"In my story about the dump truck," Mr. Remora said, as Sunny began to staple the pile of thick papers into booklets, "what color were the rocks that it carried?

"Gray and brown." -Mr. Remora, TAA

Why would someone tell a story about a dump truck?

This is why…

It is probably not necessary to tell you that Mr. Remora was eating a banana at the beginning of this chapter. It might be necessary though, to tell you that he was driving his car to the general store, and that he was in a flying rage.

He parked his car-rather crookedly-and stormed inside the shop, leaving his banana in the car.

"I'll kill him, I will." Mr. Remora was mumbling to himself.

He stopped short when he arrived at the counter. "You're not L!"

The young shopkeeper behind the counter looked confused.

"Excuse me sir?"

"I-I mean…um, I'm looking for a…friend of mine, he works here."

"What's his name?"

"Well…um…I know him by his nickname, you people probably don't."

"Can you tell me what he looks like then?"

"Well, he has short brown hair that is graying slightly, he's not very tall, but he's not short either, um…he's quiet, and very…um…he probably didn't have his face in his nametag."

"Oh, you mean Thomas?"

"Um…yes."

"He left about…a week and a half ago, I've heard that he was last seen as a bus driver down near Prufrock Prep."

Mr. Remora didn't say thank you to the shopkeeper, he just turned around and walked out of the shop, which is a very rude thing to do, if someone helps you, you should always say thank you, unless, of course you can't speak; then you might write it, or gesture it. But Mr. Remora could talk, and he still didn't say thank you.

"There's that bus."

Mr. Remora pulled his car up a long way away from the bus. He didn't want to be seen in a car.

He walked up to the bus and peeked inside. The shopkeeper was right, here he is.

He walked around to the other side of the big yellow bus, and hopped on. The bus driver didn't look up.

"That'll be a dollar fifty for your ticket thanks."

Mr. Remora replied nastily:

"I was hoping you'd pay."

The bus driver looked up

"R? What are you doing here?"

"You've got some explaining to do!"

"About what?"

"I'll tell you what! My wife is dead!"

"What? How did it happen?"

"Oh yeah, play innocent!" Mr. Remora held up a bag that resembled a potato sack, except that it was much smaller.

Finest French Mushrooms

"So, what's that R?"

"Don't be daft L! Look here!" Mr. Remora pointed to some writing on the sack:

Makes for a very fine dinner!

"Oh my." L was silent.

"My wife ate these mushrooms, and now she's dead! It's your fault and you're going to pay!"

"R, I swear I had nothing to do with this, I swear!"

"Who else could it have been?" Mr. Remora hissed, "Who else would have a motive?"

"I don't know R, but I swear, I promise I had nothing to do with this! I would never poison someone, least of all an innocent bystander!"

"Maybe you didn't think she would eat them! You were trying to poison me!"

"No, I didn't, I wouldn't, I couldn't, you know I never would I-GET DOWN!"

Mr. Remora and L ducked and hid, as a dump truck carrying gray and brown rocks sped past

"Look R, I'm sorry for your loss, I know what it's like, but I didn't do it, you have to believe me."

Mr. Remora didn't say anything.

"I have to continue my bus shift now, so if you'll please get out of the bus."

"You will pay." And with that, Mr. Remora jumped off the bus and watched it roll down the road.

"A very fine dinner indeed…"