WAL-MART FREAKS OF THE WEEK

Senor Coyote,

Bravo, sir!! You have sussed us out!

With the superior minds reading critically here at TBP, we knew it was only a matter of time before our little secret was revealed to this online community, but hopefully not the city inspectors in our small but beautiful town. The city inspectors will not be happy with our arrangements and may create problems, just to demonstrate their power.

Being taught from an early age to value the downtrodden and endeavor to pull them up, I was determined to help when I found DeMorpheus and Jimminy living down by the Little Blue River in pathetic encampments. I have arranged accommodations for them in outbuildings on my property and allow them to communicate their thoughts on my computer, provided they say nothing vile or overly obscene.

I extend the privilege of using my cable connection also to two of my relatives, whom I trust implicitly. My cousin, Boris Maxwell, lives in a small nearby village that does not have good cable or internet tower connection. He motors over to post his offerings. He has visions of becoming a writer. Who knows.

My ex-brother-in-Law, who disguises himself as Nathan Bedford, his hero from bygone days, also emails his offerings to me to re-post. He has a job in Minnesota, of all places, that is quite remunerative (good money to the unlettered). Poor fellow fears the wrath of his very Bolshi employer, if his free thinking tendencies are uncovered. He is quite the salesman. Peddles some sort of agricultural equipment that the organic farmers there are quite mad for.

My property included a very large outbuilding that we always called the garden shed. With all us working together, including some of my relatives from out-of-state who were here to shoot geese off the wheat field over by Hardy, we successfully made a quite nice place for DeMorpheus to live. We extended water and sewer, without a permit, and built a splendid little bathroom and kitchen. DeMorpheus keeps the grounds of my property in good order as payment, and is also able to obtain paying employment with the neighbors after I vouched for him.

Jimminy renovated the upstairs quarters over the garage to suit him as a place to live. Since I keep my truck in the port cochere, I allowed him to turn the garage into a kennel for his dogs. In exchange, he provides security and is renovating my house in stages. It is a real blessing to me. My house, while quite stately, is as decrepit as my poor body, and I do fear burglars in the night. Jimminy has undertaken a mission to rescue all the pit bulls and similar dogs that he finds abandoned or abused. By going far afield, he has even managed to find a Cane Corso and one that we suspect is Dogo de Argentino.

At night, Mr. Jimmy closes the entrances and exits of the gated community where we live, and allows the dogs to roam. Each property has, of course, another 6′ wrought iron fence around it, within the outer brick wall, so the residents and guests may wander at night within their property without being molested by the canines.

Mr. Jimmy is one of those Southerners who are quite polite when sober, but is capable of displaying great rage when drunk. The people at the local Baptist church have managed to persuade him to take the pledge. He realizes that drink destroyed his previous life and estranged him from his family. Now that he is sober, he is quite good to DeMorpheus, and they have grown to be good friends, despite being from different races. Mr. Jimmy says that he is willing to respect anyone who works hard.

Mr. Jimmy chose his computer name in homage to his hero, Billy Carter, who never got the credit he deserved. Poor Billy ran the peanut factor business without fanfare, while his brother, Jimminy Cricket, got all the credit. As a final insult to a fine southern gentleman, Billy died at 50 of cancer, while Jimminy is still alive at 90 or so, and enjoys international acclaim for interfering in the business of others.

Your fervent admirer,

Chauncey