View attachment 52862
I'm having a really hard time believing your stories of late.
Part 2: The Tale of Sam Woody, Privet Eye. Another completely true story about Len.
You will not find a truer tale about Len than this.
That afternoon, after a few stiff drinks, and a stiffer drink, I set out to look for Len Shaner. If all went well, I'd get to the bottom of things. if all went worse, I might be buying him a Chicago overcoat. I checked all his usual places, the bars, the railroads, and then I looked under the nearby Schuylkill bridge. Len could often be found there, looking for trolls. He was obsessed with them. He looked for them everywhere. But, Len was not looking for them today. A large threaded band between the pylons prevented anyone from entering where the trolls might dwell, and so far the thread band seemed to be keeping Len out.
Feeling like I'd taken a trip for biscuits, I turned away, when trouble showed up in the shape of a beach-party blonde with drumsticks as far as you could want ’em. She seemed sultry and smooth, in a little black dress that was more little than dress.
"So, they tell me you're a
dick," she said, her voice so smoking hot the slightest breeze could set it afire.
"We prefer the term
privet eye," I said, blowing gently in her direction.
"I hear you're looking for Len. Are they right?"
"Who's asking?"
"They call me, Curlee Bee. Cur Bee, to her friends. Pufferton sent me. I'm his best agent. I know where you can find Shaner. He's in his house. He's always in his house when he's not foaming over trains. He plays with those sockpuppets of his. They're the only friends he has left."
"That's as sad as a song, so what's a doll like you going after Len for, Miss Bee?"
"The answer is quite simple. I'm a woman, Detective Woody. All women hate Len."
"Even his mother?"
"Oh, especially his mother." And with that, she was gone, and so was I.
I knew when I was getting close to Len's place. Len had smeared feces on every fence post for blocks around his house. Shit posting was his first line of defense, possibly his only line of defense. It kept most people away. I was not most people. I approached his house from the north, stepping over piles of broken train parts and smashed dreams. Little kids could not own a model train in Pottstown. Len would not allow it, and had crushed them all, and now they surrounded his house like a minefield of children's tears.
Signs had been put up everywhere. "NO KIWIS!" they said. I was not a flightless bird, or a fruit, so I walked on by. I knew he was home. I could smell him... several miles ago. It was time to confront Shaner...