Quip's Corner - From the Files of Field Reporter, Arthur Rupert Joopleseat:

The last time lightning struck the tiny town of Sleepy Sin, both residents were seen running south through the sage brush, one after the other. The one behind, because he was, frankly, on fire, chasing the other, because she had seen fit to use the only town water bucket as a potted plant stand.

The tiny general store has burnt to the ground, leaving an oval of charred ash as the only memory of its passing. Last I saw, the town saloon, across the street, was still burning. Well, you know what they say, “If your caught living in Sin, you’ll probably burn!”

Sin apparently has had a few new residents move in recently. With floral cotton curtains across the windows and flower gardens out front, one can only assume that the new Sinners are of the feminine persuasion (which thrills this reporter to no end.) In fact, I believe that I can see a rather full figured white lace brassiere fluttering and drying in the breeze, like an erotic flag of surrender, across a clothes line, which is attached from the side of the only house in Sin to the town well (minus one bucket.)

I have come to believe that the women of Sin certainly know the area but aren’t looking for much male companionship. Because, over the last few weeks, from my somewhat itchy perch in this overgrown pine tree, I have seen countless men walk into town. They go straight up to the house (with what I can only describe as a thirsty look on their faces) and knock on the door. They will make some sort of request, statement or question and be abruptly sent looking for whatever they requested in, what I have been able to determine must be another town over the hill to the south west. I come to this conclusion because I am usually able to make out a distinctly feminine voice, coming from the door, shouting firmly and clearly, “Go straight to Hell!”

I have made a note in my records to make a day trip to go see this Hell and what must be an enormous male population residing there. I must then also assume that, from my observations, once you have Sinned, you normally go directly to Hell.


Post note: This is the last report on record as being filed by Arthur. Follow up notes indicate that he was discovered, delirious and suffering from heat stroke, wandering a desert in the south west, mumbling incoherently. We can only assume, from piecing together his incomprehensible babble, that he thought that his predicament was shear hell, or something along those lines. It is still somewhat unclear.

As a final memorandum to poor Arthur Rupert Joopleseat, we have received the odd random note here at the home office, scribbled fairly illegibly on torn scraps of lacy white material, indicating, if these can be indeed attributed to Mr. Joopleseat, that he apparently is being nursed back to health somewhere. The information is sketchy, just something about being able to see an overgrown pine tree from his bed, through windows with floral cotton curtains.