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Mean old man Stampers place. Barn fallin down. Groan up in weeds. Folks sez he played fiddle with the devil hisself. He thowed a pitchfork at me oncet. Cussed me out good. I put them snakes in his mailbox. Molasses on his doornob. Member when he chased me out his watermelon patch with dat skattergun? Still got birdshot in my butt.
We had our times. I growed up stout. Stamper got old and feable. He gone now like a fart in the wind. Nobody know where. Sep me. I know the zact spot where them melons grow big and sweet.