Monday, October 13, 2008


Curse that carrot-topped fool Skeeter, and his ineffectual money-making schemes.

Yes, these soft Kentucky suburbanites always seem so awed and grateful when they're introduced to "mountainfolk" and "ur mountin' folk ways." For the first hour. A full day's tour, and their coddled stomachs have been turned by our water and our rather cultured meat. Life in this part of the land toughens a man, one reason Hootin' Holler--don't ask about the name--makes such an ideal base of operations. But a few tourists get sick, and lawyers come sticking their noses in. Reporters, *shudder*. My plans are not meant to be known, not yet.

Nor, for that matter, is my face. Oh no, no pictures. The name "Snuffy Smith" must remain a whisper, if that. Meaning that the camera held by that towheaded hausfrau must have an accident. Skeeter is responsible for this sheer Charlie Foxtrot. It is only right for him to clean up the mess. It would be lovely if harm could be spared the family themselves. Yes, I would prefer that, and hope it may be so.

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