The Saint stole my bag of potatoes I won after winning the jester contest. I fought tooth and nail for those potatoes, drawing scattered laughs from that pea-brained crowd.
I had spent thirty minutes on stage, making puns and impersonations about the subjects in the crowd. I came up with, might I dare say, hilarious material on the spot, and by the end of my act, my mouth watered at the thought of cooking up those gorgeous potatoes. The runner-up congratulated me and explained his odd routine, which for some reason involved a duster. Then the Saint swooped in to steal my bag when I wasn’t paying attention.
“That’s not yours! Gimme that!” I screamed, grabbing the end of the bag to begin a laborious game of tug of war. The Saint then reached over for the duster, waving it in my face, blowing a raspberry at me. Those pesky dust particles in the duster’s feathers blinded me, leaving the Saint to take off with my hard-earned potatoes. Stupid, little Saint.
It’s been a few days now, and my leads for the Saint are dwindling. Those potatoes can’t be that delicious anymore, but I don’t care. If my sleuthing was correct, he should be in the local bar, The Round Table, guzzling down a beer and hopefully not my potatoes. I threw open the door, and there he sat. He had a beer in one hand with the last potato in the other and let out a loud belch.
I wrote this short fiction piece for a Writing Battle with some fun prompts!
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