After a long week of waiting, our pickled poetry collections were extricated, damp and stinking of vinegar, from the jars in the back of the pantry. Horatio and I had very large clothespins over our noses to protect our delicate nostrils, but odor still crept through. Worse, it watered our eyes with the pickle-y weight of damp paper.
We put then in sealed bags. We drove in the wee morning hours to the swampland at the edge of all the poorly landscaped corporate grounds and golf courses. We set our traps.
Tomorrow, we shall return. Even walking away, I saw their shadowy forms fluttering through the sky, attracted to the pickled verse.
Horatio expressed a concern. What if we catch more than one Bad Poetry Bat? We simply do not have the constitution to maintain the number of jars of thick pickle juice-drenched anthologies to feed a swooping herd of bad poetry bats.
And, who knows what kind of awful guano might result from such a toxic combination of bad poetry and pickle juice stewed inside the guts of a bat?
In the morning, we will check our traps. Hopefully, we’ll only have caught exactly one.