The Secret to Apple Bobbing

     A finely dressed Aisha passes by, and Bart beckons to her. “Hello, miss!” he calls out. “Would you care to try your hand at—nevermind,” he grumbles, watching as she abruptly hitches up her dress and flees in the opposite direction.

     The Gnorbu jumps as a rock crashes into the far end of the stall, brushing dangerously close to his head. He turns, glimpses another incoming rock—and narrowly dodges, the impromptu weapon slamming straight into the apple barrel, which rocks precariously for a moment before righting itself. The attacker slips into the nearby alley with a laugh and disappears into the ever-present mist.

     “Watch it! I’ll have you pay for that, you hear me?!” Bart snarls, jabbing his cane at the spot where the rock thrower had vanished. He waits for a moment, spits an insult, and then returns his attention to the rest of the streets.

     There doesn’t seem to be many Neopets nearby, and part of him doubts, given what a common occurrence it is in Neovia, that it’s the rain keeping people away. There is one individual still out and about, however; the small Wocky from earlier, who is now carrying a bag full of newspapers and carelessly flinging them onto the doorsteps nearby.

     “Hey, you there!” Bart calls, neither knowing nor particularly caring to learn the Wocky’s name. He gestures toward the barrel with his cane. “What say you come over here and try your luck this fine morning? I put in extra apples, so you’re sure to fish up a prize!”

     The Wocky eyes Bart’s hat, pulling his scarf up over his muzzle as he not-so-subtly looks for an escape route. “I’d really rather not. See, I’m on the job right now, and my boss will have my tail if she catches me slacking off. I hope you understand, sir.”

     If Bart hadn’t had this Wocky stop by his stall dozens of times in the middle of his job, he might’ve been inclined to believe him. “Fine. Be that way, then. At least toss me a paper, hm?” He takes a Neopoint from his pocket and flips it over the Wocky with his thumb, who awkwardly fumbles with the coin mid-air before finally securing his grip around it.

     “Yes, of course, sir.” He nervously fishes a newspaper out of his bag and, not moving any closer, throws it at Bart’s feet in the exact manner one would use when delivering to a house whose occupants had come down with some kind of terrible contagious illness. “See you, sir,” he adds quickly, then runs off with a much faster sprint than one would expect from someone with legs as short as his.

     “Useless delivery boy,” Bart mutters under his breath, leaning down to fetch the tabloid from the puddle it had fallen into. He shakes the sopping wet paper out as best as he can and then carefully unrolls it to the first page of the Neovian Chronicle, scowling. His scowl only deepens once he sees the big and bold headline plastered across the front page, accompanied by a surprisingly detailed engraving of his face.

     VANDEBART BIGGSBY’S SHOCKING SECRET

     Vandebart Biggsby, local concessionaire and apple enthusiast, has been delighting residents with wholesome party games for over a decade. However, recent accusations made by Marion Hillsbury, a former resident of the town, claim that Vandebart may be a dangerous criminal associated with black magic. In a recent interview, Marion doubled-down on his statements and offered further insight into the story that has shaken Neovia to the bones, saying that Vandebart “is a truly rotten character who cannot be trusted under any circumstance…”

     “You people can’t seriously believe this rubbish!” he barks to no one in particular, spooking one lone individual who immediately skitters off in the direction of the Neovian Printing Press. Bart studies the distinct book-shaped sign mounted on the first level of the building, which is instantly recognizable even through the rain, and tightens his fist around the wet paper in his hand. Perhaps a visit is in order.

     Despite its name, the Neovian Printing Press is only half a press. The machines that print the daily paper are stashed away in a room off to the side, and would be nondescript if not for the tremendous racket they made. The main part of the shop functions as a regular bookstore and is crammed with all the latest titles, some printed in-house by the shop, some not. As soon as Bart enters, he’s hit with the acidic smell of fresh ink and cut paper—and today’s headline, which screams accusations at him twenty times over from the stands in the front.

     “Just a moment!” the shopkeeper twitters at him. The green Pteri is precariously perched on top of a ladder, tail wrapped around the wooden bars for extra support as she sorts novels onto the shelf. She glances at him, does a double-take, and immediately throws the books aside as she flies down to the floor. “Bart! Just the man I wanted to talk to. Did you see today’s headline? Pretty exciting, right?”

     “Yes, yes. About that...” Bart suddenly flips from conversational to confrontational as he slams his copy of the paper onto the front counter with a pathetic wet squelching noise, sending drops of water everywhere. “What in the name of King Coltzan is this?! You can’t just print slander like this and sell it as news!”

     “Slander?” The Pteri holds a wing to her chest in shock. “My good sir, you dare to come into my fine press and baselessly accuse me and my employees, with no proof or evidence, of doing something as morally bankrupt as printing slander?”

     She pauses thoughtfully.

     “I mean, it’s obviously libel.”

     “It’s—I don’t care what it is! Just stop printing it!” Bart sputters.

     “Sorry, can’t do that. Your little secret is a hit—the papers have been FLYING off the shelves today! I’m telling you, we haven’t sold this many copies since the mayor went crazy!” she clucks in delight. The Pteri wraps a wing around his shoulders and leans in close. “Tell me, are the rumours true? I mean, I’m obviously not the type to believe such things, but I have to admit, Marion’s little demonstration was quite convincing.” She reaches up, brushing her feathers against the brim of his hat.

     “Hey, hey, watch it!” he snaps, stumbling back. “And convincing? Please! All that charlatan did was startle me and then use that to claim that my hat is haunted or some other such nonsense. Why would you ever believe him?”

     The Pteri brushes her hair back, which seems determined to escape the bun it’s contained in. “Well, he was pretty charismatic…then again, he didn’t have that much proof beyond the little hat incident, did he? But then again, why would he be so determined to find more evidence if he wasn’t confident in his claims? If I was him I would stop while I was ahead instead of making a fool of myself and—”

     The Gnorbu holds up a hand, stopping her mid-sentence. “Hold on a tick. What do you mean… ‘more evidence’?”

     “What, you didn’t actually read today’s article?” she demands, then without waiting for an answer adds, “Marion is searching the town hall for records as we speak. He said, and I quote, ‘If I manage to locate the written accounts of Vandebart Biggsby’s crimes, then the town will have irrefutable proof that what I say is true. And if I can’t locate the accounts—which is likely—then we’ll know for sure that Vandebart got rid of the evidence.’ End quote.”

     Bart slams his hand down on the counter hard enough to send a shockwave of pain up his arm. “So you’re telling me that If he finds the records, it’s my fault, but if he doesn’t find the records, then it’s still my fault?! I lose no matter what!”

     “Yes, quite a dilemma, that is,” the Pteri muses. “I wonder what will happen afterward? I’d have to imagine that a mob will probably run you out of town, or worse. Wouldn’t that be tragic?” Despite her sympathetic words, her tone of voice sounds nothing short of delighted at the prospect of a new headline for tomorrow’s news.

     Bart wanders over to the nearest windowsill and rests his stinging fist against the cool glass, mentally cursing Marion, his family, and any Petpets he may or may not have. He gazes out at the local shops, glistening in the fallen rain, and something clicks in his mind.

     “What if…” he says slowly, turning his attention back to the Pteri. “I was to do a press conference tonight at the Soapbox? Clear the air around all this rubbish. Let the people know the real truth about what all this is about.”

     “Hmm…a press conference with a potentially dangerous criminal. I love it!” she trills. The Pteri pauses, pressing a wing to her beak in thought. “Of course, I’m the only press in this town—well, me and the fellows that run the machines, and that Wocky that I have delivering the papers, not that he really counts—”

     “You can invite anyone you want!” Bart offers, ending her tangent before it can begin. “The more the merrier. Invite the other shopkeepers, the local barber, even the mayor!”

     She frowns. “I told you, he went crazy.”

     “Well, find whoever hasn’t gone crazy and invite them! I want everyone in town to see what an upstanding, noble, and innocent person Vandebart Biggsby truly is.”

To be continued…