Potato River Beach

You walk up to the vagabond, and kind of poke him with a stick. He grunts. You take this as a sign of acknowledgment. “Was the hot, adulterous wife here?” you ask.

“Go to hell, Figgypudding,” he responds.

Rolling your eyes, you respond “C’mon Steve, just tell me.”

Steve? You think you can call me Steve? (His name is Mark) After all these years?”

Oh yeah, it turns out “Steve” is your long lost brother (Or sister if you want. Remember, gender is an open issue in this story). It’s like one of those stereotypical situations, you know, you’re the good-looking, successful one, and Steve kind of got stiffed in the giblets his whole life. Naturally, he’s a little bitter.

“Yeah, Steve. Just tell me. I’ll give you $1,000. And a blow-up doll.”


“Good. So was she here or not?”

“Yes. She took off in a tube raft with some bandy-legged tatterdemalion. Goes by the name of Fart Butt.”

“Fart Butt? Really?”

“No, not really. Living down by the river has really destroyed the way I talk. John. John Smith was his name.”

“Again, that sounds made up.”

“Yeah, you caught me. Larry Swineshoggington was the name. Runs a haberdashery down on 5th.”

“Good enough for me. See you at Thanksgiving.”

Do you:

Go to the haberdashery on 5th.

Head to the jamboree.

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