Myron's Midnight Escape

Unknown to most of the world, there lies a country quietly completing life’s obligations peacefully, very grateful for their independent status, fighting haunting occupation fears. Along the shoreline, a newly developing community Highlandburg, prospered due to a legendary contribution made back when revolutionary chit-chatting ideas, nearly turned deadly and bar flies changed, spreading their free bird wings.

Strategically situated, overlooking the harbor, the ‘Pony Express Pub’ serviced locals, lending an ear, listening to outlandish legendary tales, offering story tellers sudsy brews where frosty topping disappears, when one kisses the yellow liquid barley. Every Saturday Night, after the cuckoo clock sounded acknowledging the late hour, Larry Underware leaves his typewriter behind, puts pants on before venturing towards the scenic establishment, setting up a makeshift stage commencing his weekly talk show broadcast.

Called ‘I L U”, the entertaining one hour, allows a select few an opportunity to express their views and lazy Larry Underware never fact checked guests claiming, ‘well its midnight and we are drunk skunks. What else do I need to explain?’.

Presently scheduled, Myrun, known all over the seashore area as simply Myrun, booked a reservation, promoting his talented contributions. After being introduced for a twenty-minute commitment, the influencing personality confronted the spotlight theatrical format wearing fashionable sunglasses and a sleek black costumed designed attire.

“You look like you are going to the prom,” Larry Underware greeted, outstretching his hand.

“I was the prom, everybody was focused on me, not who they came with,” Myrun divulged, “in fact three girls ditched their dates and the other one came stag.”

Right on cue the audience laughed, applauded, and gave Larry Underware a break in opportunity, “I hear you are going to treat us, performing a new selection,”

“Yes, it is called, Missile Whistle,”

Hearing the title, encouraged Larry Underware, ‘retreat back recline the chair, watch the star occupy the moment’ and for two and half minutes straight, all Myrun did was whistle, a happy tune, filled with enthusiastic festive joyful fun.

Once the show concluded Larry Undeware approached Myrun, “you may want to get out of here,” he warned without saying another word.

Replying, Myrun’s quizzical face expressed, a confused statement conveying a truthful message, as the guest quietly departed the establishment. Larry Underware watched the action play out confirming a clear coast, proceeding over to the drinking counter. “He whistled,” Larry Underware told the bartender.

“I know that means,” the staffer’s concern silenced the place.

Years ago, Larry Underware’s mission statement carefully instructed, ‘one right eye wink translates, ‘the enemy coming by sea’, if he winked in the left, they were marching by land. If both eyes were shut Larry Underware, had no clue what was going on and where he was going when combatting this situation.’

Despite his naked eye not being able to pick up any invading image, a musical number could be heard, and three large cruise ships flashed party lights. “I should be on one of those,” Larry Underware embraced the melody, “doing my schtick.”

Then an electrical force hit the freedom fighter, “I hear whistling! Those are not cruise ships! They are the enemy!” He gasped. With one eye opened he blinked the other, informing anyone in his path dangerous well fair checks were approaching bringing financial rewards.

This heroic act not only made sure everyone set up their sale able vendor booths at the port, but his neighbors were prepared to take the visitors money in exchange for things that in the long run would end up filed away in a desk draw.

Days later Larry Underware was honored, given hero status along with a long-running Pony Express Pub gig.

Like it happened over night, Myrun felt a chill, strolling peacefully down the darkened street, ‘what did I do?” He wondered. While moving along, sunglasses ditched, Myrun noticed the windows featuring shadowy figures. Minutes quickly passed and the residents emerged, muted, studying the setting, imitating library habitation. Myrun stomach started developing, a queasy sensation, realizing stardom loneliness reality.

Puckering his lips, he tried fending off fear, whistling. “He is one of them,” Myrun detected, “the enemy, he knows how to whistle.”

Digesting all the uncomfortable commentary addressing his whistling Myrun found a spring in his step. Finally, the town limits arrived, and Myron spotted the border, and soon he would be with his own kind, people who whistle.

“Please forgive me for performing this deceptive act,” he screamed, and an illusionist’s wand took control, creating a gigantic hill featuring crosses protecting special territory.

“Please forgive me,” Myrun repeated when an elderly gentleman emerged from a tiny cottage.

“My boy,” the character paused, adjusting the cane, “is there a problem?”

“Yes, Father,” Myrun dropped his guard seeing the black and white collar, “I did a horrible thing, I whistled.”

“You should not whistle in these parts,” the priest suggested, “I am Father Berry, Father Canter Berry.”

Getting up from a kneeling position Myrun pleaded, “can you help?”

“Well, my son I do not know how to whistle but I do know how to sing, you see that is why God named me Canter,” Father Berry proclaimed.

“If you know how to sing as a canter and I know how to whistle, can’t we work together building a beautiful thing?” Myrun inquired.

“No,” Father Berry stood a firm ground, “I have cousins on your side over there, and they know how to bury issues, like your whistling. Go see them.”

“Thank you, Father,” Myrun continued his journey.

Next morning Father Berry flexed his cane and broke into a three-gait jog out to the mail box. Opening the newspaper lying on the ground he saw the Entertainment headline.

“Music Review: Missile Whistle Boomerangs Back And My Run Canters Home Burying His Issues”

Grinning Father Berry declared another victory in the ‘due you really have talent?’ Debate. Leaving speculation, the power above only knows the answer to that question and should be the soul judge.