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The Adventures of Furthermore, the Masonic Raven
Written by Skip Boyer



FURTHERMORE SEES THE LIGHT

I suppose it was inevitable. Which is another way of saying that I should have seen it coming…but didn’t. There really is nothing to this business of getting smarter as we get older. Dumb to start with, dumb to end with.

Anyway, some months back, I decided it was time to visit Brother Furthermore, my Masonic raven, in the great caverns below our house. Usually, I take the winding stairs cut in the living rock. These wind down for several stories (the entrance is hidden in the fireplace in the livingroom. Don’t tell a soul!). Lately, however, the stairs have been an increasing challenge. ADA is insisting that I install an elevator. I may opt for an escalator. Right now, it was just easier to transmorgify my physical form and translate myself to the lower level of the cavern. Sort of like beaming down in Star Trek but without the technology. Don’t ask how it’s done. You don’t want to know. It confusing the hydra something awful, too.

When I reformed near the bar, there was Furtermore—clad in a tan robe with a dark brown sash and recklessly wielding some sort of shining, sword-like thing.

“Greetings, Lord Vader!,” he squawked as I took form. A sudden slash from the light thingy scarred the oaken table and sliced the lid off a jar of olives. “Care for a martini, Evil One?!”

I’m slow, I’ll admit. It took me a moment or two to recognize the Star Wars getup and to realize that I was, in all probability, addressing a Jedi Knight.

“Love one. Shall I make it or will you use the Force?”

“Jedi Knights do not use the Force to make martinis,” he replied hautily as he dropped to the table. “Only Whiskey Sours!” The thought of ruining good whiskey turned my stomach and I began to assemble to various ingredients of a brace of martinis.

“I assume Jedi Knights will drink martinis, however,” I queried—knowing the answer in advance.

“Of course!” the old bird replied. “We haven’t turned to the dark side of the Force yet!”

This was getting old. “That would the Farce or the Force?”

“You’re no fun,” Furthermore groused, spearing an olive with his beak.

“So,” I asked foolishly, “why the getup. What’s happening?”

Duh.

“The new Star Wars movie, you dunce! It’s almost here!”

“I didn’t know you were a fan, Furthermore.”

“Well, of course,” he responded. “Love it! Just think about it!”

Then he proceeded to explain in some detail the joys of being a Star Wars fanatic and true believer. He had a great many good reasons, ranging from cool spaceships, weird friends(!) and hip clothes to the residual rights for the films and related marketing opportunities for action figures. He really had thought it out very nicely. Then we came to the clincher.

Light sabers.

Think about it, he pointed out. Haven’t you ever wanted your own light saber? It’s a really cool weapon that flies into your hand when you want it and can cut through steel, electrical cables and such while generating more fireworks that the Fourth of July Boston Pops Concert.

Of course, trust Furthermore to make bring it down to a personal level. “Light sabers are the perfect way to resolve any difference of opinion. Second in line at the copy machine? Use your light saber! Bad service at your favorite restaurant? Your light saber will rectify the priorities of the wait staff. Trouble with the boss and your performance review? Whip out your trusty light saber and negotiate! Hotel room too small? Remodel with your trusty light saber! Problems with old girl friends? Get out…

At this point, I decided I’d had just about enough and said so. Furthermore, now well into his second martini, took mild offense and soared up the ceiling, then returned in a low bomb run with his light saber at the ready. I lobbed a couple of fireballs his way and ducked. It was wasted effort. Just as he reached me, his indestructible light saber suddenly went dark.

He dropped to the table with a sigh. “Nuts,” he muttered as a wingtip pried open the handle of the lightless saber. “Nuts!”

“What’s the problem,” I inquired, helpfully.

“Batteries,” he responded. “You just never have enough of those damned little double A batteries around when you need ‘em.” And with that, he soured lazily off down the darkened cavern in search of batteries. As he sailed away, I pulled out my own light saber and used it to open the olives again. Don’t you just love Star Wars?




BACK TO THE HOME PAGE?

To all Lodge Trestle Board editors: Feel free to use any of the tales of Furthermore. Should you choose to do so, however, we deny any responsibility for actions by your own lodge. If, after the first couple of columns, the brethren appear restless and begin to surge toward you as you enter the lodge room, we suggest you flee and deny any connection with Furthermore.






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