The skiffs sat upside down in the yard to

The skiffs sat upside down in the yard to keep the rain from collecting and then breeding mosquitoes. The clap board house the last known home of the Bearded Admiral who had

survived a clean shave in Gillette, Montana. See, Mayor Nick had Cut the ribbon on the new Remington rifle Museum and his Brutish gracelessness led to him knocking over a Faberge

Egg, one of the Museum's most prized possesions. The Mayor was mortified and fled the seen imidietly. The crowd gasped. Shouldn't a mayor be responsible for his actions? How come

he couldn't run a spell-checker on his speeches? The town had brought forth three national spelling bee champions and was mighty proud of that. He egged them on spelling

words that he was coming up with on the spot like crum-un-ti-pourus and fiestaly, which really pissed them off. It turned out that

he was speaking in tongues. He was filled with the Holy Spirit, and it made his nipples rock hard. But his "friends" thought he was a fraud. So they set fire to his house and

left him to burn. Little did they know that they had played right into his hands. He rose like the phoenix from the ashes of his house in an aura of fire like from Dragonball Z.

There's nothing quite so energizing, he mused, as the fire of one's enemies. He let his hand play over the flames, scooping up a flickering couple to pool in his hand.

"Should I still do this," he asked himself. "Should I still be pretending I'm a magical wizard after all these years?" He knew he would have to go back to his old job at

the Seven Eleven, keeping up slurpee machines and issuing lottery tickets. He felt Quixote, donned his broomstick sword. "Fuck it," he said and waved his wand. He believed. "Ding"