My cousin Foamy lived in one of Good Egg's glittering white palaces with her husband Mr. Foam, whom I'd known from one of their frequent over-the-top drink-fests. They had spent the years since their marriage drifting unrestfully, not unlike Stephen King's floating vampires from Salem's Lot.
I had the familiar conviction (since overturned on appeal) that life was beginning again with the summer. By autumn, my mood would be very different. No longer would I want privileged glimpses into the blogger heart, provided one could even be located.
About halfway between the two Eggs and New York, the motorway hastily joins the railroad and runs beside it for a short distance, presided over by the eyes of one Doctor /t.
Quite inexplicably, the good Doctor opted to billboard advertise here rather than in his native Canada. Some would claim it was for the same reasons that "Doctors" from the Hydroxycut and Liposene commercials can never be successfully Googled.
This desolate area is a valley of ashes, a fantastic farm where memes, what-my-day-at-work-was-like posts, and links to YouTube videos grow like shredded, colon-eroding wheat.
Because I hope not to take another year or so to conclude this story, let's agree that a garage / gas station was located in this particular location of misery and despair. Furthermore, allow me to quickly state that a couple of married rubes lived above the aformentioned garage and that these goobers were cruelly toyed with by Mr. Foam. As you may see before year's end, this plot element will lead to tragic consequences involving Leelee's swimming pool and the shocking discovery of a cadaver unlike the human variety that are frequently encountered in that body of water.
Whew! Glad to get that out of the way! Anyhoo, onward.
There was much speculation constantly swirling about Pugsly. Some claimed he was German, rumoured to roll with the Kaiser. Others obsessed with pinpointing the source of his wealth. Did he always take a penny and never leave one? Was it he who marketed bath-salts as crystal meth? Was he once kept by Martha Stewart?
A few lived in fear of him, worrying that Pugsly may get something on them. Serena's penchant for picking up and disposing of men involved in divorce litigation, K-9's anonymous shipments of explosive ornaments to leftist government operatives, and - of course - Lamby's fleet of Bahamas drug-running cigar boats, were all secrets at risk of exposure.
One blogger thought she heard that he had killed a man once for wearing sandals and not being Israeli, or perhaps was a spy for nosy neutral countries during the war. A horny school adminstrator in Texas heard he was into oil, and henceforth she would stalk him incessantly.
And then there were the ladies desperately wanting, many of them rationalizing: "You can't live forever! This means the shame would have an expiration date!"
One morning, a man presented himself at the door of my humble cottage. "Mr Pugsly would be honoured if you'd attend his party". It was at this evening soiree that I would first meet the mysterious stranger.
Pugsly - "How do you do, old sport? I'm Pugsly. Look here, what's your opinion of me, anyhow?"
Me - "I hadn't really thought about it. I normally choose not to participate in surveys."
Pugsly - "I'm the son of wealthy bean-farmers from the Midwest, all dead."
Me - "Well that explains the smell."* (* note how this witty reply works on 2-levels)
Pugsly - "I was raised in America but educated at Oxford. It's a family tradition."
Me - "I thought it was a tradition for MOST families to raise and educate their kids."
Pugsly - "My family died, and I came into a great deal of money."
Me - "Tragedy is no excuse for that type of perversion."