Return of the Dark Moose - Episode I

The PLB clubhouse was hardly anything to look at. It was an old, adobe hut situated on the top of a cliff in the middle of the desert. Old, rusty signs making false claims of radioactive testing sites, missile silos, attack dogs, and a ravenous T-rex littered the surrounding 47 square miles. It would deter any sensible person and attract like flies every nosy school-kid in the U.S.
What kept everyone away was the fact that only one of the four claims was true. There just happened to be an attack T-rex lurking in a large cave on the very outskirts of PLB territory.
Not many of the famed ‘500’ (a group of overconfident fourth-graders) escaped its jaws, and since then, no one has dared bother them.
Bravo 225 didn’t think the clubhouse was that bad… Yeah, it did need a new plaster job, but that was the least of the PLB’s problems. Bravo lifted a blanket off of the back of a landspeeder, revealing a wholly amazing sight of twenty-five twelve-packs – 300 beers in all, to be precise.
He smiled, but quickly grimaced as a gust of wind launched the harsh and angry desert sands into his face. One by one, he began to lug the beers into the clubhouse.
“Bravo!” Luuke shouted to his friend, running over.
Bravo 225 was relieved. He watched gleefully as Luuke came toward him. Surely he would help!
“I’m glad you’re back!” Luuke said, giving Bravo a noogie. Tearing a beer bottle right out of the case, he happily strolled back into the clubhouse.
Bravo grumbled curses under his breath, and continued lugging the beer cases into the clubhouse hallway.
“Bravo!” Ami cried, looking like she had seen an angel. “Beer!”
“Yes!!!” Warthogjedi shouted.
“Squuueeeee!” Hansgirl couldn’t help herself.
“Would anyone like to help me bring the beer in?” Bravo panted.
His face grew red as silence descended onto the group. Another volley of curses emanated from Bravo’s vocal chords.
“There’s a story I have to tell…” Bravo droned, half to himself. “There once was a hen, a goose, a cat, and a pig...”
Suddenly, Rive, Vicomte, and Stooge burst into the room.
“There he is!” Rive pointed.
“No counterfeit limericks on StarWars.com!” Vicomte said, his voice dripping battery acid.
“YEAH!” Stooge cheered.
“The hen decided to make some bread, and asked if anyone would help her!” Bravo screamed, dropping the beer and running for his life into the living room.
“Catch him!” Rive shouted.
“Not I, said the pig, Not I, said the cat, Not I said the duck – er, goose!”
Amid all the commotion, Master Jedi Michael crisply marched into the room, clicking his heels and straightening his back in front of Luuke.
“Reporting for duty, sir!” he said, chest puffed out.
“Take your men on patrol, Sergeant Michael. Ami will command the troops.”
“Yessir!”
Luuke watched MJM march out the door and repositioned himself on the couch. Something didn’t feel right. He tried to think.
“So I will have to bake the bread myself, said the hen!” Bravo was almost breathless as his pursuers closed in. He ran ever faster as Vicomte let out a rebel yell.
“Will you guys tone it down, I’m trying to think here,” Luuke shouted.
“And the Knights Beerhausen close in on their foe!” Vicomte cried.
A subtle thud reverberated through the floor of the clubhouse, followed by three others. The chase had ended.
Now Luuke could think and tap into the force… A dark premonition shadowed his feelings… Could it be a MOD spy, infiltrating the clubhouse? Or was it the fact that Bravo was being beaten silly in the next room? Or was it guilt? He should have helped Bravo take in the beer. Yes, that was it! He brushed the silly feeling aside and walked outside to unload the beer.
Besides, he thought, Bravo wasn’t going to be in any shape to carry in anything, let alone stand. He wondered if they had extra steaks in the freezer downstairs. Bravo was going to need them.