Freedy Filkins, International Jewel Thief, 9.

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Filk's End was warm and cozy, to be sure.  But being buried in a hill as it was, it had always been a little dark.  Hardwood floors, covered by lush carpets, wood paneling -- it was all a little dim and dingy sometimes.

So first thing Freedy did when he came into his 'inheritance' was put a large skylight at the very center top of his abode.  There he'd sit under, late at night, polishing off a bottle of wine and staring at the stars and imagining long adventures and glittering treasure troves.

If he'd been a more self-aware fellow, he'd have realized that Aunt Tessie's tales had had more of an invigorating effect on him than he realized.

The great CRASH! came late in the afternoon.

CRASH! and Freedy immediately understood what a disaster it was.  Glass tinkering, wood shattering, and then a loud soft solid THUMP.

"OUCH!"  A strong tenor voice, rising to a painful soprano.

Freedy ran to the living room-- yes, ran, something he couldn't remember doing since...since a long time.

His beautiful skylight was gone -- fractured down middle with the shape of a person.  Freedy could see where the head, the torso and two arms and legs had splatted dead center.

On the table beneath a very hairy, very unkempt man was moaning, sprawled in the same shape as the void.

At the same moment, there was knocking at his door.

He fuddered toward the invader, and then back toward the incessant knocking, then back to the moaner and then back to the shouts at the door.

'Oh dear,  oh dear,' Poor Freedy thought,  'What on earth is happening?' 

Since he really didn't want to go even near the intruder -- and since he thought maybe rescue had arrived (surely that crash had been heard throughout the neighborhood!) he padded over the door first and flung it open.

Very unlike him not to check first.

And there was another very hairy, unkempt fellow looking so similar that Freedy couldn't help but jerk his head over his shoulder to make sure the table was still covered by the smashed interloper.

"You the Thief?" The fellow bellowed.  "My bro' here yet?"

A loud moan containing an approximation of words came from the living room.

"Idiot makes the embarrassing entrance as usual,'  the brother at the door muttered and pushed rudely by Freedy.

"Here!  Here now!" Freedy protested.  As the burly visitor absented the doorway, Freedy saw two other hairy men approaching and without thinking, he slammed and bolted the door.

'Wait!' the second thought slapped into place, this wasn't a solution!  It left him locked inside with two alarming characters.

"Get up, you moron!" the second intruder yelled at the first intruder.   "You've ruined our host's window, damn you!  That's coming out of your share, brother mine."

Freedy thought he should march up to the two and demand they leave.  Yes, that's exactly what he'd do!

He marched toward them, and then veered and ran toward the small back door, which was half hidden behind a pantry.  But as he reached the hallway, a huge shadow hovered toward him.

It was the bearded long-haired hippie who'd loomed at his door a couple days before. He filled the hallway.  Freedy slid to stop, his big feet sliding a rug across the hardwood like a sled on ice.

"Ack!" he shouted.  Ack?  What kind of sound was that?  What was happening to him?

"There you are, my good fellow," the flower child -- flower grandpa said, cheerfully.

Shouts and bangs emanated relentlessly from the entrance, and the bearded hippie walked right by Freedy and flung open the door.

And there stood, not just one, not just two more hairy guys, but four more, all of a type -- big and small, tall and skinny and all different shapes they may have been -- but they all wore jeans and flannel shirts and suspenders of different bright colors and lumberjack boots and all had variations of beards and wild hair under knit stocking caps.

"Let's get this party started!" Flower Grampa said.  "Where's your ale, Freedy?  I know you've got a batch brewing!"

Freedy felt like collapsing, right there in the hallway.

But a beer -- you know?  That sounded good.  He hadn't had guests in a long time and his hootch was second to none-- he knew, because he attended every brew fest and none matched his. But no one knew it.

He padded toward the kitchen, suddenly enjoying all the hoo haw.  If nothing else, it'd make a helluva story in his diary.

They didn't mean him harm, he sensed.  Other than to his peace and quiet.

He hoped.

The possibility of danger was pretty spicy.  Just like his new batch of ale.  A couple of spicy tankards was just what he needed.