A Word About Muck: Part 1

This here is what could be called a concept work. The goal was to imitate a famous writer, and if you can identify which author I'm going after (and it shouldn't be that hard) then you get double points. And if you are actually reading this, triple points. And on a side note, it's not easy losing one shoe. More on this later.

A Word About Muck

I had come to the city with few thoughts, with few worry, and with a hope to view the summertime storm I was accustomed to along this coast, when appraising that the storm had hit prior to my arrival and I was now a secondary account contrary to the hopes of being a first. The city on the gulf still held many things a traveler may need, and however long the time it would take before the city was once again the columns of wooden stilts and bordellos I had come to assume it by, my time in this place held but one primary goal. My timepiece, that I had become rather fond of after the lengthy times of my youth, was no longer ticking, and it appeared to be an issue only a times keeper or watchman of a big city could resolve. And so I had left my home further up stream, and now found myself in a chaotic city of which I used to know. With any luck maybe I still did.

Luck is often the guide of the un-prepared traveler, a compass for illegitimate exercises which could never be scheduled, and a handy tool for those without a plan. My luck had come to be relied on, over the years, to be a relationship which I could handle, as much as I'd rather not. And as long as I was in this city of distress, as long as the tides would allow me to not follow further upstream to the grass bed I knew far better, than it would, in fact, be this very luck which I would come to weigh more heavily on than I would have liked. As I stood in front of the local Goods Store, a tired place of old kings and desperate citizens of this now defunct city, I felt this luck tingle at the tips of my large white hat, sensing the possibilities of a town reeling from the wind. But I would not allow myself to revel, and I moved inside with my back to the wall, consistently aware of the dangers of a desperate citizenry.

My handsome gold watch could still feel like death in my right front coat pocket. It was a hope, a fleeting one maybe, that the owner of this once fine establishment could help me fix of this problem of time keeping. I approached the splendid oak wood counter.

"Dear sir," I began as a humble servant to a southern city, "I have come into trouble with my fine timepiece, and it is my wonder if you could be the one to fix it for me. If not, if your particular set of skills or schedule does not fit snug into mine, I should hope you could have some advice as to the location of a man that would."

It seemed harmless enough an account of my particular situation. But it was at this time that I began surveying the inhabitants of this tired establishment. Many seemed beaten, as if from some distant wind, their eyes told the tale of a dark night and a dark day, and the aspect of a good-natured traveler from only a short distance up stream seemed to arouse little care in their collective minds. And for that matter, neither did it arise any interest in the shop-keep before me, who stood with a glass eye and a lost pair of trousers behind a register with a hopeless penance of money in it.

"What is it you want?" He asked finally, to distill the silence we had begun to collect in this all but necessary conversation.

"My timepiece, it has forgotten how to run, and I am enlisting your help if it is at all possible."

"We ain't do that here."

"Than direct me to a different location, if you can, this issue is of an utmost importance and I have come by steam from only a short ways up the river to sort out this matter. I would be much obliged if-"

"You one of them carpetbaggers, come down here after a the storm to clean up what belongings can no longer be claimed," and he pointed a long and bony finger at my chest, "Or is you stupid, to empty headed to see that we is in the middle of cleaning up after an attack from God Himself. We got no time for your fancy northern timepieces," he said.

And I was about to counter, about to tell this varnished victim of the winds that I was in fact from only a small ways up the river, from a town not very distant from this one, only slightly further up stream and protected vicariously from the winds that routinely scorched the swamps of the coast, when I caught myself. You see, there was no need to incite an argument after being in a town after such a short while. No need to ruffle the locals with possessed tongues, I looked merely to fix my timepiece and how was it to be helped that my timing had been so woefully off.

So I took my unnecessary whipping and moved out of this dreadful place of commerce and back into the hectic street before it. Thinking it may be high time to simply get back onto the boat, and move along the reeds and cattails back upstream to my home, when I spotted what appeared at first to be a traveler similar to myself. He was a short man with a hurried fashion, and he was busy securing various handbags and boxes. Some seemed to be cages, and yet others seemed filled with odd documents one would not think to find amongst the swamp coast after a storm. I approached the man with no thing in mind, hoping only to question him about his sidewalk oddity and possibly procure information as to where I could fix my timepiece at this late an hour. Horses passed through the street at a slower than average pace, it was growing more dusk by the moment, and the sun that had kept the peace for a full day now was retiring its post.

"Good evening there kind sir," I again approached in a gentle way, hoping this time my manner would pay off, "what is that you have going there."

The man looked up quickly with lightning eyes, and continued moving about his business, but he did not ignore me.

"The storm, you see, it creates my business."

"And what business may that be sir?"

He stopped at this and looked up quickly to the night beginning to fall all around him, and he began scratching his ample forehead.

"The business of the Red Rabbit," he did say.

"Red rabbit," I repeated with suspicion. The man had now stopped fumbling with his baggage and had come to stand directly before me, albeit a few inches lower.

"Yes sir, you see a storm like this is perfect for them. They wait all spring, all winter and through the depths of summer, for the perfect storm to rustle them out of their hiding places. It is than when the lucky man, or the prepared one, can finally capture them, and sell the red hide for a bit of money up north."

I was bewildered. Had I not grown up among this river and its many swamps? Had I not, in all my years, heard every tale there was to hear of this area and its creatures? And now this, a red rabbit that comes out only after a storm, for some unknown reason, simply to be hunted by some distant traveler that seems to be the only one in the Lord's earth to know of it. It was too much to handle, and I had forgotten quickly the true reason for my trip. This man seemed not worthy of documenting such a creature, and I took it upon myself to do this very documenting.

"How is it that I've never heard of this tale?"

The man shrugged. "It isn't a tale," he said without hesitation.

And with this I was forced to believe him. His conviction seemed pure and strong, and he had given me little reason to be a non-believer at this point.

"You know," I said "I have a vast knowledge of these surrounding swamps, and it goes without saying that after a storm like this they are apt to be wild and flooded. It could serve your purpose rather well to have a sage of the muck accompanying you on this mission, and I will assure you that my only retribution will be the documentation of this creature."

He again shrugged. "I don't believe I will need any help in the swamp. This blow was a rather light one, and I presume that the floods will not be as wild as you anticipate. But your company should be not a problem, good sir. You can come along if you wish."

And I did.

The man had begun to pick up his various bags and tools in an effort to get moving, and I asked the only two questions left unanswered.

"And how shall we be getting to the swamp? Raft, horseback, steamboat? And what, kind sir, is your name?"

"Neigh," he shook his head. At this time he had been wrapping his tools all around his body like a warrior preparing for battle. Two large cages had been positioned on his back, two green suitcases across his stomach, a cane, a six shot musket across his shoulders, and a large beige hat, that made him look as if he were off to a distant continent, on his head. "We walk, and the name is Barron."

Surprised I was, but not disheartened. The swamp was not far, but stomping through the muck infested with everything from alligators to leeches did not suit my original ideals of this trip. But I was in it now, and the thoughts of discovering some savage red rabbit seemed to ideal to pass up.

"Just call me Samuel," I said, "and let us move out of this city of the damned."

And we did.