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.