Brock's Pillow Problem
Page 2

Brock suddenly remembered a bit of advice that he had given his younger brother (pictured, but buried 6 feet under the table) right before his brother was ravaged by a pack of timber wolves, "When all hope hath fled, haveth a picnic with thine enemy." And have a picnic he did! The pillow sat on the table and responded to Brock's polite feeding and dinner table conversation with the same lumpy, expressionless enthusiasm that it had displayed all day.

After the eerily silent and awkward picnic ended, Brock somehow figured out that the pillow would perfectly fit inside the bathroom drawer (pictured above and below). So he crammed it in and closed it up. Finally, it seemed as if Brock would be rid of the pillow that had tormented him to the point of mild insanity...

But carrying out the rest of his daily activities, such as staring at the stove (almost pictured) and rubbing his arm on the concrete, just wasn't as fulfilling as it had been when the pillow was not trapped inside the drawer. Brock was left worrying and wondering what the pillow was doing at that moment...

So Brock pulled the pillow (pictured somewhere on this website) back out of the drawer as quickly as he could. Immediately, he wished he hadn't done this, but he felt that it was too late to turn back at this point. He was right, too. He had grown too much as a person and the pillow had somehow become 20% fluffier and could not be wedged back into the drawer even if he had wanted to do it.

Brock wiped at this sweaty brow, tightened his belt, and pulled himself together for one final brilliant scheme, which was staging an intricate and plausible scenario that would make it look like he had "accidentally" run over the pillow 6 or 7 times. He did run over the pillow, too, though accidentally, not "accidentally." The end result was the same - the pillow's power (pictured, but only metaphorically speaking) was now severely weakened.

This time, when Brock worked up enough nerve to tenderly lay the pillow in the trashcan, everything seemed just right. Brock could turn around and walk away and not feel as if he were shooting one of his dear friends point blank in the head with a hollow-tipped .38-caliber slug (pictured, but a few weeks from when this Picture Story actually took place). Actually, he did feel that way, but it was fairly easy for him to deal with it for some reason.

Long past his bedtime, Brock retired to bed at around 8:30 that night exhausted, grumpy, and penniless. Just as his head clanged down onto the rusted metal of his bed, he noticed that he was missing his pillow, but he didn't feel like getting up to retrieve it from the trashcan. The following day, Brock woke up more sore than ever, picked the pillow back out of the trashcan, threw it onto his bed, and then torched the entire neighborhood with a flamethrower his aunt had given him for his fifth birthday (not pictured).