>as follows, to wit; 200 words, give or take a score or so,
>utilizing the following elements: Nightwing, Alfred, a hairdryer, and
>the phrase "What are you doing to that sheep?"
>Yes, maybe I am crazy and a little sick. So are you going to write,
>or what?
The boy's crazy as a loon, but that's besides the point. It ran over 200 by a bit more than a score. 290 words.
Dick Grayson sniffed again. The pantry was cold, and it was making his nose run, by that point. He'd only been in there since like six that morning.
He figured Alfie would come in at breakfast time for something, and would see him. Then he hoped at lunchtime.
But not only was Alfred obviously NOT cooking for the household, like a good Alfred should, but he was ignoring Dick. Dick knew why. He overheard Alfie say to Bruce that if they ignored this teenage rebellion, it'd simply wear itself out.
They were going to notice him this time. Unlike the detensions and in-school suspensions, and Robin asking Harvey Bullock for a cigar, this was going to be something they couldn't overlook.
Dick turned on the hair dryer he'd brought with him again, passing his hands in front of the nozzle for warmth. Just then, the door opened, and Alfred turned on the light.
"Young man," Alfred reprimanded sternly.
Dick grinned proudly. "I know what you're going to say. You're going to say 'What are you doing to that sheep?'" He announced, gesturing to the blue-dyed wool and the dozens of tiny pink hair barrettes clipped to the poor, tired animal. "And I have a really good explanation..."
"No, Master Richard... I'm going to ask what THAT," Alfred replied, pointing to the hair dryer, "is doing out of it's proper place in the bathroom. Master Bruce had gone crazy the whole morning, looking for it, and made himself late for work—refusing to leave until his hair was properly dried."
Dick's shoulder's slumped. "What about the sheep?"
"What sheep?" Alfred asked casually, snatching the dryer from Dick, then closing the pantry door, leaving the boy and his farm animal alone.
THE END