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Detail from the awful mob scene pictured below
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Over a decade ago, at a singularly infamous, unnameable Necon event in Bristol,
Rhode Island, our good friend, the well-known hack writer Elizabeth Massie,
stumbled over this particularly fascinating, very sad, and very mean artist
named Cortney Skinner. The two of them caught each other's interest and
apparently wound up rolling through a darkened duct tape factory because it
wasn't long before they had become quite inseparable. Before anyone understood
what was actually happening, this nefarious pair was cohabitating, living in
sin, doing devilish deeds by day and by night. Based on their frequent,
frightening appearances together in public, whispers began to circulate that the
two of them had murdered each other in their sleep. Then, back in June, all
these years of abominable abnormality culminated, when the perverted pair, in
full silly hat regalia, tied the marital knot — in the common vernacular, up and
got hitched.
Finally, unable to limit the practicing of their devilish whims to only
themselves, the despicable duo decided to throw a big-ass bash to showcase their
disgusting deviance, even inviting people they actually knew and disrespected —
including the lovely Ms. B. and me. Unable to overcome our fascination with
public perversion, we accepted. So, just this weekend, yesterday through today,
we found ourselves subjected to a degree of depravity that, until now, we never
could have guessed existed on this planet.
It started out innocently enough. Kimberly and I visited the beautiful Barren
Ridge winery just outside of Waynesboro, enjoyed some wine, grabbed a few
geocaches, and then — admittedly with some trepidation — headed over to the
hellish homestead. There were reunions with old friends, such as Jeff Osier; his
wife, Cathy Van Patten; and her brother, John, with whom I had attended college
a few years back. But these fair moments were not to last, for then the games
began. Hideous, horrendous games, based on torture and humiliation. Things like
"Pants-Down Races," in which even
Ms. Massie's own daughter participated.
To my shock, Kimberly was drawn into the evil circle, and I could only watch in
despair as she, and numerous other inductees into this Satanic coven, raced
around a blazing fire, pants down, tripping and falling and screaming and
wailing. Never was there a more apt time for Jesus to appear and set things
right. But he didn't, and so the heathens frollicked on.
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Brugger was forced to walk the plank.
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Next up, there were songs. And they drew me into it —
me! Before I knew
it, we were in a songwriting/singing competition, in which we had to compose
canticles actually commemorating this demon pair's unholy union. I found myself
singing along on a tune called "Bugle Whoo!" right smack in front of the couple,
who looked down upon us from their camping chairs on high, nodding their heads
in approval. And Lord, if
that didn't sting. Except that... in a weird
way... I almost enjoyed it!
Somehow, sometime later, Kimberly and I managed to escape. I'll never forget the
sounds of agonized screaming, which — fortunately — receded quickly as we made
our way into the night, seeking the nearest geocache with my trusty GPS.
The story would have ended there, except that, to our chagrin, we also accepted
an invitation to breakfast with a select few of the coven, including the married
couple. I should describe the beastly behavior during this smaller but no less
traumatic event, but I doubt that repeating it would do my sanity — or yours —
any favors. Suffice it to say that I am home now, writing this little missive,
and constantly looking over my shoulder.
Should something happen to me, at least
you know the truth.
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A perfectly pastoral scene at Barren Ridge Vineyards, offering no hint
of the trauma soon to follow.
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Ms. B. and ye old writer, drinking away our cares before we even
realized we had any.
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Let the games begin. Grand marshall Cortney instructs participants in
the rules of "Pants-Down Races."
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Many celebrants, including this corrupt conquistador, crowded into the
house to escape a brief rainstorm.
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Hapless subjects serenade the vicious vizier and his bride, who look on
with approval
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After the party: Destined to walk the land of the dead.
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