At the Motel With The Mitchells

BY : Wendell Urth
Category: Comics > Dennis the Menace
Dragon prints: 1464
Disclaimer: I do not own Dennis The Menace, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

 Chapter 1: The Neighborhood

Everyone in the neighborhood knew Dennis Mitchel, either by reputation or directly by the trail of destruction he left. Usually you don’t know about kids his age unless they live nearby or were the younger sibs of your friends. But if there was an unexplained broken window or fence, muddy handprints or paw prints on the laundry or a terrified pet was cowering under your house, then you knew Dennis and his big sloppy dog had been there.

I used to see him and his mom in the park. She was a pretty lady. Tall. Long legs. Short blonde curly hair. Pale pink skin with really nice… well… you know… back then I was embarrassed to even think the word…



Even when I was kid, I noticed that, “them” you know? She had great ones, or at least I thought she did from what I could see.


Back then she always looked sad. Tired. Nervous. She’d sit on a bench in the shade while Dennis ran around like a tornado, always ending up crashing into something, tripping over other kids and dogs. Skinning his knees and elbows. A wild 5-year-old. But there was no malice in him. Everyone liked him… and just tried to stay out of his path of destruction.

He almost never cried. Gotta’ give him that. I saw him break a finger trying to catch a football once. Never let out a sound. Showed up the next day with a splint on his finger. Got it stuck in a hole in a tree. Said he was trying to tickle squirrels. Don’t ask!

We used to let him and the younger kids snag missed baseballs in catch, footballs and frisbees, depending on the season. He was a pretty good catch for his age. Couldn’t throw a lick! A thrown baseball was likely to go straight up in the air and then hit someone in the head on the way down. His thrown frisbees were magnetically attracted to tree branches. Guess his father never showed him how.

I remember teaching him to throw a frisbee. More in self-defense than in kindness. Frisbees cost money. His mom thanked me for paying attention to her son. I managed to mumble back “Ya’ welcome.” I was suddenly becoming a mute.

 I pulled at my pants hoping she hadn’t noticed my boner.

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