Hannibal King is the Primary Hash Slinger at the shelter run by the Friends of the Grand Misconception. FOG’M, as the organization is often referred, is a fraternal organization dedicated to doing good for the community while attempting to accept the inexcusable ineptitude of others. Volunteering for the role of Primary Hash Slinger often times allows Hannibal the golden opportunity to rub shoulders with some of the community’s criminal elite – mainly due to “community service” sentences handed down by the local judge. It also keeps him out of the house and away from his wife, his over-bearing father-in-law, and his father-in-law’s insipid shih-tzu.

One such nefarious scoundrel was a gentleman known as Ingmar Norska, a displaced travel agent for a Scandinavian beach resort – specializing in the full, two week season of Norwegian summers. This is a career path that allows for a lot of free time.

“What are ya’ in for?” Hannibal enjoyed conversations with the new “volunteers” and usually tried to immediately pry open the deviance of their private criminal activities. His Ph.D., in Criminal Avoidance Tactics from the Ladyfinger School of Dancing Around the Subject, enhanced Hannibal’s abilities to neglect minding his own business.

Ingmar was a stout Viking(ish) man, with tattooed biceps the size of honey baked hams, and a shaved head that when polished can reflect the sun and disrupt the migratory patterns of Canadian geese. For recreation, when not committing reprehensible crimes against humanity, Ingmar reads Beowulf in Old English.

“Failure to license my dog,” Ingmar’s answer was short, curt, and filled to overflowing with a lack of information.

Hannibal edged away from the ne’er-do-well and plopped a ladle full of watery mashed potatoes on the plate of a “punter”, as residents of the FOG’M Shelter for Abused Artists and Intellectuals are referred (look it up – it means “client”). If this man could be so aberrant that he would fail to license his dog, what other evil could he be capable of? Did he fail to get his poor dog heartworm shots? Did he fail to spay and/or neuter the pooch, ignoring the plaintive requests of Bob Barker and Drew Carey?

Hannibal was beside himself for being beside Ingmar Norska.

“I told the judge I don’t ride my dog in the street and didn’t need a license.” It was a logical progression of thought, along the lines of telling a traffic cop that you weren’t speeding, you were just trying to stay ahead of the car behind you.

Hannibal and Ingmar dispensed a lukewarm, yet virtually (look it up – it means “not really) nutritious, meal to the downtrodden artists and intellectuals at the shelter. Hannibal considered the implications of Ingmar’s crime and eventually overcame his abhorrence of man so calloused that he would neglect to pay the mandated fees and make his beloved pet a legitimate and accepted member of the community; signified by marking the beast with a shiny metal trinket hanging on a collar around its neck.

Hannibal considered the heinousness of Ingmar’s crime and the results of his actions (being forced to serve food at the shelter). He considered his father-in-law’s shih-tzu and how it resembled a football in size and shape. He also considered the penalty for using said shih-tzu while attempting a field goal from a mere thirty-five yards out. He might get lucky and be sentenced to serving food at the shelter – but, he would still have to go home to his wife.

 

Larry Wilson is a mostly lifelong resident of Niles. His optimistic “glass full to overflowing” view of life shapes his writing. His essays stem from experiences, compilations and recollections from friends and family. Wilson touts himself as “a dubiously licensed teller of tall tales, sworn to uphold the precept of ‘It’s my story; that’s the way I’m telling it.’” He can be reached at wflw@hotmail.com.