My friend tired of the gray skies, so when her boyfriend invited her, she took a trip to Greece. Killer stayed behind to guard the lair. The organist who lived down by the dungeon flats looked in on Killer daily.
A week and then a month passed. My friend and her beau returned to the castle. It was late, and they were worn out from travel, but not so tired that they did not perceive a vile smell, a smell that was thicker than the castle walls. They were so tired that they went to bed anyway, hoping that the tower would air out. “Don’t think twice, Pete,” said my friend. “Castles always smell bad.” After a few minutes in bed, though, the stench seemed to encircle them. If anything, it was getting worse.
Finally, the boyfriend got up and started sniffing out the odor. His nose led him directly under the bed. There he discovered a large dead seagull. How Killer got the seagull, no one ever knew. It was a mighty feat. Either he had dragged the seagull up some fifty-eight steps, or he had surprised it up on the ramparts.
As an award and as a canny distraction from the pleasures of well-hung seagull meat, Killer was given extra crunchies in his beloved Blue Willow bowl. This made him very happy.