Fred-Erick

Frederick was sitting there minding his own business when the witches of Old Haven showed up. There were seven of them.
“Hello,” Frederick said. He looked up from his park bench and noticed them standing, as it were, right in front of him. They didn’t say anything but their eyes narrowed a little.
Frederick was a turtle dove, but not the slow stupid kind that got high on car exhaust, but the quick sophisticated kind that got high on learning hence his incredible age of 437.
“Well then...” He said trying to prompt them into some form of speech. They stood motionless, standing there in black dresses and goofy looking boots. The leader of this little coven had on a dark navy blue blouse that she had chosen quite by accident in candle light, other than that hat to shoe they were in black, nicely tailored well kept witch clothes, not rags.
Frederick (pronounced like two names in one: Fred and then Erick right after) noted this, while walking back and forth a little, head bobbing the way only birds do.
“You must be Free-Derrick,” one of them said suddenly.
“Fred-Erick,” Frederick said carefully.
“Yess, yess,” said another. “You are a very old bird.”
“I am.”
They all began cackling and clapping a little.
Frederick became a little worried at this point. He had heard of the strange and odd ingredients witches took great pains to find. He hoped his eyes or toes or left kidney wasn’t on the list. He was just about to say, “well, must be going,” and fly off at high speed, when one of them started speaking. She sounded like a machine gun going off in short bursts.
“We’re bird watchers. We do it as a hobby. We heard about you. Now we’ve found you. Come here often?” She talked in short bursts just like that; words all run together. (Too much cocaine at an early age).
“Well, yes I do.” Frederick said. “Especially on Tuesdays.” He added with a sigh of relief.
They’ve been meeting there on Tuesdays since 1943.