Barnaby Buttercup, a nervous fellow with a penchant for oversized spectacles, was having a terrible Tuesday. First, he’d tripped over his own feet during his morning jog (resulting in a spectacular face-plant into a rose bush), then he’d accidentally superglued his toupee to his forehead. But nothing compared to the current predicament.
He stood in the church, clutching a wilting bouquet of suspiciously plastic-looking lilies. Across the aisle, Penelope Plum, a woman whose beauty could launch a thousand ships (or at least one very large, slightly rusty tugboat), stood looking equally panicked.
“Barnaby,” Penelope whispered, her voice barely audible above the organ music which, inexplicably, had switched to a jaunty polka. “Are you sure about this?”
Barnaby swallowed hard. “Well, Penelope, darling, the shotgun… it was… well, let’s just say it was a misunderstanding.” He gestured vaguely towards a very nervous-looking priest hovering near the altar. The priest was trying to discreetly hide a rather large, rather obviously loaded shotgun behind a potted fern.
Penelope sighed. “A misunderstanding involving your uncle, a flock of very aggressive geese, and a misplaced wedding ring?”
Barnaby nodded miserably. “Essentially. The geese were very territorial, you see. And Uncle Archibald… well, let’s just say he has a peculiar way of expressing his enthusiasm.”
The priest cleared his throat. “Ahem. Shall we proceed?”
Just then, the church doors burst open and a very flustered young man rushed in, brandishing a small, fluffy white dog. “Penelope!” he cried. “I found him! It’s Winston! He’s the one who ran off with the ring!”
Penelope’s eyes widened. She glanced at Barnaby, then back at the dog, who was now happily chewing on a rather ornate gold ring. “Oh, my goodness,” she gasped. “That’s… that’s *my* ring!”
Barnaby, relieved, let out a whoop of joy. “So, no shotgun wedding then?”
Penelope smiled. “Looks like Winston just saved the day – and my sanity.” She then turned to the young man, beaming. “Thank you, darling! You’re a lifesaver.” She kissed him soundly.
Barnaby, still clutching his wilting lilies, mumbled, “Well, that’s… unexpected.” The priest, still attempting to hide the shotgun, simply sighed deeply. The polka continued.
