“Fick…fick…fick…” The strange unkempt man wandered past the shop, mumbling under his breath.

“Who is that?” I asked the shopkeeper.

The shopkeeper shrugged. “Nobody really knows. He found ficlets, and just sort of went on a jag. Now he wanders around ficking all the time. At least when he’s not down at the bridge, rolling stones into the brook.”

“Rolling stones?” I asked.

“Yeah.” The shopkeeper shook his head. “Damn fick jagger.”