3TC #MM54 | PBR & Pizza

Welcome to the daily Three Things Challenge.
Use your imagination and creativity using one, two or all three words that may or may not be related. There are no restrictions regarding length, style, or genre, though please keep it family friendly.

Tag your responses with 3TC, #threethingschallenge or TTC, and you can add Di’s logo if you wish.

Looking forward to reading your responses.

Your three words today are:
ACCUSE
RECLUSE
SIMPER

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Being a recluse was everything Fred had dreamed of and more. Aside from a short stint as an auctioneer, Fred had been in some sort of sales for his entire working life — a career 100% unsuitable for an introvert such as he. Now, all he wanted was to be left alone.

As soon as his retirement kicked-in, Fred moved to Bent Spoon; a secluded town in the wilds of Montana, and let his hair grow as long as it wanted to. The population was less than 30, housing was affordable, and neighbors were scarce.  He decided against installing a telephone, but he did opt for high-speed internet. That way, he could order a pizza and drive 25 miles to pick it up. While he was out, he’d hit the liquor store for a case of PBR and stop at the small market if he needed anything else.

To Fred, his life was paradise; he truly was living the dream. The townsfolk in his new home didn’t understand Fred. Some accused him of being a nutjob, some thought he was in a witness protection program, still others thought he was a criminal in hiding. In fact, the latter watched every episode of America’s Most Wanted in hopes of “busting the case wide open.” They were disappointed.

Fred enjoyed being a man of mystery. Occasionally however, he’d get bored. That’s when he decided to become a writer.

Every day he would sit in front of his computer for hours, pounding out his life story using only two fingers. He never sent his manuscript out for publication or tried to find an agent, for that would involve engaging with people. Fred assumed he’d become famous after his death. Sooner or later, someone would discover him.

After 2o+ years of being a recluse, Fred’s hair had gown to his knees. It had gone from thick salt and pepper, to thin sparse and gray, as did his tangled beard. His health suffered as well. Once could not live on PBR and pizza alone. He couldn’t remember the last time he saw a piece of fruit or a fresh vegetable.

Newspapers and junk mail overflowed from his rickety old mailbox.

During a wellness check, he was found by the Bent Spoon sheriff’s deputy with his head on the keyboard and eyes wide open. Fred was gone.

His computer monitor read:

It was a dark and stormy night.

It was not a dark and stormy night.

Was, too.

Was not.

Was, too.

Was not.

And so, it went.