Not based on true events

Strangely enough, Mr. Wicked found the appearance of the moss rather enticing as it grew greener with hydration. After all, its surface looked tantalizingly soft, and before Mr. Wicked knew the fact, he had reached out his hand and touched it. A thrill of pleasure immediately sprouted from his finger tips as if his hand had encountered a fluffy lamb. I am afraid that he was instantly smitten with that piece of moss. He brought it inside after that first magical interaction, and set it upon his kitchen table where he could pet it as he had his tea, and where it could not remain. And why, may you ask? Because wherever Mr. Wicked went, the moss too had to go. He could not even read in bed without his hand upon its downy softness. Then, when his reading was done, and the white moon was far upon her travels amongst the stars, he set his rough head on the pillow and mused over how dull life was before that moss had come to him. Now, his mood had changed, and he was happy. But the next day, Mr. Wicked was to be given more excitement than he bargained for, and all on account of that moss. Yes, indeed, it was so. For, though the next day shone bright and early, and Mr. Wicked arose brighter and earlier than he had ever arisen before, he had forgotten that he was to have a visitor to his home that afternoon. That visitor was Zack Mack, a teen-aged boy, who, despite being a rebellious, unlikable little imp, had taken quite a liking for the bearded grumbling man. Perhaps it was because of this very grumbling that Zack favoured Mr. Wicked as a friend, for he himself did much of the same grumbling. Well, Mr. Wicked thought no more of Zack that morning than he thought of the temperature of the past night. In fact, he was thinking about that moss. But such ponderings escaped in a moment when, glancing out his dining room window, he beheld Zack himself outside of it, standing upon the porch, and in the midst of his first knock on the front door. Immediately, twenty most unusual ideas whizzed through the now panic-stricken mind of Mr. Wicked, for he remembered having invited the boy. He did not go to the door at once, though. No, Mr. Wicked had first to snatch the platter of moss which was then on the table and conceal it underneath instead only to replace it the second after. Then, he rushed about setting all in order, folding stray blankets, removing fallen vases, and in short, making a greater mess than had been present before. After all, a vase in the toaster oven is no better than one on the floor. All the while, Zack’s knocks rang in the man’s ear until at length, after giving an assuring stroke of the hand to his moss, Mr. Wicked gathered himself and his senses and opened the front door.

To be continued...