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 avoiding domestic chores at home. Hannibal has a Ph.D in Sarcastic Studies from Southwest Eastonia College. This degree, along with fifty dollars and a job, lets Hannibal drive off any “Buy Here – Pay Here” car lot, in a barely used Yugo. It has also helped build a contrived confidence that compels him to strike up personally prying conversations with many of the volunteers joining him as he dispenses unique industrial strength dietary creations — with unceremonious plops into the middle of fragile foam plates. Many of these fine folks are really “volunforced” derelicts serving out community service sentences for heinous crimes against the community in general, and against Humanity as a whole – according to the whim (and occasional sobriety) of the judge.

Firewalker was one such person. His alleged crime was the impersonation of an academic. This is a rare crime – very difficult to prosecute due to the lack of an understandable description of what constitutes such a crime. However, Firewalker was found guilty immediately and sentenced to forty hours of plopping piles on foam plates.“Got a name, pal?” asked Hannibal as he attempted to break the ice, in between plops.

“Yes, I do. Thanks for asking.” Firewalker was courteous in his simplicity.

“Could I get you to share it with me?”

“I suppose you could. How would we do that?

“Do what?”

“Share my name. Should we cut it into ten equal parts, you take five, and I’ll take five? When we are done, do I get the five parts back or do I have to change my name to ‘Frwle’?”

This line of discussion may have broken the ice, but it was also confusing. Hannibal almost missed a plate plop.

“The name’s Firewalker,”

Speculating on the origin of such a name, and without any consideration for political correctness, Hannibal asked the unaskable, “Indian, Native American, First Nation? What kind of name is that?”

Nope, nope, and nope.” Firewalker remained simplistic, never taking his eyes off the center of each foam plate as it passed by.

“Must be Scandinavian, then.”

“Nope. Got drunk at a bonfire party. The name just stuck,” his response was brevity in its most complete state.

With this newfound understanding, Hannibal soldiered on in his quest for unnecessary knowledge. “What do you do?” Food plopping is not the most entertaining chore. Being nosy is much more engaging.

“I used to be a college president, but I’m not doing that anymore.”

This piqued Hannibal’s interest beyond all socially accepted boundaries. He had to know why Firewalker was no longer the president of a college. All of the scenarios he envisioned involved morally reprehensible acts such as embezzlement, cavorting with under age co-eds, or the press discovering that he had an inability to teach.

To each intrusive question, Firewalker singularly responded with, “Nope.”

Exasperated, Hannibal just had to know why Firewalker was no longer a college president.

“Got drunk at a bonfire party.” A slight smile slipped across Firewalker’s otherwise unmoving face. “As Dave Fleming once wrote, colleges, ‘are our highest level of educational institutions; our mistakes should reflect that, too.’ If you’re going to stumble and spill the soup, make sure it’s hot and on someone you don’t like”

“That should be engraved on a brick, someplace.”

 

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.