If local lore was to be believed, nobody

If local lore was to be believed, nobody had been murdered or decapitated here for hundreds of years. But history was written by the victors, and they were selling condos like

hotcakes near the river, which is the one place that you would not want to live. There were tunnels, the old folks used to say. And caves. And

an incredibly loud gambling riverboat went by twice a day carrying hundreds of retirees, their quivering flesh packed into purple polyester pants suits. Each time the paddlewheeler

had a break he would sneak into some blue hair's cabin to "court" her. A fisticuffs broke out when he was caught "makin' time" with the Commodore's woman. The octogenarians

were all aflutter, hoping they were next, and got fitted with hip-reinforcement braces as they booked up all the Jiffy Lube dealerships within a five-mile radius of his home. So he

gathered up everybody from the neighboring old-folks homes and bought them to Disney Land where they could live out their childhoods. With them gone, he had no trouble getting into

the garage of powered wheelchairs. He carefully checked each stall until he found what he was looking for. There it was. Clear as day. The fabled

Fiat Hoveround that won the Grand Prix in 1973. He blew off the dust and polished the chrome. With 600 hp, this baby would run donuts in any bingo hall parking lot. Gramps would

win for sure! Together they loaded it in the trailer and made for the track. 12 hours later, BANG! went the starting shot. All 600 horses in Gramps' Hover-round screamed to life