What’s that wafting?

At the debating table in the Bakery in Drizzle Creek the other morning, hunter orange was in evidence. So were the number of long faces—obviously unsuccessful in their attempt to bag that trophy buck so far this season.
Pickle, a noted “deer hunter and watcher” (not shooter), has seen any number of trophy stags this fall, but is replete with excuses for failing to fill his tag yet.
The other day, he and Moose were contemplating a quick run out to the siding east of Drizzle Creek to investigate reports of a trophy buck having lost an argument with the fast freight.
“Think of it. Where else can you pick up a 12-pointer without having to drag it a mile out of the bush, let alone wasting a full clip of shells,” reasoned Moose, ever on the prowl for a deal.
“Besides, you won’t even have to waste your tag. Road-kill is fair game,” he added as he first checked his pulse and, since it still was not racing, held out his cup for his fourth refill of high test.
“I suppose you’re right,” agreed Pickle and both pushing back their chairs, they exited post haste. We didn’t see them again until coffee time the next morning.
“Did you get that trophy?” three of us chorused in unison as Pickle and Moose came slouching into the Bakery.
“Too late. Some other $%*!# beat us to that rack. And man, it was a big buck and a nice doe. Looks like he died right in the middle of procreation,” explained Pickle, ordering up his toast and peanut butter.
“Let that be a lesson to you young fellows. Sex, or the pursuit thereof, could be the death of any one you,” cautioned Moose, ever ready to dispense sage advice.
“’Course, we’re not done for yet. We saw another monster buck crossing the track, not 50 yards away. He just stood there broadside. A perfect shoulder shot,” raved Pickle, once again in full hunt mode.
“Why didn’t you drop it?” I asked, sheltering my own toast from Pickle’s hungry glances.
“Uhh, forgot to bring our rifles. Left ’em in the truck,” replied a once again dejected Pickle, but he brightened immediately on the delivery of his toast.
“What we need is something to make this hunting surefire,” reasoned Dr. Goodwrench, sweeping his shaggy locks back off his face. “We could market some of that doe scent the Yanks are always bragging about.”
Dr. Goodwrench, recently unemployed due to the economic downturn, always is looking for a way to make a buck while avoiding steady employment that might interfere with his other activities.
“Look at the way Anon and Mary Fay market all that stuff to women,” he remarked. “I think we could do that with the male crowd.
“It would really be great to ‘roll down the road in a pink Cadillac,’” enthused the good doctor as he started humming that old Motown tune.
“I can see it now, you and Pickle, door to door, in your best get-up, sample cases in hand. ‘Ding, Dong, Anon calling. Is the man of the house in?’” I smirked, imagining these two direct marketing magnates.
Once again, Dr. Goodwrench swept the hair back from his face, checked the call identity on his warbling cell phone, and, visions of the pink Cadillac fading, sighed, responding, “Yeah, I guess the only question would be which one of us would be Ding and which one Dong?”

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