8thdayfiction

…and on the 8th day, micro fiction was published on some dude's blog.

Merle And Ike

Merle and Ike approached the front door. Merle rang the bell, and they both fidgeted with their suits while waiting for an answer.

The doorknob turned, and the door opened as far as the chain lock would allow it. A woman peered through the crack.

“Yes?”

“Good morning, ma’am. We’re from the Indian Bureau–”

“The Bureau of Indian Affairs”, Merle interrupted, glaring at Ike, “and I’m afraid we have some bad news. Uh, it seems your house here was built on a Native American burial ground. You’ll have to move so, you know, you don’t get haunted…and stuff.”

“I see…say, do you gentlemen have some ID?”

Ike was ready for that question. “Yes, ma’am. Here ya go.” He held out the card to her, beaming.

“Um, OK. I didn’t mean a driver’s license, though. Do you have an employee badge, or a business card?”

Merle and Ike made a good show of theatrically feeling around all of their pockets.

“Um, no ma’am. I think we’re all out.” Merle shrugged.

“Oooookay. So, gentlemen, if you don’t mind me asking: How did you get here? I don’t see a car…unless, is that your RV parked down the street?”

Ike looked stricken for a moment, then turned and sprinted away across the lawn, yelling back over his shoulder, “The gig is up, Merle! Run! RUN FOR IT!”

With a nod and a cordial “Good day, ma’am”, Merle turned and took off after his brother.

As they headed down the road toward the next small town, Merle and Ike didn’t say a word, but they were both thinking the same thing: If they were ever going to find a house to squat in, they were going to need a much better story to scare the current occupants out.

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