A New Dimension: Chapter Twenty Two

        “Private Chuck-Bob!”
        “Yessir!  Right here sir.”
        “Private Chuck-Bob, we’ve got them.”
        “The chicken and its accomplices.  We’ve got them.”
        “Sir?  How do you figure sir?”
        “I’ve just been on the phone with my contacts back at HQ, private Chuck-Bob.  They got a ping this afternoon.”
        “A ping?  Sir?”
        “A hit.  Private-Chuck Bob.  A hit.”
        “Ah, a hit.  Uh, what kind of hit, sir?”
        “The kind that means we’ve got them, Private Chuck-Bob.”
        “Right, we’ve got them.  Sir.  Uh, sir?  If we’ve got them, where are they sir?”
        “Don’t ask questions!  Private Chuck-Bob, do you realize how important this might be?”
        “Sir!  Yessir!  I understand, sir.  No questions.  Sir.”
        “Pull the Jeep around, Private Chuck-Bob.”
        “Yessir!  Uh, sir.  Where are we going?  Sir?”
        “I’ll tell you on the way, Private Chuck-Bob.  Just get the Jeep.”
        “Now we’ll finally have that chicken.  Now the world will be safe again.  Now HQ will recognize my true genius as a military leader . . . ah, Private Chuck-Bob, that was quick.  Well done, Private Chuck-Bob.”
        “Thank you sir.  Hop in, sir.”
        “Colonels don’t ‘hop in’ Private Chuck-Bob, we enter vehicles with dignified grace.  Like so.”
        “Wow, sir, that was dignified.  And graceful, sir.  So.  Sir?  Where are we headed.”
        “To the Baltimore Shipping Port, Private Chuck-Bob.”
        “Roger that . . . uh if I may, sir?”
        “You may, Private Chuck-Bob.  You may.”
        “Thank you sir, but why are we going there, sir?”
        “Because, Private Chuck-Bob, that’s where the ping came from.”
        “Ping.  Right, sir.  The ping.  How do you know it’s real?  Sir?”
        “Well, I was hoping you’d ask that – there!  Take that exit!  That was close, Private Chuck-Bob, we almost ended up in Washington.”
        “Ah, yes, where was I?  The ping.  The ping came from a private security guard at the Port.  He claims to have stopped a young man and a young woman.”
        “But we’re looking for a  young man and a chicken.  Sir.”
        “Correct!  Private Chuck-Bob.  Correct.  But this young woman was carrying a bowling ball case!”
        “Sir?  I’m not sure I follow, sir.  It sounds like a young couple who like bowling.”
        “Think!  Private Chuck-Bob.  Think for just a moment.  What would fit nicely into a bowling ball bag?”
        “Uh . . . a  . . . a, uh bowling ball?”
        “Yes, yes, Private Chuck-Bob, a bowling ball would fit into a bowling ball bag.  But something more . . . sinister . . . could fit into that bowling ball bag . . .”   
        “Uh, sir?  Like a toaster?  Sir?  I’ve never trusted toasters. Maybe it’s one that’s on the fritz like and when you plugged it in it . . .”
        “No!  Private Chuck-Bob!  I. Am. Not. Talking. About. A. Toaster!  I’m talking, Private Chuck-Bob, about a certain brown colored avian threat to national security.  A certain probably-a-terrorist fowl, Private Chuck-Bob.  I’m talking . . . about a chicken!

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