Winnie sat at his desk, the sounds of outside pounding against his head like an inconsiderate drummer. Inside his head, the second drummer that was his hang over pounded back with equal fury.
He popped a few aspirin into his mouth and chewed before pouring a glass of Tennessee honey. A paw grabbed the glass of amber-gold and he drank. He hardly reacted to the burn of the whiskey, but it did remind him of simpler times and sumer games. Now, he stared at his smoke stained walls and sighed, “Happy birthday Chris.”
Piglet looked up from his desk. “P-p-p-pooh? S-s-something wrong?”
“No Piglet. This smackeral just reminded my of Chris.”
“It’s been almost 50 years Pooh.”
“I know. But sometimes I miss him.” Winnie knew that Chris, as he wanted be called in his teenage years, would need to stop believing at some point. As it was, Chris waited too long to shut that gate. That was when Winnie and Piglet moved from play friends to investigators.
Too much had snuck into the 100 Acre Woods before Chris closed his imagination. Besides, gates that closed could be opened again. And if Pooh’s math was right, those gates could start swinging any time now.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of breaking glass and the muffled thump of a wrapped brick crashing through the window and landing on the ground. Winnie waddled over to the brick and took the note from around it.
They rise. Better watch your stuffin
Winnie reached for the bottle and took a long drink. “Oh bother.”
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