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Return to Hoover Island by Dick Oakes, Jr.

January 24, 2014 Leave a comment Go to comments

By Dick Oakes, Jr.
Senior Staff Writer
File photo

Veteran reporter Dick Oakes, Jr. has returned to Hoover Island to find out more about mysterious business magnate and monarch Aaron Tucker.

For reasons unclear, Tucker has asked me to meet him outside a fenced-in work yard. A comfortable sofa has been placed there; indeed, it appears to have been placed very recently, perhaps in the last few minutes before my arrival. I wait for nearly two hours, listening to the sound of men moving barrels and crates. Occasionally, I look back to see the tip of a large conical object being thrust above the fencing, only to disappear just as quickly. It grows overcast.

Although Tucker does not permit photographs, he did provide this stock image of a (non-nude) King.

Although Tucker does not permit photographs, he did provide this stock image of a (non-nude) King.

Finally, a car pulls up and Tucker motions me into the backseat. It is a strange vehicle like nothing I have ever seen in Lankville and I make a comment.

“Oh yes, all of our cars are made and remain exclusively on Hoover Island,” says Tucker, who is wearing a regal purple chemise, pants roomy in the ass and crotch and a helmet. “They are finely-crafted. Many cross-references are made. It is an extensive process.”

I can’t make any of it out but I know that we are headed to lunch and that Tucker is footing the bill. That’s pretty much all I care about.

We pull up in front of a large hotel. There are fountains with nude statuary. When we reach the lounge, we find several nude patrons. A couple of the waitresses are nude but we don’t get so lucky– ours is fully-clothed.

The nudists of Hoover Island.

The nudists of Hoover Island.

“I know that in Lankville, it is unlikely that you would want to be waited upon by a nude,” says Tucker, as he examines the lavishly-illustrated menu. “I can understand that it might be difficult to make food decisions whilst a pair of bosoms lurk just inches from your face. For us, it is highly ordinary. Why, I have had a waiter’s sack so close to my soup that you wonder how it remains, shall we say, out of the soup. But, these men and women are experts.”

“OK with me if you want a nude waiter,” I comment hopefully.

IT IS DONE,” Tucker thunders in response. Several people turn around in their seats. When they recognize the orator they suddenly stand, bow and applaud. Tucker waves graciously.

“You know,” he begins, piercing a loaf of bread with gusto, “I cannot comprehend the labor problems in your country. Frankly, had I known of such strife, I would not have gone through the effort of purchasing a sports franchise there. The people of Hoover Island want hockey but not at this cost. We find your problems foolish. You are all foolish, sad men, frankly.”

I attempt to explain some of the intricacies of the lockout.

“We do not deal in such irrationalities here. Wearing clothes, for example, is irrational. No one in this room, besides you I presume, is at all offended by that gentleman over there in the booth, his coinpurse resting gently on the red poly-vinyl. Or the good lady in the booth opposite, who, if you look quickly, has one titty resting on the table and one not.” Tucker laughs in a lordly way. “Oh, that has put me in a good humor.”

The food arrives. I had ordered the flounder but instead am brought an enormous lasagna. I feel that I cannot complain– Tucker is watching me carefully. I dig in.

“I will withdraw my franchise before too long,” Tucker announces after a short silence. “The situation grows more intolerable by the day. I don’t think much of your “Inner Hammer” or your Pondicherry.” They are trite men.”

The rest of the meal is eaten in silence, per Tucker’s request.

Part One in a Series

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