You want a story Josh? Here's a story for you. I don't know if there will be any crocodile wrestling. Maybe in a later story. Enjoy:

The Magnificent Tale of Fritz Syberberg

This is a story about a boy. A young man really, of seventeen. His name was Fritz Syberberg. He had recently moved from a small town in Canada named Springville to the University town of Christminster and was enrolled in Christminster college. Not to be confused with the Christminster College in England. Fritz was intent on learning about all the great things in life. He wanted to learn Latin, he wanted to read the Classics of literature, he wanted absorb all that there was to know in the world. Unfortunately his parents didn't share his enthusiasm for knowledge, art, literature, and music.

They were simple people and didn't see the need for book smarts when there more important things to do. Arthur Syberberg, Fritz' father, was a carpenter and Fritz' mother Julia sold vegetables in their local market. They were too busy to bother with things such as books. When business was good, Julia would sell the most delicious yams, tomatoes, and cucumbers. Vegetables all colours of the rainbow. When business was bad, all she could sell were turnips. They had very little leisure time and activities such as painting, reading, and listening to music, all required time. And we all know that time equals money.

Before embarking on his journey to Christminster, the senior Syberberg told Fritz one day, "You're wasting your time son. Come work with me. You'll learn much more about the world if you're able to build useful things with your hands. Imagination will do you no good." Horrified by the prospect of working as a carpenter, Fritz cried, and cried for days. The tears would fill his room and his mother and father would have to bring buckets to bail out the water. Julia would only shake her head and pray that God would put some sense into her silly child.

Fritz continued to cry and sob and babble for forty days and forty nights. He'd mumble about art, something about Leonardo, this about Blake, that about Hardy. His crying would make the floors shake. His sobs would echo off the walls. The sounds were unbearable. His parents didn't know what to do. His mother, thinking Fritz was speaking in tongues called in their priest to perform an exorcism. But nothing seemed to work. He just cried more and more. Until one day, while Fritz was crying and looking intently out his window, wiping the tears from his eyes with his sleeves. He was gazing at a robin, hopping on some branches on a nearby tree when he heard the most haunting and beautiful sound. He'd ever heard. He stopped crying.

Outside, on the street, there was a man on a bicycle with some kind of contraption playing music. It didn't sound like any music Fritz had ever heard before in his life. It was hypnotic and magical. There was a voice, a woman's voice and it was more beautiful than any nightingale. He had to find out what it was. Meanwhile, downstairs, Arthur and Julia were busy preparing supper. Arthur had gone downstairs to fetch a mop to wipe up Arthur's tears when Julia let out a cry. Arthur dropped the bucket and ran into the kitchen.

"What's wrong Julia?" He rushed by her side. Her eyes were huge, and her head was tilted upwards, looking at the ceiling. Arthur hesitated and looked up as well. "Do you hear that?" She said quietly. Arthur listened and heard the music. "Yes. It's music from that damned wandering minstrel. What's his name? Pater? I don't know why he keeps coming around here. No one wants to buy his records or whatever you call them." "No, not that Arthur. Listen." They both continued to listen in silence when Arthur came to the realization that Fritz had stopped crying. They grinned at each other and Julia proclaimed it was a miracle. Just then they heard sounds of footsteps rushing down the staircase. Bang, bang, clomp, thud, slam! Fritz had gone running out the door, slamming it behind him. His parents both went out the front door to look for him but he was nowhere to be found.

To Be continued...

-By Gregory Santos