Magnus the Busboy, Part 12

The WG, ensconced in her boudoire, sensed that something was amiss. I better go check the Lady’s Comfort Station. So She did. Mercy! The WG had never seen such a mess, not only Magnus, but a besotted elderly Druid occupied the Lady’s. The place was a mess. It was indescribable.

Can’t an old lady, burdened with all the cares of the globe, rest up for a minute?, thought the WG. Land Sakes Alive! Here is a crime against nature, right under my nose. Twrch Trwyth, She hollered, let none depart. Evil has been done right under my nose. We shall have to root it out.

The mighty pig sauntered toward the crack.

The WG herself toted Magnus to his own little bed in the indoor sty that Magnus shared with Twrch Trwyth. Cerridwen doctored Magnus up. There now, Magnus, you shall be almost your old self in no time.

What happened?

Never mind that now Magnus. Rest your weary noggin. Go to sleep.

Magnus went to sleep.

Meantime, Twrch Trwyth, had ensconced himself before the crack facing indoors. Nothing, once Twrch Trwyth was ensconced on that spot, in the posture he assumed, could get past him. Not even King Arthur, escorted by three fifties of his braver knights, could get past Twrch Trwyth, even if they had been present at the WG Bar and Grill that night.

Near panic ensued among the paying customers. All the paying customers plus the elderly Druids sensed that somewhat was amiss, but none knew whatever of that somewhat. Even the besotted elderly Druid, first on the crime scene, knew not whatever.

Cerridwen, once She got Magnus doctored up and tucked into his own little bed, wearily made Her way to the Dining and Gaming Area. The place was a mess. All the tables needed busing. The elderly Druids sat besotted at their table, four heads lolling. The regular paying customers eyed Twrch Trwyth nervously. What’s coming down?, they all wondered. Are we fixing to get busted?

Cerridwen allowed Herself to grow quite a bit bigger. Then, assuming Her spelling voice, She spelled: The bar is closed. Twrch Trwyth shall see that no one sneaks out the front crack until I get all this sorted out. While I am sorting all this out, everyone shall enjoy a nice big bowl of creamed corn. Daughter, Grand Daughter, fetch everyone a nice big bowl of creamed corn. Oh! And since we are short handed, minus Magnus, I shall bus tables, myself. Won’t that be nice. I shall have the opportunity to visit with each of My paying customers, and potential paying customers, individually. By the way, the delicious creamed corn is on the house. I the WG, expect that every one of you, paying and potential paying customers alike, shall clean your bowl of creamed corn. Waste not, want not.

Now, where is the wheelbarrow?

It’s behind the feed trough, Granny.

Yes. So it is. I shall have this joint spiffy in a jiffy. Plus, the truth shall come out. Oh yes. The truth, shall come out.

There are some food items that a normal person might normally eschew. One of those food items might be creamed corn. Magnus, for example, avoided partaking of the creamed corn whenever possible or practical. So in a way, Magnus was already lucky. Getting assaulted saved him from the creamed corn.

But everyone else present, with the exception of the Triplet Goddess and Twrch Trwyth, had to face down a larruping big bowl of creamed corn. Many have speculated, Is creamed corn, better, if I am drunk? Or, is creamed corn better, if I am sober? Or, maybe I should enjoy a joint appetizer, first. Many have also speculated, What condiments might I add to this creamed corn, for the sake of toothsomeness, gum-ly-ness, or general edibility. There is salt. There is vinegar. There is pepper. There are the various Solanaceous extracts, including ketchup. There is, more, sugar. Or, for the serious sweet tooth, there is, molasses. Good Goddess! I must be careful what I do to my larruping big bowl of creamed corn, considering I must eat it all.

On the other hand, a normal person may be generally normal, but short a toofer or two. Creamed corn is friendly to the toofer short. Also, a normal person, perhaps wearied by life’s travails, or starving, and not fretful over the consistency of the repast, might spoon up a bowl of creamed corn with much satisfied smacking. Yes. Taking a cross section of the generally normal populace, one discovers a gamut of reactions to creamed corn.

The WG wheeled Her barrow from this table to that table. Hold up your bowls of creamed corn, on high!

The patrons at that table obliged. Then, once the creamed corn bowls were held on high, the WG, employing her big left arm, swiped the major and unfixed detritus off that table into the wheel barrow. Then, employing her big right arm, She swiped up the rest of the detritus, the fixed detritus, with Her magical dish cloth.

That particular dish cloth is, like many of the WG’s personal items, noteworthy for interesting characteristics. It never wears out. It releases any sticky detritus it picks up, on command from the WG, into the wheelbarrow. Consequently, it is never dirty for long. It is only intermittently, dirty. It may be employed, on a great many nasty surfaces, not just tables. For example, the WG had only recently used it to wipe Magnus down. Yet, by the time She wiped up the first table, Her dishcloth was perfectly sanitary. Not one molecule of Magnus juice was on that dishcloth when the WG wiped up that first table. Then also, it dries itself up, on the WG’s command. So, She does not have to carry around a wet dish cloth in Her apron pocket.

Her apron, by the way, is also noteworthy for interesting characteristics. That apron pocket, for example, is marvelously capacious. When Twrch Trwyth was a piglet, or more properly speaking, a shoat, the WG sometimes toted him around in that pocket, even outside. So basically, any size object there is, fits in that pocket.

Once Cerridwen, the senior most of the WG had the first table wiped up, She commanded, Keep seated paying customers, enjoy your creamed corn. Once I get all the tables bused and wiped, I shall return. Then we shall enjoy a nice interrogation. All righty then. If any of you require a trip to the comfort station, you may go once nature calls. But police yourself. All righty then.

None of those paying customers were innocent. They were all guilty of something or other. Consequently, everyone of those paying customers had a guilty conscience. Yes. They were all evil doers, one way or another. So even the evil doers that actually liked the creamed corn, had a hard time enjoying themselves.