The Labeler's Lesson

...he pulled out his deadliest weapon...

"Ha!" I cried. "What's that, a fairy cake?!" 

The Labeler was confused. "Wye dew yew tork cakes at me?"

"To confuse and distract, mostly" I replied, whipping out MY deadliest weapon.

"That's not a labeler, Labeler," I growled.
"THIS... 

...is a labeler!"

"What is those? I am not knowing."

"It's time for you to go back to school, Labeler." said Michael, fiddling with his cellphone.

"What are you two guys up to?" hissed Clark.

"Oh, you'll see," I grinned. 

The door burst open.

"Whot thuh?" said The Labeler, growing ever more perplexed with each passing second.

"Say hello to... The Teacher!" yelled Michael, as in walked THIS lady...

"HA Har haah ha!" gurgled The Labeler. "Hoo is this olde ladie?"

In one swift move she put him in a half-nelson and cuffed him, snarling, "I'm your worst nightmare, buster!"

As he struggled, another woman walked in. The Teacher continued, "and this is my good friend, The Proofreader!"

"Well, boys," said The Teacher, "it looks like we got here just in time. We'll take care of this creep - and his diction, spelling, sentence structure and whatnot - from here on out."

And with that, The Teacher and The Proofreader frogmarched The Labeler out to their minivan. All we could hear as they drove off was his voice yelling "Noe! Stopp! Yew carnt doo this! Noe!"

As we stood in the laundromat, picking Post-It notes off each other and everything else in sight, we watched as Ulf the Unbelievadog and his cohorts rounded up The Labeler's goons and tied them up with nylon washing line by running around them sheepdog-style, whereupon we cuffed them and packed them off to the Stiletto Flats Police Dept.

Clark was still a trifle puzzled. "But where did they come from? How do you know them?"
Michael put him at his ease. "Remember that time I went missing in action?"

"Which time?" Clark and I replied in unison. (There's been so many times, let's face it.)

"Well," Michael sighed. "It started in a library in Granite Falls, WA, moved on to The Barbeque Bucket, and ended on a white sand beach somewhere exotic..." he drifted off, eyes glazing over in reverie.

"Oh. One of those stories..."

"Sometimes, " he said, "it pays to have a couple friends on speed-dial."

Labeling The Labeler

He stood triumphantly over us and said, "Neal... be four... The Labeler!". Actually, we can't be sure whether or not he used the words correctly, since they were spoken and not written, but based on what we'd already experienced, it's probably a good bet.

JEFF: "Before we get started with your inevitable defeat, we should probably call you The Mislabeler."
LABELER: "Attenting to minimalize myself by feminizing my name? Not cool in 2015, Unbeliva-politically-incorrects!"
MICHAEL: "No, he means 'mis' as in the prefix applied to various parts of speech, meaning 'ill,' 'mistaken,' 'wrong,' 'wrongly,' 'incorrectly,' or simply negating the word that follows, not 'Miss' as a title prefixed to the name of an unmarried woman or girl. Because that's what you're doing; mislabeling things"
LABELER: "Uh huh. This is where less intelligenter villains then me have maked a mistook. They engorge in conversationism with you and get confused. I'm two smart to foal for that!"
ME: "My goodness, your grammar is truly atrocious!"
LABELER: "Know moor speakingness! I'll let THIS do the talk!"

With that he pulled out his deadliest weapon...

How could we possibly defeat an evil maniac brandishing what my grandpa used to label his fishing tackle box??? Hopefully, Jeff has the answer Friday!

Introduction To The Labeler

Seriously ... what is it with the notes we get?

We got another one Sunday night ...

"Unbelieva-Fools! You're time is up! Nothing you due can stop me! No ware you look will you find me! I will bee you're doom!"

Right off, whoever this was, we knew s/he had bad grammar.

"That's probably the source of the anger I read," I thought out loud to Jeff and Clark. "This person is probably so nicked at the fact he or she didn't study in school the only recourse is to take it out on us."

"Makes sense," Jeff responded.

"I say we don't do anything and see where this goes. I mean ... what's this person going to do anyway? Torture us with poorly written notes?" Clark wondered.

Just then an alarm began ringing. Someone in the laundromat entrance to our headquarters. We took a look on our unbelieva-moniters to see a bunch of black-clad hooligans putting stickers on all the washing machines and dryers and soap dispensers.

Jeff noticed first what they were doing: "Hey ... they're changing prices on all the labels on our stuff!"

I scrunched my face at the monitor, watching them plaster new price points on everything. "We better get down there."

All three of us took off to the entrance. Opening the door, we were accosted by sticky-back notices in droves which tangled us up, made us fall to the ground unable to remain standing and rendered us immobile. A dark figure emerged with his face covered in yellow Post-it® notes. 

"Your mind now, Unbeliva-foons!" the daunting chiffer cackled. 

Jeff called out: "Where's Ulf when we need him? No good, flea-bitten ..."

... stay tuned ...