The Whole Nine Yards

“I guess it’s like coming out of a coma,” Harold said to the reporter. Of course, the reporter couldn’t see, much less hear him. But Harold was convinced that if he kept trying, the reporter would, indeed, conduct a successful interview and publish it in all the papers. Perhaps Sandpoint Magazine or The New Yorker would pick it up. Miles hid beneath his hidey-hole, holding his nose with his pack rat claws, to stifle a sneeze. He was trying to keep a low profile; he was somewhat bored and didn’t want to frighten the retarded reporter too much.

“Oh, Miles,” Harold moaned, “She doesn’t appear to see me. You shouldn’t have erased my poop poem.”

“The problem, old man,” Miles squeaked, “is that you aren’t appearing.” Miles rolled his eyes. The reporter was clearly a lower level specimen, and probably freelanced for some dreadful tabloid. Those kids that had run out of the cabin a couple days ago must have told her about the head on the ground, the screaming, the poop poem, and the fine specimen of a pack rat that made them turn on their want-to-be thieving tails and exit stage left as quickly as possible.

One of them had dropped their iPhone, which had proved wonderfully useful for Miles. Indeed, he had called his mother in Yorkshire, as well as ordered her some fine stinky French cheese and wine with the little bit of money that remained in his Paypal account. Best of all, Miles had contacted 7B satellite services, and was expecting Lenny to show up any minute. As far as Miles was concerned, thoughts of the Internet were almost as good as thoughts of chocolate, banjo and bodhran music, cheese, and wine.

Miles rubbed his paws together. After he discovered that the world believed Harold to be alive and well, Miles had convinced Harold to provide Miles with his bank account information and security codes. At first, Harold refused, stating that his lovely wife needed the money more than they did. However, Miles told Harold that with a computer and a printer, Harold would be able to print out his wonderful poems. And before Miles could say, “Bob’s your uncle,” Harold had provided him with the information he required.

Turns out, Harold alive was worth much more than Harold dead. Harold’s wife had minimal access to Harold’s money. In fact, she only received a paltry monthly allowance, while Miles had control of the whole nine yards.