There was a loose baseboard near the floor register. Frank pried it off with a butter knife. Two beady, accusatory eyes stared out from the darkness. Beans was wedged between the studs, coated in chili, vibrating with a kind of profound, furry fury. He looked like a mutant hot dog that had lost a fight with a blender.
When Frank returned from the bathroom, he found the scene: chili splattered across the ceiling like a Jackson Pollock painting, a single, chili-caked ferret paw-print on the refrigerator, and the pot overturned on the floor. But no Beans. the frank and beans quandary
The neighborhood potluck that evening was chili-less. Frank brought a bag of store-brand tortilla chips and a haunted look in his eyes. Sheila told the story to everyone. Beans spent the night in a cardboard box, wearing a tiny, improvised cone made from a coffee filter, plotting his next move. There was a loose baseboard near the floor register