The Littlest Hobo Makes a "Friend"

The Littlest Hobo should, by all rights, be one of the saddest people alive, but he'd never know it. Hiding from hail nearly as large as himself beneath a fir tree that has become thoroughly devoted to dropping every last one of its pine cones on him, the delight in his face cannot be conveyed. "How can this be?" you may ask, and I will answer. During his brief, unexpected respite at a nearby asylum, The Littlest Hobo had made a new friend. A friend who would never, who was, in fact, physically incapable of, abandoning him. Now, you are likely asking yourself, "What sort of wondrous friend is this, and where can I find one?" To this question, I insist that Brutus the "Gentle" Sock Puppet is far from a wondrous creation. And yet, for better or for worse, only time will tell which, The Littlest Hobo could not disagree more strongly. It is, after all, in his nature to see wonder in all things, and his loving devotion to Brutus is a powerful reminder of this.

Now, there is certainly no innate harm in befriending a puppet, but that is only the case so long as one understands that the puppet is not its own being but merely a facade for one's self. Whether The Littlest Hobo knows this about his new companion, though, cannot be known, yet. And if Brutus' darker side comes to bear, then he will prove himself a fell companion indeed.

You see, Brutus' previous master, his creator in fact, was a troubled soul. A borderline schizophrenic with a debt to society that few would believe one man could incur. For the benefit if young ears, we will not describe his exploits here, but believe me when I say that they were many and that each was particularly grim in its own way. Having spent years locked away, not seeing any improvement, one of the great many psychiatric practitioners hoping for his improvement had an idea: perhaps, if this patient could find an external outlet for his appetitive urges, it might be possible for the man buried beneath them to be reached.

I cannot fault the poor fool for doing what he could to provide more effective therapy for such a thoroughly broken individual. And had things continued to go as they began, we would not be writing this tale -- or at least not this particular one. In his early days, Brutus lived up to his name. He was affectionate and loving -- if perhaps overly so. As Brutus sat and nuzzled playfully at those around him, our inmate began to open up. The staff were not surprised to find that neglectful and abusive parents had led the inmate to his current state, and fear of further neglect had contributed to his crimes.

Things were going well, until the day that one poor therapist, pushed beyond his comfort zone, denied Brutus his physical advances. It was at this point that the asylum was reminded why the man attached to Brutus was in their midst. Brutus the Gentle Sock Puppet took his first life that day, in a manner so ironic and so gruesome that I can scarcely begin to describe it. In an instant, the act was over, and this is where The Littlest Hobo enters the picture.

Suddenly aware of the danger that Brutus the Gentle Sock Puppet and his utterly unrestrained emotions posed, the asylum proprietors decided, post-haste, to place the inmate in solitary confinement. Unfortunately, the room into which they placed him wasn't unoccupied so much as its lone inhabitant was so small as to not earn their attention. You see, in the hopes of finding shelter from those pesky owls, The Littlest Hobo had wandered into the asylum that very afternoon. Upon seeing a room that appeared to be covered in pillows, he immediately wandered in and fell asleep.

He awoke that evening with a jolt to find Brutus the Gentle Sock Puppet happily nibbling at his tiny knees. Delighted by the strange creature growing out of the arm of the quiet man who sat next to him, The Littlest Hobo gently stroked Brutus betwixt the eyes and fell back asleep. In large part because The Littlest Hobo has no concept of personal space, he and Brutus quickly became good friends. It did not take long, however, for the asylum staff to realize that this dangerous prisoner and his perhaps more dangerous puppet were not truly alone. Prudently, they decided that The Littlest Hobo's safety would be best assured by separating him from from Brutus' and his master. Little did they know how powerfully Brutus had begun to feel about The Littlest Hobo in their short time together.

Brutus again woke The Littlest Hobo up the next night, though in a decidedly different fashion. Late in the night, the only illumination into his cell coming from the glowing red exit sign in the hall, The Littlest Hobo heard the following sequence of sounds.

A turning lock
A knock
A gurgle
A clatter
A thud

In bewildered puzzlement as to what these sounds could all mean, The Littlest Hobo carefully opened his now unsecured cell door, to find Brutus the Gentle Sock Puppet sprawled out towards him. His owner, on whose arm Brutus still rested, lay there as limp as Brutus himself, a scalpel several feet away, and a sign on his back reading, simply, "Would you give me a hand?".

As sirens started to sound throughout the asylum, The Littlest Hobo began to fear that owls had been let loose in the building. Able to think of nothing that would give him more joy than to take his new friend with him as he continued his adventures, The Littlest Hobo snatched Brutus from his master and placed him snuggly about his own arm.

So, now, here they sit in the hail, The Littlest Hobo watching with great vigilance for those persistent owls as Brutus nips tenderly at his ears. What the future holds for the pair, I cannot say, but I only hope that Brutus' darker demons remain in that asylum with his owner. If not, if The Littlest Hobo does not take the initiative to exert control over him, then we can only pray that the two are parted soon.

In Which The Littlest Hobo Nearly Discovers Brunch

In The Littlest Hobo's mind it was, as always, the nicest day imaginable. He listened to the majestic howls of the coyotes below him mingled with the gusting winds that threatened to topple the very tree that was keeping him free from their jaws. Once more, he marveled at the act of athleticism that had allowed him to vault, against all odds, to his current perch. It truly is wondrous what physical feats a person, even one as small as The Littlest Hobo, can accomplish when fueled by adrenaline born of sheer, magnificent terror and a desperate will to live. Blessing compounded upon blessing, The Littlest Hobo celebrated the presence of the neighboring gas-producing bog that kept those pesky owls away from this region of the forest. Truly, this was, at least for now, the safest of havens against the myriad conspiracies of nature.

Without any further distraction The Littlest Hobo could have sat for hours contentedly reflecting on his great fortune, but he was brought out of his meditative state by a louder-than-normal rumbling of his sad, shrunken stomach. Suddenly jolted to his senses, our diminutive friend recalled the purpose of his current journey. He had only ventured into a region filled with so many dangerous creatures in an effort to expedite his arrival in a neighboring town where he had heard great wonders awaited: There was a restaurant in this town, or so he had heard, that specialized in serving breakfast and lunch at the same time. For weeks, The Littlest Hobo scraped up what money he could find before, deciding that 73 cents certainly ought to be enough to cover his costs, he set out to witness this phenomenon for himself.

Now, The Littlest Hobo had the only vaguest ideas of what breakfast and lunch were. Those occasions on which he was able to eat two meals in as many days were always among the pleasant surprises to him. The idea of eating two meals simultaneously was a dream so glorious he could scarcely comprehend it. "What on earth would one choose to consume on such an occasion?" he wondered. "Perhaps a crust of bread and a handful of peas!" As he salivated uncontrollably at the very thought, The Littlest Hobo nearly passed out from the increased dehydration. This was an event he simply had to experience.

Using his trusty hat to harness the howling winds, The Littlest Hobo managed to glide in an uncontrolled, tumbling fashion from tree to tree, escaping the forest without further encounter with the growling beasts that infested its labyrinthine floor. Before he knew it, he had escaped and once again reached the highway just outside of town. As he wandered the city streets -- delightfully devoid of coyotes, owls, ocelots, or any other dangerous creatures -- The Littlest Hobo eventually came to a diner with a bright red sign that read Mel's. Recognizing the name as that of his goal, our friend wandered right in.

After several minutes spent gaining the attention of the hostess, he was promptly seated at a booth that may well have been even cozier than the branch in which he had half-dozed the prior night. All signs pointed to this being the world changing moment he had expected it could be. "I'll have the brunch, please," The Littlest Hobo insisted, earnestly hoisting his smallest of fortunes towards the gruff looking woman who had come asking for his order.

She would have gladly taken the inadequate sum offered in exchange for such a meal, but, much to her dismay, the waitress had to inform The Littlest Hobo that it was, in fact, 4 o'clock in the afternoon, and that brunch was no longer being served for the day, and is there anything else his precious little heart might desire? Alas, there was nothing else that The Littlest Hobo's precious heart did desire, and disappointment threatened to creep in and fill the hole that this mystical "brunch" had left there.

Just then, however, he noticed another customer happily slurping away at a plate of spaghetti. So enamored was The Littlest Hobo with the slurping and the spinning and the pleasant redness of the sauce that he immediately asked to have the same. Now, even by the standards of highway diners, Mel served an atrocious plate of spaghetti, but such trifles are of little importance to The Littlest Hobo. He happily ate a whole 5 noodles before collapsing into a deep sleep. As he slumbered, the restaurant closed around him, nobody noticing the boy of prodigiously small proportions curled up at Table 6.