Old Man Fitzwilliam, a man whose wrinkles rivaled the Grand Canyon in depth, loved two things: whiskey and his prize-winning worms. He’d spent years perfecting his worm-breeding techniques, meticulously crafting a worm utopia in his garden shed. One day, his grandson, Timmy, a whirlwind of ten-year-old energy, burst into the shed.
“Grandpa Fitz! I found a HUGE worm!” Timmy shrieked, holding up a particularly impressive specimen. It was almost as long as Timmy’s forearm.
Fitzwilliam, mid-sip of whiskey, nearly choked. “Well now, that’s a fine specimen, indeed,” he chuckled, his eyes twinkling. “But Timmy, my boy, you must understand, not all worms are created equal. Some… are better for… *special* purposes.”
He led Timmy to a hidden corner of the shed, revealing shelves lined with jars. Each jar contained worms of varying sizes, colors, and… textures.
“These, Timmy,” Fitzwilliam whispered, his voice hushed with reverence, “are my champion fishing worms. Bred for their tenacity, their… *flavor*.” He winked.
Timmy, wide-eyed, looked from the jars to his grandfather’s half-empty whiskey glass. He then looked back at the enormous worm in his hand. A slow realization dawned on his face.
“Grandpa,” he said slowly, “is that why you always say your fishing trips are ‘worm-and-whiskey’ adventures?”
Fitzwilliam took a long swig of whiskey, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. “Well, Timmy,” he said, “let’s just say… some adventures are *better* shared.” He winked again and patted the giant worm. “Especially when you can use this fella’s cousin for bait.”
