So you’se all are readin’ this last part a the story a week after part IV. But I really wrote it a long time earlier. I got me three squares and a cot now, and somethin’ to occupy my time and mind every day. The old Punkster is fightin’ back. But more about how that happened later.
I bet you’d like to know what ever became of Paula & Company. As ya might expect, Duddly didn’t rest until he set things straight. I guess it was that old Mountie blood. Duddly took his film straight to the processin’ center, and like old Rod Stewart said in the song, every picture did tell the story. He made 8 X 10 color glossy photos of Paula dividin’ up the cash with Rolanda and Olden. Duddly and his 8 X 10’s went straight back to the insurance company. From then on things didn’t go too well for the co-conspirators. They’re all getting’ three squares and a cot now too. Only, they don’t get out much any more, if ya get my drift. Olden was set up for retirement in two weeks. I like to think he got early retirement, but with a different plan than he had in mind. I understand he’s got a real knack for sheet metal work: his new hobby is license plates.
I just saw a newspaper from the old town. “Bette Yacan Buy A New Home Now” is the new business in town. I’m sure old Bette is doin’ pretty good, too. Maybe she hired Ray, cause his business wasn’t doin too good when I left.
So I can almost hear ya screamin, “What are you doin now, Punky”? Well, I made a move. It was a good one, too. I was sittin in old Prince with nothin much left but my Pat Paulson for President poster, which I managed to hold onto. The old girl wasn’t runnin too smooth, but the heater was still blastin’. I was glad a that cause it was startin’ to get downright cold. Ever the crack inspector, even in the shame of my darkest days, I was readin’ this inspector’s rag.
I read this article about an angel of mercy. She lived in this most unlikely of places, and was volunteerin’ in the soup kitchen on Saturday nights. She said this beanpole guy came in with hair lookin like he stuck his finger in the light socket. She dished him out a bowl of soup. The kitchen was slow, so she went to set down and visit with him. Now, this guy hadn’t been doin too good, and he mumbled about wantin’ to be a home inspector while the rutabaga soup dribbled down his chin. This lady, her name’s Shelly, was a sucker for down and out skinny guys. One thing ya don’t know: you don’t know Shelly, she is stubborn. When Shelly gets a direction, ya don’t want to be standin’ in the way, or ya won’t be standin’ for long.
After a little planin’, Shelly got this halfway house started, with da beanpole: his name is Michael, as the first client. She wanted him busy during the day, so she asked her friends if Michael could come over and inspect their homes. She told them he was in trainin’, even though he didn’t know a stem wall from drywall. Michael started inspectin and caught on pretty fast. In no time he was doin real inspections, and Shelly started chargin’ fees, makin a go of her halfway house. It was only a coupla years before Michael got the swelled head, wantin to name the business after himself. Shelly figured what the heck; she wasn’t in it for the glory. So Michael does inspectin’, and Shelly takes care of washed up home inspectors lookin’ for a second chance. Oh, by the way, Michael and Shelly got married. And she lets him think he’s da boss. She’s ok with that too, but she takes care of the checks. We all know who the boss really is.
Anyways, I was sittin in old Prince reading about all of this when her engine bucked twice and died. I stepped outside to take a look at Prince, and as I did, a seam opened up in the clouds, castin’ this pinpoint of sunlight on the very spot I stood. Now, I ain’t entirely a religious guy, but it looked like a sign to me. I quickly checked my pockets and found the thirty-five bucks I’d been holdin’ onto. I looked back to the rag I was readin’ to find out where this Shelly was. Next I grabbed my Pat Paulson poster and headed for the Greyhound Bus Station, without lookin’ back. When I got to the bus station, I asked the fella behind the counter, “How much is a ticket to Orem, Utah?”
I’ll bet ya guessed it! The ticket was thirty-five bucks. A day and a half later I was knockin’ on the door at Shelly’s Halfway House for Washed Up Home Inspectors. I been here a while now, getting three squares and a cot. I started out doin’ inspections for free, just like Michael did. Shelly is chargin’ now, and she is finally getting her investment back. I don’t think it’ll be long and I’ll be out on my own again, fighin’ the good fight.
But for right now, me, Punky Mudsill, is here at Shelly’s Halfway House for Washed Up Home Inspectors, getting re-habilitated! Hooda Ever Thunk It!
This story was written by Roy K. Brown for the entertainment of the members of the American Institute of Inspectors. Any reproduction is strictly prohibited, unless, of course, there are big bucks in it for the author.