Chapter 6
Saturday in Waterford arrived with a suspiciously fresh breeze and the distant sound of cows practicing synchronized mooing. The mayor was busy unveiling her latest civic improvement—a statue of herself shaking hands with her squirrel (the squirrel looked unimpressed). Meanwhile, the BK Lounge was hosting its first-ever "Honor Farm Reunion Brunch," which, as usual, was less about honor and more about who could eat the most pancakes without using their hands.
Colonel Mustard and Lieutenant Pickle entered the BK Lounge to find the place decorated with banners reading "Honor: It's Not Just for Farms Anymore!" and "You Can't Spell 'Honor' Without 'No.'" The regulars were swapping stories about their time at Waterford's infamous Honor Farm, a local institution where, legend had it, you could "earn your stripes" by not escaping and by growing the world's most mediocre zucchini.
Pickle looked around, wide-eyed. "Sir, is it true you did time at the Honor Farm?"
Mustard puffed out his chest. "I did my stint. Grew three rows of squash and only tried to tunnel out twice. That's what I call honor."
Mrs. Peabody, wearing a sash that read "Miss Honor Farm 1997," waved from across the room. "Colonel Mustard, tell them about the Great Zucchini Uprising!"
Mustard grinned. "Ah, the year the zucchinis grew so big, they tried to take over the farm. We had to band together—convicts and guards alike—to wrestle those veggies back into submission. That's when I learned: real honor isn't about following rules or wearing a badge. It's about what you do when no one's watching. Like saving the town from mutant squash."
Pickle nodded sagely. "Or when you return your library books without anyone reminding you."
Just then, the mayor strutted in, her squirrel perched on her shoulder like a furry crown. "Attention, citizens! Today, I am awarding myself the Waterford Medal of Honor for Outstanding Mayoral Excellence."
The room fell silent. A single pancake flopped sadly onto the floor.
Pelosi with the Clues appeared, holding a golden zucchini. "True honor is earned, not given. It's found in quiet acts of courage, not loud declarations of self-importance."
Mustard stepped forward, voice ringing out. "Honor isn't about titles or statues. It's about doing the right thing—especially when it's inconvenient, embarrassing, or means wrestling a zucchini the size of a Buick."
The cartel cats, lounging by the jukebox, meowed in agreement (or possibly just wanted more pancakes).
Pickle, inspired, grabbed his guitar and led the room in a rousing parody of "Be Our Guest"—but with a Waterford twist:
Parody Song:
"Be Your Best"
(To the tune of "Be Our Guest")
Be your best, be your best,
Don't just follow all the rest!
You don't need a fancy ribbon
Or a mayor's self-given crest!
Grow your squash, help your friend,
Do what's right until the end!
In this town of odd tradition,
Honor's more than just ambition—
Be your best, be your best,
That's the Waterford request!
As the last note faded, the townsfolk cheered, the mayor's squirrel attempted a somersault, and Mrs. Peabody presented Colonel Mustard with a zucchini trophy (which he graciously accepted, promising not to let it get too big for its britches).
Colonel Mustard addressed the crowd. "Remember, Waterford: Honor isn't about what's on your chest—it's about what's in your fridge. Wait, that's cheese. Never mind. It's about what you do, not what you're called."
Pickle saluted. "And sometimes, it's about returning your library books on time."
Because in Waterford, true honor is earned, not given. And sometimes, it comes with a side of pancakes and a song.
Colonel Mustard's Clue:
Honor isn't about medals or titles. It's what you do when no one's watching—especially if mutant vegetables are involved.