The sun would have danced through the window of Eeyore's single wide trailer except for the fact that he had a gray flannel blanket tacked over it. It was noon. Eeyore rolled over. He had passed out on the floor, between the couch and the coffee table. An empty whiskey bottle as his pillow.

"Oh fuck," he groaned. He sat up groggily. He hated morning. Why couldn't he just lay in bed forever? What else was there to do anyway? Go shopping to places like Home Depot and Wal-Mart and give the nasty corporations, tons of money?

Speaking of money, Gophers money! Where was it? Eeyore only panicked for a moment, for he saw it sitting safely on the coffee table next to his gun.

"I better give that mother fucker his money," he grunted.

Eeyore didn't bother to shower. The only physical contact he might have all day would be if he decided to go to the Valu-Inn on Gratriot Avenue, and get himself a cheap hooker from Debbie's. But they were usually dirty and smelly anyways.

Eeyore got into his beat up 88 Cutlass and drove over to Auburn Hills. Mr. Fox lived in a shitty little apartment on the boulevard. Eeyore got out, and rapped on the door.

A young, teenage, girl, probably a runaway who Mr. Fox had picked up off of the streets answered the door. She had on thick eyeliner, and purple eye shadow. She smelled like cheap body wash, like the kind you buy at Claire's,

"Uh is Mr. Fox around?" Eeyore asked.

"He left for the day," the girl replied, a big wad of chewing gum in her mouth.

"When is he coming back?" Eeyore asked.

The girl shrugged.

Oh well. There was nothing that Eeyore could do. Mr. Fox had left for the weekend. It was Gopher who would be getting his ass kicked anyway. Eeyore shrugged and left the seedy apartment building.

Eeyore had just arrived back at his trailer to finish what he was going to be doing last night, when the phone rang.

"What?" Eeyore barked.

"Hi Eeyore it's Tigger," said the voice on the other end. "I need a ride to Jay's."

Jay's was a Sporting good s store. Lord knows what crap Tigger wanted to buy there. Tigger only called Eeyore when he wanted something. Eeyore sighed.

"I'm busy," he spat.

"Doing what?" asked Tigger.

"Stuff," Eeyore replied. "Drive yourself."

"Can't," replied Tigger. "Remember I have a DUI, they susepended my license."

"Have Christopher-Robin or Piglet take you," said Eeyore.

"No answer," said Tigger. "Look I really need to go. I have been saving up my money all week to go buy some fishing line, some shells, some tackle. Dude! Take me."

"Dude, why should I?" asked Eeyore.

"You only call me up when you want shit. I sick of carting you around."

"Dude I'll give you anything you want," said Tigger.

This was Eeyore's week for getting shit between this and the hashish.

"I want one of your two tickets to see Iron Maiden," Eeyore announced.

"Man I'm sorry," said Tigger. "But I promised it to Christopher-Robin.

"Fuck Christopher-Robin," Eeyore yelled. "That little pipsqueak is too young to go to an Iron Maiden concert anyway. You give the ticket to me or else you don't get your ride."

"Fuck you," Tigger yelled and hung up.

Ten minutes later Tigger called back saying he wanted his fish hooks, and that Eeyore could have the extra ticket.

"Dude what's this?" Tigger asked.

Tigger and Eeyore were driving down I 75 after their outing to the sports store. Tigger had found the thick envelope of money.

"It's drug money man," Eeyore replied as he drove down the shoulder to avoid a traffic backup.

"Eeyore where did you get this dough?" Tigger asked. "Fuck! Let's go to the casino."

"Can't," replied Eeyore. "It's Gopher's. He wants me to give it to his bookie, but his bookie left for the day."

"Aren't you going to put it into a bank?" asked Tigger.

"Whatever for?" asked Eeyore.

"Well ten grand is a shit load of money," said Tigger. "What if you loose it?"

"Oh well" replied Eeyore. "It's Gopher's ass that's fried, not mine."

"You really need to keep it in a safer place than your car," Tigger preached.

"Well I left it out on my coffee table for the night," replied Eeyore. "If you are so fucking high and mighty why don't you keep it for the night?"

"I don't mind," said Tigger. "I can keep it safe for the night. Can I have some of the hashish involved?"

Eeyore thought for a moment. Even if he were to get stoned every night and listen to The Wall for a year, he would still have plenty of hash left over. He'd have enough hash to smoke for the next ten years, and Eeyore certainly hoped he did not live that long.

"I think I can cut you a fair share," Eeyore replied.

"Sweet dude!" Tigger said. "I'll stick it in Roo's golf bag. That little piece of shit never golfs anymore. It just sits in the garage. It will be safe until tomorrow."

Eeyore was actually relieved when he handed the envelope over to Tigger. Ten grand was an awful lot of money to be responsible for, especially when it was for someone who Eeyore didn't particularly like.

Tigger arrived back home late that evening. After his afternoon with Eeyore he had went down to Rama's with his buddy Pete Moss for an evening of booze, tits, and pool, and bullshit.

Pete dumped Tigger off at home around 3 AM. In a drunken stupor Tigger staggered over to Roo's little Wilson golf bag. He unzipped the front pocket, which was perfect for golf balls, and tucked the envelope inside. He whistled as he zipped up the pocket.

"Wherever does Gopher get a stash like that?"

Tigger went up to his apartment that was over Kanga's garage. He happily collapsed onto the crappy mattress on the floor with flannel sheets that hadn't been changed in three years, that served as his bed.

He didn't wake up until late the next afternoon.