Message from Woodward

Submitted from Moses Townes

A message from Woodward, spending a nice relaxing vacation is Pennsylvania

“That’s it!”

“What’s it?”

“Don’t worry about it. You’re asking too many questions. I’m parking, be back in five.”

“Wait, what?”

“Don’t open the doors for anyone, no matter what. Be back soon.”

“Caleb, I don’t feel comfortable with you going up to that house.”
“Leave it alone, I’ll be fine.”

I go to the house and see the ‘hours of operation’. I notice that there is no aspect of this house that I’m older than, except for the sewer rats nesting underneath the stairs. I don’t know, just try the door. Shit, locked. From reading the signs I sensed fear upon realizing that my designer jeans will not be welcomed. I snap brief pictures of the important information and hurry across the parking lot/mine field to get to the museum, who’s curator has only one working eye and a limp from the Falklands War.

“Sir, is the sutler in?”

“Nay lady, he’s got a job in Merry-land. What daya need?”

“Um… French import knapsacks and Confederate canvas shoes, the wooden sole kind… Sir.”

“Wooden souls are the devil’s friend.”

“Excuse me?”

“Wooden souls fuel the devil’s fire”

As the old crooked-eyed man laughed and cackled I dashed out of the brick museum in genuine fear for my life. I arrived back to my car with a deeper understanding of the disdain one holds for “the farb”. I enter the driver’s seat, where my wife asks,

“Where have you been?”

“You’ve been gone forty-five minutes, where have you been?”

“Oh, uh, the bathroom, your mom’s cooking is lethal.”

As I conjured up my alibi, I knew the truth was too difficult to handle. She knew the legend of Mac and JW courtesy of a wedding no more than a year before, but I knew, damn sure of it, that she was not prepared for the mythos of a mystical purveyor of Civil War wares known as Spiros Marinos.

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