Benny and his three mates were in the hospital. There’d been a bobsled accident. A myriad of minor fractures, pulled tendons and twisted vertebrae. Nothing critical, Benny swore, but everyone was wrapped in casts and bandages, limbs hoisted and stretched by an intricate series of weights and pulleys.
Benny’s assistant, Dinton, was frantic. Those four barely got along anymore under the best of circumstances. He needed to get there and keep a handle on things. And to keep the paparazzi away.
A mile from the hospital, a policeman lumbered in front of a roadblock. “Sorry sir, a blizzard’s closed this road,” said Officer Tate.
Din explained the urgency of situation.
“Didn’t there used to be a trail from here to there?” he asked, pointing to the cross-country skis he had strapped on his 4×4.
“Might work. Sven was out there yesterday. My shift ended before he got back. Lemme check.”
He pulled out his phone and started pressing buttons.
“Can’t you just radio,” Din asked, clearly in a rush.
“Sven’s deaf, gotta text,” said Tate. “Good thing we’re modern. Hmmm … this oughta do it,” he grinned, and showed the message to Dinton.
“Can Din ski the path to ABBA’s traction?”