The quandary was this: Frank had to find Beans before the ferret either (a) died of capsaicin overdose, (b) smeared chili onto every porous surface in the apartment, or (c)—most pressingly—crawled into a heating vent to die, which would perfume the entire house with the smell of rotting ferret and ghost pepper chili for the rest of the summer.
It started, as these things often do, with a pot of chili and a tragic lack of foresight.
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. the frank and beans quandary
Beans, meanwhile, had escaped his cage via a flaw in the latch that Frank had been meaning to fix for six months. The ferret, driven by some ancient weasel imperative, ascended the dish towel draped over the oven handle, dropped onto the counter, and squeezed into the chili pot.
Sheila held the tuna. Frank donned the mitts. Beans, torn between his hatred of being captured and his love of fish, hesitated for exactly half a second. Frank lunged. There was a shriek—from Beans—and a yelp—from Frank—and a lot of chili-scented ferret thrashing. The quandary was this: Frank had to find
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.
Frank searched. Under the couch. Behind the water heater. Inside the box spring. Nothing. Frank brought a bag of store-brand tortilla chips
In the end, Beans was bathed in the sink (he peed on Frank three times), the wall was patched with spackle, and the chili was deemed a total loss.