Last of Shmisneyland--I'll make him talk.

"He's not going to talk," said The Dog.

"My friend doesn't think you'll talk," I said, blocking the costumed figure's escape. "But I think you will. I think I'll make you talk."

"How?" asked The Dog. "These guys are like the guards at Buckingham Palace. They are trained for silence. They stand them out for hours in the sun, not talking."

"Now you're messing with me. All they get is a two-word instruction: don't talk."

"How do you know that?" asked The Dog. "My explanation is just as reasonable."

"That's ridiculous," I said. "And this guy will talk."

My target put his hands over his over-sized mouth and shook his head, smiling idiotically the whole time. Taunting me.

"I bet you were born dumb," I said, "and I mean intelligence, not just the talking thing."

"There are books," said The Dog, "about how to insult people. You should buy one."

"Help me out here, Dog! I'm desperate."

"Okay, I'll help. Why don't you block this guy's way while you talk frantically to an invisible friend?"

I took The Dog's advice because I couldn't help it. "Talk, darn you! Didn't your mom teach you to be polite? See? I'm sneezing! Achoo!"

The costumed figure patted me on the shoulder and rocked his head from side to side. Sympathy. Sympathy as torment. Stupid grouse.

"Pete!" yelled Morgan. "Mom says we're leaving."

"I can't! He hasn't talked yet."

"Stuff it," said Morgan. "Let's go."

"I'm dying of cancer!" I yelled. "And I have allergies--fatal allergies! All I want is for you to talk. It's my final wish! Make my last minutes complete!"

Morgan dragged me away, and that white glove waved me off. Mocking me.

"I'll be back!" I yelled, then I whispered the promise again to myself. "I'll be back."