Morningstar Manor

George Boquet had farmed this patch of land for the whole of his life and even in his seventies couldn't quite bring himself to give it up. Especially now he'd had his stroke of luck, cleverly disguised as a disaster.

Back in July he had been driving to town when a drunk driver had side swiped him and pushed him off the road. A broken arm and whiplash injuries kept him in hospital for close to a month but luckily there were witnesses and the driver, an important man, had paid him good cash money to keep the case out of court. George had made a good recovery and, Carl, the son of a cousin had offered to come work with him. Things were looking up.

So with the lad in tow, George stumped out to the boundary of his property and began to show him the sights. Carl seemed impressed, though George suspected he was more interested in the money then the career.

Then young Carl said, "Hey, Uncle George, nice scarecrow."

"Scarecrow?" George said. "I don't got a scarecrow."

"So what's that then - see, in the tree?"

They went and looked and once young Carl had finished throwing up George got him to call the police from his cell phone. It was quicker than walking back to the house.