Phil stared at the radio amused by the reporter’s narration, “Huge crowds have gathered at Gobblers Nob. They have pitchforks, flaming torches, guns and shovels. They move slowly, their aching bodies hobbled by the unrelenting arctic blasts. Their frozen faces are grim. There will be no escape for Punxsutawney Phil.”
Phil smiled and reached for his pitcher. He poured himself a tall cool beer and settled back to watch the waves gently roll onto the beach. Sure, he had made his annual appearance but he was no fool. After predicting six more weeks of winter he had packed his bags and headed to the Caribbean.
His secret escape tunnel led to the local Fedex office. He searched the outgoing boxes and found one bound for Saint Kitts and Nevis, a care package for a medical school student. Phil dined on Nuts and Dried Fruit during the trip. The bubble wrap provided a soft bed to sleep on.
The radio announcer’s voice grew louder, “A man with a pickax is digging furiously, his each mighty swing preceded by another expletive directed at Phil who is certainly terrified deep within his den.”
A look of disgust furrowed the fuzzy face. The waiter had his back to him and did not notice Phil’s raised empty pitcher. It was mid-morning and the temperature was already near ninety. Phil was grateful for the ocean breeze.
The radio announcer’s voice grew somber, “Ladies and gentlemen I don’t know that I believe what I am seeing. The mob has commandeered an excavator. Swinging from the boom is Phil hanging in effigy. They are using the digger to demolish the den. Phil’s end is mere moments away.”
The waiter arrived and deposited another full pitcher. Phil signed the check adding a nice tip.
He reached for the radio and changed the station. He found one with steel drum music on it.