I found a Spingle with my dog today. It’s wicked bad. I haven’t made up any magic powers for it yet, but my dog is working on that right now. Dead dogs can come up with good stuff when they’re sitting outside the library, tied to a bicycle rack.

So what’s a Spingle? I’m not quite sure yet, but it’s halfway between a Gomicker and a Hickspangle. My dog is good at coming up with names for the stuff we find. Except that one thing; I still don’t know what it is.

After finding the Spingle, I ran into Cracky down by the river. Cracky walked up to me with a twinkle in his eye (the glass one), rubbing his grubby hands together and tossing shifty looks back and forth . . . all shifty and stuff.

He said, “Hey Hobo,” in his trademark jittery voice. “Wanna know somethin’ nasty?”

“Sure,” I said, knowing that Cracky is always good for new information.

With that, he let loose a long, retched beer and taco fart into one hand and smothered my face with his greasy palm. Coughing and choking, with tears in my eyes, I jumped back gasping for air, but I could already taste it in my stomach. Oh man, not a good taste! Not like tacos at all!

“Now you know,” muttered Cracky in a raspy tone as he walked away.

Yes, that was something nasty. But now I know. What a good friend Cracky is, always giving me new information and stuff. I bet he was brewing that one up all day for me. Sure tasted like it.