it's Tuesday."