Skoogy Lee Goobins could see the vultures circling from nigh on twenty miles off. He brought his prized palfry up to a curious canter, kicking dust along the well-worn trail back to his hometown of Goobinsville. He’d been in La Grange for the better part of the morning, trading tall tales about Paul Bunyan and Mr. Crowell, the Overzealous Butler over coffee and hardtack at the Ol’ Tradin’ Post.
Those vultures surely meant that Skoogy’s afternoon was going to take a turn. A smelly one. As he approached the site the vultures were circling, Skoogy put on his chamois-lined boot protectors and stashed his best moustache in a saddlebag. Tall timbers lined either side of the trail. There’s no telling just what those bothersome birds are dithering over, thought Skoogy, unless I go into the woods and check it out myself.
He tied his prized palfry to a nearby tree, grabbed a Bowie knife and back-up moustache from his bag, and headed into the woods. Skoogy crashed his way through about diggety-two yards of forest, then abruptly found himself in a circular clearing about as big as the medium-sized farmhouse out on Old Marv Parker’s spread. In the center of the clearing stood a single log cabin with a ‘FOR SALE’ sign in front. Skoogy noticed an ‘OPEN HOUSE’ sign next to the door. The smell of fresh-baked cookies drew him closer to the cabin.
Suddenly, a smartly-dressed realtor stepped into the doorway from within. “Good afternoon!” she said, greeting Skoogy with a warm smile and a firm handshake. “Are you interested in buying in the area?” she asked as she handed him a warm Molasses cookie.
“No, ma’am,” answered Skoogy as he gnawed on the tasty baked treat. “I simply came to see why those vultures were circling. I feared there’d been murderous doings afoot.”
The realtor laughed. “Oh, those aren’t vultures, my good fellow. They’re ingenious rubber concoctions called balloons. I believe they’re French in origin. I have them circling my open house here to help drum up business. By the way, I don’t believe I’ve introduced myself. My name is Edward James Olmos.”
“Well, ma’am,” stammered Skoogy, “I’m Skoogy Lee Goobins myself, but I’ll be a hornswoggled humidor if you didn’t say your name was Edward James Olmos! But that’s the name of my very own prized palfry. He’s tied up right near the trail out there!”
The realtor laughed again. “Mr. Goobins, I’m afraid you’ve stumbled onto our little secret! At any one time throughout history, there are always exactly twelve people or animals named Edward James Olmos. When one dies, another is born. We like to call it The Olmos Continuum.”
Skoogy eyed the realtor skeptically. “That’s not a very good name. Continuum is so easy to misspell.”
“I know,” said the realtor. “I voted for The Olmos Contingency.”
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