The competition to grow the biggest marrow was becoming fiercer every year, and I sat out with a shotgun each night guarding Bessie. If she didn’t win the purple rosette, I’d not only eat my hat, I’d eat my head as well.
Alf Chalmers was in turmoil. He knew I was going to beat him, and I should have known better than to try and match him pint for pint that Saturday in the Drunken Duck.
I must have dozed off, and when I woke up Bessie was gone.
I called the police and told them to look for the marrow at Alf’s place; and that’s where they found it.
He must have slipped as he was manhandling it from the flatbed. It took four men to lift Bessie off his body.
In the end the purple rosette went to that bastard Monty Carstairs.
I ate my head.
For Flash Fiction challenge #20
And that’s where they found it