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.
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.
Then he heard it: a tiny, wet hork . A sound that speaks of regret, of chili-induced reflux, of a creature questioning every life choice that led to that moment. the frank and beans quandary
It started, as these things often do, with a pot of chili and a tragic lack of foresight.
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. The quandary was this: Frank had to find
The quandary presented itself on a Tuesday. Frank had made his "Famous Five-Alarm Memorial Day Chili" for a neighborhood potluck. It contained three types of beans, ghost peppers, and a secret splash of espresso. It was, by all accounts, a masterpiece. He’d left the pot on the counter to cool, lid slightly ajar.
It came from the wall.
Frank reached in. Beans bit him. Hard.