The Bloodshot Biologist (Two-Minute Version)

(Note: I originally posted this story in three parts.  This is the heavily edited two-minute version.)

      Our story begins in a small cottage in a rather emerald-hued section roughly mid-way into a forest.  This was the cottage of a man, a solitary, intelligent man.  The local people called him “Tim”.

     Tim was a studying man.  He spent his days on his porch, watching little woodland creatures.  He was fond of the animals.  He even gave them each a name.  One rabbit he called “Fluffy”.  A red fox he called “Auburn”.  He found that name particularly creative.

     Tim studied the animals for hours a day, for so long that his eyes were quite bloodshot.  This earned him his nickname, “The Bloodshot Biologist”.  Needless to say, he preferred that over Tim.

     One day, Tim had a thought.  He thought something like, and now for something completely different.  So, he went inside and brewed himself his first cup of coffee.  While doing so, Tim had another thought.  “I’m getting tired of the animals in my yard.  I think I will make myself a new one.”

     He decided to make a trek the next morning to the shop of the local blacksmithing wizard.  He planned to have the wizard make him a magical tool that would help him create new animals.

#

     Tim set off the next dawn.

     The forest floor crunched lightly beneath his boots.  Or oozed grotesquely when he stepped on…never mind.

     Suddenly, a brown-haired man stepped in front of Tim’s path.  His beard seemed to glow in the limited light.  In a gruff voice he declared, “I challenge thee.  En garde!”  The man exploded forward, curved hand above his head.

     Luckily, Tim was a master of forearm-warfare.  He crouched slightly and waited.  As soon as the man dropped his hand to strike, Tim shifted to the left.   He swiped at…

     Long story short, Tim dodged the man’s roundhouse kick and prevailed with a blow to his chin.

     Tim continued his stroll, triumph evident in his gait.

     At last he came upon a sturdy wooden door.  “Blacksmith” was spelled out in iron letters above the frame.   Pink twine fastened a piece of paper to the lion’s-head doorknocker.  It read: “Out on party business; do not wait for me.”

     And so Tim fell to his knees and wept.  The End.