The Mob Had Torches...

And they followed Friday towards the river, with various cries of "Vengeance!" and "Death!" Friday looked grim, more of a man on a mission look than his usual chipper easy-going self. He had a burlap sack thrown over his shoulder that was full of a mass of moving things.

Friday lead the mob down off the main road, and onto the trail that lead to the river. The mob's torches cast strange, ominous shadows in the trees and undergrowth. The path lead up hills and down into hollows, and after a while the sound of flowing water overcame the various voices in the group, saying things like, "I can't wait.." and "they got this comin'" and "where's the liquor? There was supposed to be booze!"

Finally the path lead to a rocky outcrop over dark moving water. Friday turns and faces the mob. "I have come here to do what you all have wanted! Let it never be said that Friday does not deliver!" The mob goes nuts in a frenzy of hellish delight in what is about to transpire. Then from a nearby cave, a wizened old hermit emerges, using an oak branch as a staff.
"Oh Mighty King of All Weekdays!" He says in a voice that cuts through the mob's shouts like a chainsaw. "What is the meaning of this?" His tone demands an answer. The mob looks confused.
"These good people," Friday says, "have all been slighted by what I have in this bag, and I'm going to throw it in the river, so we can watch it sink." The crowd cheers as one. Torches are shaken in the air, along with a pitchfork or two.

"What do you have in the bag?" The old hermit asks. Friday, opens the bag, and pulls out a dark cat by the scruff of the neck, with the word "Wednesday" formed (or written - who can say how it really happened) in white upon its side.
"The first four weekdays of this week, old man." Friday says, throwing the cat back into the bag with a muffled "Meyowlrr."

"Friday," The old man gestures with his stick at him, and the crowd. "It is amazing, the string of annoying and devilish events that fate can string together...one might even say, unbelievable. However, it is only human nature, that the blame should be laid at the feet of something...tangible. These Days - these cats, were not the bringers of such trouble. Troubles merely fell upon them. You cannot blame them for what has transpired! Look into your hearts for the reasons why your evils occurred!"

The mob casts uneasy glances at each other, and some of the fire goes out of their eyes.
"Just go home," the hermit says with conviction, "and let the poor days be."
Some in the mob, convinced, turn and start walking back...words mumbled "hey, yeah, the old coot's right..."

Friday watches for a moment, then turns and hurls the bag that flies up in a huge arc, it hangs high in the air suspended for a moment, then down quickly, to splash into the dark water of the river. It floats for a second and sinks with a gurgle. The crowd goes crazy! Grown men dance arm-in-arm! Random maidens are smooched! A man throws his torch at the old man - misses - but it lands in his cave, which explodes into flames. Cheers echo through the forest! Friday looks pleased. The hermit walks up.

"Why did you do that!? Didn't I convince you?"
Friday sticks his thumbs into his vest-coat pockets, and looks down from his perch on the rocky outcrop. "Actually," he says, "You did. It's just today, I really, really don't like cats."

Then he yells out to his rambunctious mob. "Party at my place!"

Happy Friday.