POTATO MOON, Part 81: “With Sincere Apologies to Josh Ritter for Dragging Him into This Nonsense” by Jessica Sheffield

“Pants? We don’t need no stinkin’–”

“That will be quite enough of that, Jakob,” Edwood said firmly, his stern tone belied somewhat by the glitter on his skin. Jakob thought fleetingly about all the interesting places that glitter could get to before scowling and pulling on his pants.

Solanum blew a smoke ring in his direction. “So, about that secret–”

Everyone held their breath.

“Good soil. Yep, that’s the secret to growing good potatoes. Idaho’s just chock full of good soi–”

“Anyone care if I shoot him again?” Vlad the Impeeler asked.

Solanum stubbed out his cigar and flicked the butt toward Vlad. “Just for that, maybe I won’t tell you.”

“Okay, now I’m going to shoot him,” Woeisme announced.

Solanum chuckled. “Problem with you folks is, you think too literally. The secret’s in Idaho.”

Edwood snapped, “We know. You’ve been telling us that for chapters and chapters. We’ve been covered in blood, mashed potatoes, glitter, and God knows what else, and we’re no closer to Idaho or your dámņëd secret than we were eighty chapters ago. Tell us or Jakob will change into a were-velociraptor and tear you apart.”

Behind him, Jakob began to get a bit scaly.

“Not yet, Jakob.”

“Right. It’s sort of hard to control.”

“All that love, all those mistakes, what else can a poor man make?” Solanum sang. The group eyed him suspiciously.

“That’s your response to certain death by velociraptor? Singing?” Bela asked.

Solanum smiled. “Who’s got an iPhone?”

Edwood reached into his pocket, nearly mashing the potato effigy of Jakob in the process. Jakob winced.

“Sorry.” Edwood drew out his iPhone, somewhat the worse for wear given the day’s events. “Okay, now what?”

“Shazam.”

“Seriously, were-velociraptor.”

“It’s the name of the app. Launch Shazam.”

Edwood tapped and swiped the device. “Okay.”

“So I gave up a life of crime… I gave it to a friend of mine… Something else was on my mind,” Solanum sang. The iPhone thought for a second, then the name of the song appeared on the screen:

IDAHO

“I’ll be dámņëd,” said Edwood.

“Don’t you mean chagrined?” Bela piped up.

“Men are talking, dear,” Edwood replied absently. Bela sat in the corner without any hint of chagrin at all, because after all, her husband was right — men WERE talking. And she shouldn’t worry her pretty little head about it, right? Right?

“What does it mean?” Jakob asked.

Edwood brought up the lyrics, then laughed. “‘Wolves, oh wolves, oh can’t you see? Ain’t no wolf can sing like me — and if it could then I suppose he belongs in Idaho.'” He looked at Jakob. “I think it means… you have to sing.”

Jakob looked… chagrined.