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admitted to having been locked in the Sacajawea Junior High biology lab over a long weekend nearly sixteen years ago when he fell asleep and was mistaken as a cadaver. Though the man is incapable of human speech, he was able, over a period of weeks, to chisel out his story in hieroglyphics on the bathroom wall of the insane asylum where he now resides. He claims that toward the end of the second day of his accidental captivity, he got downright lonely and sought companionship at his own intellectual level. He found that companionship in a petri dish.”
    Norman glanced up at Dale. He had to be terrified because Dale was famous for confusing the message with the messenger. If that happened, Norman knew his nose would soon be pressing hard against the bottom of the toilet, where it is extremely hard to breathe.
    â€œKeep readin’,” Dale said. “That ain’t all of it. I seen it. It’s longer than that.”
    Norman drew a deep breath.
    â€œAccording to the man, who identified himself as Morton Thornton, the night got real long and by midnight, he was darn well wed to one of the lovelier inhabitants of the dish, a comely middle-aged amoeba of unknown parentage named Rita. When he was rescued on the morning of the following day, Morton plumb forgot about his single-celled nuptials and went back to his daytime job tasting the contents of open pop bottles for backwash and cigarette butts. Only sixteen years later, when a brilliant Sacajawea Junior High roving reporter—who shall remain nameless—discovered the product of this union lurking among us right here at Sac Junior High, was Morton’s long-held secret discovered.
    â€œThis intrepid reporter was present three weeks into Dale Thornton’s third try at seventh grade, when the young Einstein bet this reporter and several other members of the class that he could keep a wad of chewingtobacco in his mouth from the beginning of fifth period Social Studies until the bell. The dumb jerk only lasted twenty minutes, after which he sprinted from the room, not to be seen for the rest of the day. When he returned on the following morning, he told Mr. Getz he had suddenly become ill and had to go home, but without a written excuse (he probably didn’t have a rock big enough for his dad to chisel it on) he was sent to the office. The principal, whose intellectual capacities lie only fractions of an IQ point above Dale’s, believed his lame story, and Dale was readmitted to class. Our dauntless reporter, however, smelled a larger story, recognizing that for a person to attempt this in the first place, even his genes would have to be dumber than dirt. With a zeal rivaled only by Alex Haley’s relentless search for Kunta Kinte, he dived into Dale’s seamy background, where he discovered the above story to be absolutely true and correct. Further developments will appear in this newspaper as they unfold.”
    Norman folded the paper slowly. I breathed through my pores in order not to be discovered.
    â€œThat it?” Dale asked quietly.
    Norman raised his eyebrows. “That’s it,” he squeaked.
    â€œAll that there story says is I’m pretty dumb, don’t it?Me an’ my dad,” Dale said.
    Norman winced and nodded. “Uh-huh. It’s not necessarily true though. I mean it’s not a real newspaper. I was there the day you did the tobacco. Really, it was pretty neat. Nobody else would have had the guts….”
    â€œHow’d they know my old man’s name is Morton?” Dale said. “Everybody calls my old man Butch. He finds out about this, he’ll skin my hide, ’cause he’ll think I told.”
    Norm was quiet. He lived with his family on a farm. He knew better than to mess with a wounded animal.
    â€œHow’d they know?” Dale was insistent.
    â€œI don’t know,” Norman squeaked. “Really, I was there. The day with the tobacco. I