The Brilliantly Rainbowed Adventure

        The bear had no intention of adopting Zeb. His head was buried in a pile of rotting wood, and he greedily lapped up the chubby grubs that he had unearthed. The massive bruin was a shy creature that shunned the sight of humankind as he gruffed and growled his way through the forest.
        As Zeb wandered in the bear's direction, the grizzled old boar was mauling the same dead log that had so recently served up a pile of wriggling grubbish morsels for his inspection and culinary delight. Something surprising - an event beyond his wildest whiff - was about to break loose in the old stomping grounds. But the bear, like Zeb, didn't have a clue of what was coming.
        Zeb had slipped out of camp right after breakfast, and by now he was ambling along the river bank with his battered Gibson acoustic guitar slung over his shoulder. As he walked, he let his mind wander (which was nothing new, if you know what I mean). He was searching for an idea that could lead to a new song.
        Zeb Hendrix is unlike any hick that I've ever known. He is not only an ingenious hillbilly poet, he's also a world class bowler. And old Zeb can imitate just about any sound that there is. I reckon that must be why the bear took such a shine to him.
        Zeb was deep in thought as he strolled into the clearing. Digging his nylon pick out of his back pocket, he stood still in the middle of the little meadow. Then, looking down at his guitar, he strummed a chord loudly in the clear morning air.
        "WHUUAGH!" roared the big old boar, rearing up to his full height of over seven feet. He squinted myopically at Zeb while his nostrils quivered, searching for a scent. He was only a few feet from Zeb, but a strong wind blew from behind his back and wafted up into the schnozz of the Zebster, giving our hillbilly buddy a hearty dose of the bear's powerful, rank aroma. He smelled, well, like a bear, which is sort of like a buffalo on a bad day.
        "Wuff!" barked the bear, "Waahuuff!" The bear was asking Zeb to stand forth and identify himself. This was fine with Zeb, who was fascinated by the bruin's guttural utterances.
        "Whuff!" he replied, "Wuagh-a-buffle-wuff-wuff!" Zeb didn't realize it, but he had just delivered a message in bear-language to the creature. In fact, he had just told his furry acquaintance that he was his long lost cub. The amazing thing is that Zeb had even used the big bear's pet name for the cub: Wuff-Wuff.
        The fuzzy little bundle of bear that had been known as Wuff-Wuff had been a delightful offspring: a tiny parcel of joy: an active, animated little fur-ball. Climbing trees, eating honey, sliding merrily into the Little Flipper River: whatever little Wuff-Wuff had done he had done with carefree abandon. Now the crusty old boar's big heart just melted all over the place like butter in the sun.
        "Wuff-Wuff!" he grunted, leaping up to Zeb and seizing him in a crushing hug.
        "Stuffed carpet needs a swift and soapy scrubbing bubbly shower," rapped Zeb. The beast's hot breath was fouler than the summer breeze off of a road-killed armadillo. "Far out bruin crashed the forest scene," Zeb loudly extemporized into the surrounding forest, "do any of you critters have some Listerine?"
        The big cinnamon boar didn't mind the fact that Zeb obviously wasn't his cub Wuff-Wuff. In fact, he kind of took a shine to old Zebby. Looking down at Zeb, he slowly studied his unsightly form. A wild, kinky Anglo crowned Zeb's head, and his face was covered by a short reddish stubble. Thick red hair covered Zeb's arms and his scrawny legs, which hung like large strands of furry spaghetti from his khaki shorts. His eyes were covered by dark shades, and his mouth was slightly ajar.
        The bear made a decision. He would adopt this pathetic, spindly, piebald thing that stood before him. Seizing Zeb's canvas vest in his teeth, he lifted him off of his feet. Dropping onto all fours and holding his head high, the bear shuffled back towards his cave with Zeb dangling from his mouth. Zeb strummed his guitar for the benefit of any aphids or snails that happened to be listening.
        "Groovin' like a puppy," he crooned, "cradled like a yuppie. Brother is this taxi free?" The cinnamon boar growled, producing a bold basso rumble, an impressive sound that echoed in the noonday stillness.
        Suddenly another bear bawled back in the trees, and Zeb's friend quickened his pace. They met a sow in the shade beneath the trees in a cluster of ancient live oaks that crowned a low knoll bordering the dense hardwood forest.
        The old boar dropped Zeb and the plump brown sow snuffed her tender nose all over him, murmuring gruffly in her throat. After a while, having satisfied her curiosity, she sat down and gently swatted Zeb with a massive paw, bawling contentedly.
        By now Zeb had been formally adopted into their clan. He twanged his old guitar and began to sing. Suddenly, to his delighted surprise, two little cubs scampered out from their hiding place in a nearby thicket. Then, bleating and bawling like miniature calves, they began to bounce and sway to the knocked-out Hillbilly beat.
        "Wauggh!" sang Zeb, "Waugh-waffa-waffa-wufferoo!" The two adult bears began to harmonize with Zeb; Daddy sang bass, and mama chipped in with a passable alto.
        That's what they were all doing when Billy and I, fresh from our mushroom gathering, snuck up on the happy scene. We were amazed at the bizarre and dizzily incongruous display that was being acted out before us.
        "Maybe Egghead's right," I whispered frantically to Billy. "Maybe we really are a bunch of fantastic fictional characters."
        "Too much," he whispered, as if to himself, "this is just too much." The dancing was over now and Zeb was delivering an oration.
        "Wuff-a-luff-a-huff-huff," he nobly declared, pausing for effect. "Wuff-a-buff-snuffle-stuff." The bears applauded his speech with their meaty paws, creating a sound that resembled boneless steaks being slapped together.
        I was wondering whether this scene was quite normal when the two mature bruins stood up and gave Zeb a hearty abrazzo. With many expressions of regret they reluctantly parted company. In fact, I believe that I even saw that rough old boar wipe a tear from his eye when nobody was looking. Then they all left Zeb and ambled away together toward the forest that Billy and I had just come out of. They began to trot as they neared it, stopping just long enough to turn and give Zeb a wave of their paws before they plunged into its depths.
        Zeb stood silently, staring at the giant hickories that bordered the forest. Billy and I stayed hidden for quite some time. After a while, though, our curiosity got the best of our common sense and we stood up. When Zeb turned and saw us, his face lit up like a lamp.
        "Far out," he said.
        "I liked your friends," I told him.
        "Fleshly barrels of rancid fat danced like natural-born Hillbilly hoofers," he glokked-and-spieled, "friendly pals of bearish fat sung tuneful harmonies. I was able to grasp or understand their heavy bearish streams of electric ursine lingo."
        Then, it happened.
        Our world was shaken to its very foundation.
        The earth moved beneath us; we reeled like drunkards, seeking to gain our balance. Then, it happened again. Zeb and I fell down and Billy clung to a tree as a sound like a whistling bomb falling to the earth crescendoed and then slowly faded away. A terrifically powerful low-frequency tone immediately followed, shaking the trees and causing the dry leaves covering the ground to rattle like a riotous mob of partying rattlesnakes letting off steam. We looked at each other and were struck instantaneously with the same idea.
        "EGGHEAD!" we cried together, our eyes widening in shock and dismay. We knew without a doubt that the Eggster was conducting another one of his legendary experiments.
        Realizing the danger we were in, we hurried down the trail toward camp. Our concern was well justified, for, although Egghead had done some pretty boneheaded things in his day, this experiment would prove to be the corker.
        As we rushed down the forest trail, our imaginations ran amuck. What on earth was Egghead up to?
        Little did we suspect that at this very moment, a bad dose of fated fortune weighed heavily upon us. On our shoulders rested the future of planet earth, the survival of the Milky Way Galaxy... even the destiny of Greater Gutchinville itself!