Eight Thousand turned up for the Homecoming

I turned the corner and there they were.
Loads of them. With banners and bunting and hooting and cheering and I
looked behind me and there wasn't anyone
else. They were there for
me. But
why? I'd been gone five
years. I'd done my dough in, I'd smoked a load of weed, I'd robbed and
stolen to keep on the road.  Now there was Dad, knife in hand, fatted calf lowing
mournfully in front of him. He thrust the instrument of death in deep
as I stepped through the throng. The calf buckled and the crowd cheered
even louder. There was my little brother, looking daggers. I can't
blame him. It was hardly the homecoming I
deserved. Now, I'll admit, I was a
bad dude for a while there. But I've learned a few things along the
way. And, I have to admit it, I've missed the old place. I've even
missed Dad going on about God and stuff. Wow, is that little Ellen, has she got foxy or
what? And the feast -oh that
was a gas. Lots of great calf, our rich local wine, dancing and music,
good jokes, old mates, new friends - and little bro still pissed off to
hell. I don't know what made
Dad do that. The next day he was back to normal. Not even any cold calf
for leftovers. Just boring old mush to eat, all day working in the
fields and then praying in the evening. Little bro never forgave me - and I don't think he
forgave Dad either. Still, what the heck. I'm off on the road again tomorrow
with that little Ellen. We've got the keys to her old man's tin trunk
where he keeps all his dough. It'll last us a couple of years - more if
I ditch her. Fatten up the calf, Dad.