Buck Duckett CYOA 1A

“Fine,” you grumble. You would rather do anything than shovel right now. If someone asked you to do anything you did not want to do right now you would tell them you’d rather shovel in the woods. But Moods needs you. Moods has always been there for you– there was the time Moods took the blame for time you accidentally dropped that stink bomb you were going to use to get back at “Moose” Jowlackki for shoving you sophomore year of high school and it slipped out of your hand and got into his house’s ventilation system and the entire Jowlackki family had to move out for a few weeks and call in a professional stench mitigation team– and you’ve always looked out for him.

You’re carrying the shovels in your Squabble Sacks and making your way through the forest. Moods has an impeccable sense of direction and he’s homing in on the hole, but he can’t stop jabbering. “Dude, you should see these things. These pants are just…”

You elbow him in the stomach. “Dude!” he says.

“Shut up, jackhead.” you say. “Why don’t you just go to the radio station and broadcast your whole show about how you’re going to dig up some illegal pants?”

“Bro, you didn’t have to do that,” he says.

“Sorry,” you say. “I’m sorry, dude.” He brightens up.

“But seriously,” he says, managing to get down to a stage whisper. “These pants, dude. These freaking pants.”

You arrive at the location. It’s in a small patch of clearing well off one of the well known running paths. No one would ever notice. You see some branches and leaves had been laid over it to disguise the fact that someone had obviously dug into it.

“Dude,” Moods mouths to you, silently.

You stop. “Moods,” you say. “This is a bad idea. You proved your point. There’s something there. But we haven’t done anything yet. We can just walk away. This whole thing seems kind of rotten to me. Tell you what, how about we get those jobs at your uncle’s stage fighting workshop after the season ends, we save up, I get you the craziest pants you’ve ever seen?”

But it’s too late. Moods is already digging. You take a quick glance around and start digging too. It’s lousy. Oh, how it is lousy. Your arms feel like rusted machinery. You learned last semester about neurological pathways and you suspect whatever messages your lungs are sending to your brain are indignant and filled with whatever neurons use to curse. But you dig on.

It does not take long. There it is. A big duffle bag, just like the top hat man had told Moods. You both haul it up out of the hole and fall down, exhausted. It’s heavy. It must contain an enormous amount of pants. Moods looks at you. You nod. Moods slowly pulls the zipper.

KERBLATT

“Dude!” Moods says.

KERBLATT

Something cold and sticky hits you. You grab your face and look down on your hands. It’s all over you and your clothes. You reach for the flashlight to see what it is when suddenly you don’t have to. The entire clearing is suddenly lit with a blinding light. You put your hands in front of your face to try to shield your squinting eyes, which allows you to see that your hands seem to be dyed green and then you see a silhouette of a man in a top hat.

“Dude!” Moods says.

“Gentlemen,” the man in the hat says. Your eyes adjust a bit and the man is coming into focus. He is wearing a rumpled trench coat and has a spectacular mustache.

“Bro that’s him,” Mood says. “That’s the dude.”

“That’s right, Mr. Moods,” the man says. “But the man you were talking to was sadly not Wump Magnassasson IV.” He takes off the top hat and replaces it with some sort of detective looking men’s hat and then rips off his gigantic mustache to reveal a smaller mustache underneath. “I’m Buck Duckett, from the NCAA.”

“Dude.” Moods says.

You are completely dumbstruck. This is the end for you. You have no idea what to say, so you also say “dude.”

Duckett shows them a badge that says “Buck Duckett, NCAA Investigator, Pants Division.”

“Well, fellas, it appears we’re in a bit of a pickle here,” Duckett says. “You read the NCAA rule book? Because I’ve got one here. In fact, I’ve got a bookmark right here in Section 19, Paragraph 14A: Pants, Receiving Of. Oh no, you see this? It says suspension. It says loss of eligibility. It says, you’re seniors right? It says end of career.”

You already threw up once today but feel another one coming on. Moods spits.

“Now myself,” Duckett says, “I like a bit of squabbling. Saw you boys play in the semis last year. Darn good yakkin. I know your teammates need you. Heck, maybe America needs you. I don’t want to suspend you.”

“You don’t?” you say.

“Shut up,” Moods says from clenched teeth.

“That’s right. You see, while these pants are clearly fake…” you look in the duffel bag and see it’s a pile of crude cutouts of cardboard pants with some weight plates for heft at the bottom, “Mr. Wump Marnassasson is very real. He’s been dropping pants left and right all over the Eastern seaboard. And I need you boys to help me catch him. Tell you what. You help me out, and this whole thing goes away.” He hands you both wipes that can get the ink stain off your skin. “Or I could call the NCAA right now. It’s up to you.”

“I’m not wearing a freaking wire,” Moods says.

Help Duckett
Tell Duckett to cheese off