Mogey was running late, as usual. Smush had stopped by his pal's flat so they could walk over to the cricket match together, but Mogey hadn't quite finished making up the "road snacks" (a half dozen roast beef sandwiches with pickled cucumbers). So that left Smush to wander around the sitting room alone, trying to ignore the sounds of slicing beef and the resulting growling of his tummy (not to mention Mogey's profane shouts when he ran short of pickled cucumbers).
"I hope that isn't what I think it is..." Smush muttered, peering out Mogey's sitting room window. He rubbed at the window with his thumb and then with his shirt sleeve, but sure enough a smudge besmirched the glass pane.
Now something important to know about Smush is that he couldn't abide a smudge. It may have had a thing or two to do with his grade school classmates, teachers, and one particularly cruel lunch lady relentlessly calling him "Smudge," "Smudgy," and "Smudge of Fudge," but who knows?
"Let's get a move-on! I hope you don't mind roast beef-and-slivered almonds," said Mogey, entering the sitting room with a paper packet of sandwiches. "It was the closest thing I had to pickled cucumbers. What in the world are you up to, Smush?"
Smush innocently threw his chisel under the sofa and tried unsuccessfully to tuck his squeegee behind his back. "I, erm, noticed you had a bit of a smudge on your window," he replied.
"That's no smudge," Mogey exclaimed, rushing over to the window. "It's the sacred spot where Albert the Frigid, King of the Chickadees, met his demise."
"Is that why all those birds outside are giving me the stink eye?" Smush asked.
"They come here to pay homage to their fallen king," Mogey nodded. "Some say he saw in my window a promised land for his people. Some say he'd just had a bit too much fermented birdseed. Either way, he flew full speed into the glass, and this became the holiest spot in all chickadeedom. I hope for your sake that chisel of yours isn't much good at degreasing."
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