Old Man Fitzwilliam, a spry eighty-year-old with a mischievous glint in his eye, was the envy of the retirement home. He was constantly bouncing around, gardening in his speedos (much to Mrs. Higgins’ dismay), and generally outliving everyone’s expectations. One day, young Timmy, a visiting grandson, finally decided to ask the burning question. “Grandpa Fitz,” he began, “You’re…amazing! Eighty and still zooming around like a caffeinated bumblebee. What’s your secret?”
Fitzwilliam chuckled, a sound like gravel tumbling down a hill. He winked conspiratorially. “Timmy, my boy,” he whispered, leaning in close, “it’s the squirrels.”
Timmy frowned. “The squirrels, Grandpa?”
“Indeed,” Fitzwilliam confirmed, his eyes twinkling. “Every morning, before sunrise, I sneak out to the oak tree and… I wrestle them.”
Timmy’s jaw dropped. “You…wrestle squirrels?”
“Not just wrestle,” Fitzwilliam corrected, puffing out his chest. “I *sumo* wrestle them. Tiny, fluffy, fury opponents. It’s exhilarating! The exercise, the challenge… the sheer absurdity of it all keeps me young.” He paused for dramatic effect. “But,” he added, a sly smile spreading across his face, “the real secret? It’s all about the tiny, acorn-sized trophies I collect afterward. They’re surprisingly nutritious.”
Timmy stared, speechless, for a moment before bursting into laughter. Fitzwilliam simply winked again, a single, perfectly formed acorn nestled behind his ear.
