Dolestown

I was thrown off the train in Dolestown, known to everybody but the locals as "Buttfuck, Nowhere." I soon learned that in Dolestown, the cows outnumbered the people, and the only places to visit were the five-and-dime and the fish hatchery. Dolestown's original claim to fame had been Lou's Leather Tannery and Amphitheater, a ramshackle joint that had long since closed and rotted. Still, people will always remember the day that Kenny Loggins came to town to perform in that amphitheater. If Lou were alive today, instead of a maggot-infested, bullet-riddled corpse, he would brag about the fact that the esteemed Mr. Loggins purchased a pair of his world-famous leather underpants. A historical marker commemorates the occasion to this very day.

With no money, and no means of transportation, I was forced to rely upun the hillbilly bumpkins that inhabited Dolestown. The first shanty to which I came did not have a door, so I knocked on the wall. Receiving no answer, I wandered to the neighboring shack. While their home was fitted and fully equipped with a door and the requisite hinges, the inhabitants were not home, so I fared no better. The third hovel had a more welcoming air to it, and I was heartened by the aroma of a fresh baked something erupting from the cracks in the walls. I rapped on the door twice, astounded to be greeted by a stout and stout-hearted old man almost immediately. The man, who identified himself as Jack Fryer, was dressed in the finest of purple velvet bathrobes, entirely unbefitting of the environment he called his home. Jack welcomed me in with a pat on the lower back, and I gladly entered his nook. I wholeheartedly accepted a morsel of the fine muffin that Jack offered me.

As I was chewing on hunks of many delicious berries, in walked the most curvaceous and alluring thing I had ever seen in my life. It was a piece of work named Allie, who I was pleased to learn was the daughter of Good Farmer Fryer. As the night wore on, I wined and dined with the Fryers, partaking in Jack's renowned beefsteak cutlets and Allie's particularly succulent pie. The food was good, and the drink was better. Soon enough, Farmer Fryer was under the table, and Allie and I were on top. I did what I felt was my agricultural duty, and I planted my seed. As she fell asleep in my arms, she whispered the three immortal words: "I love you."

Needless to say, I hightailed it out of there like a cracka in Harlem. With my last option in Dolestown exhausted, I began the long and arduous journey along the interstate highway. Not one car stopped for my thumb, and I ended up trudging along all night and day until I came upon another small town. The sign greeted me with much gusto: "Welcome to Newville, Home of the Chiggers!" Delighted to see shelters that slightly resembled actual houses, I knocked on the door of the least-dilapidated place I could find.

TO BE CONTINUED! (Or will it?)