FACILITY LEVEL-SLAPPERS ONLY

Producer/Engineer: Bill Pollock

Editor: Sarah Rendo

Cover: Rob Mitchell

In the 19th century, the Osage people lost millions and millions of acres of land across three treaties: the Treaty of 1808, the Treaty of 1818 and the Treaty of 1825. In these treaties, the bulk of the Osage Empire was sold to the U.S. government for less than six cents an acre. The Treaties of 1808, 1818 and 1825 still haunt the former Osage lands of Missouri, Kansas and Arkansas. Some spinetingler theorists argue that all the houses in former Osage lands are haunted because they were built on stolen land but nearly all spinetingler scholars agree that all the houses in former Osage Lands with street numbers that match the years of the treaties have a much greater chance of hauntings.

The Spinetingler Scholars Alliance has found overwhelming proof that numerical correlations can lead to general feelings of uneasiness or sensations around the face, liver and spine. In more extreme instances, they can lead to a full blown spectral outburst, when a human witnesses a short but demonstrable glimpse into a ghost's eternal protest at shirking the mortal coil. Extensive studies have been made of spectral outbursts by spinetinglers scholars. It is such a common focus of spinetingler research that finding funding is becoming highly politicized and even taboo in some circles.

Nonetheless, one of the most famous spectral outbursts involved a house on 1808 Turtle Street. On today's date just a few short decades ago, a woman named Dolorous Jones who lived at 1808 Turtle experienced something that could scarcely be believed without the eyewitness testimony of her own person and the thorough documentation by the Spinetingler Scholars Alliance.

In the middle of the night Jones awoke to the sound of a squirrel gnawing on her bathroom door. She rarely saw or heard squirrels in her bathroom, but she clearly heard the distinct sound of tiny rodent teeth scratching on a door. But when she got up to check the toilet closet, she found no squirrel. She shut the door to the poop pantry and went back to sleep. She slept for three hours and seventeen minutes before she heard the distinct sound of the tinkling keys of a piano.

The only problem was that she had no piano. Not even a small keyboard. Not one to miss a midnight piano party, she went downstairs to where the piano tinkles seemed to originate, but she found no piano. Too disturbed to sleep, Jones got up and made a gallon of oatmeal smush. It was Jones's box turtle Donnie's favorite meal and she sprinkled raisins and sugar delicately and was just about to raise the spoon to Donnie's turtle face when a voice spoke to her from across the kitchen table.

The voice surrounded her with a great forest of noise.

The voice said, "Hush, hush, hush, hush. I will make you blush if you make that Donnie turtle eat that smush."

The voice got louder, "Inferior oatmeal! Inferior oats!"

The table began to rattle like so many wooden chains and the room swirled like a cauldron sloshing with the broth of spirit, as if a giant sinkhole was preparing to swallow her house whole. Jones rushed out the front door without her hat or shoes and ran down the street to Mother Jones's house. Terror pounding in her heart she told Mother Jones about the tiny ghost squirrel, the invisible piano and the oatmeal poltergeist.

Mother Jones pulled out a giant candle from the back pocket of her candle vest and said, "Child, you must follow me."

They walked very slowly towards the daughter's house. Dawn had not yet broke its orange yolk on the earth, and a thin layer of fog enveloped the house. At the top of the staircase hovered a towering figure silently billowing. It had one eye and teeth more numerous than any toothbrush could handle.

Mother Jones set the candle on the ground and locked her fingers with her daughter's fingers. Kneeling to the ground she spoke:

"We made a mistake

We made a big mistake

but please let us live in peace

and eat oatmeal."

The hallowed form let out a deep exhale and slowly gathered its fog. Like a low hanging cloud it drifted down the street to 1818 Turtle Street. Mother Jones collected her candle and went home.

The Carolina Parakeet was the lone parrot species, west of the Appalachian Mountains. At the time of Lewis and Clark, the Carolina Parakeet and its bright green, yellow and red plumage filled the skies with glorious shenanigans. Unfortunately, the last Carolina Parakeet died alone in the Cincinnati Zoo in 1918.

The dwindling numbers of Carolina Parakeets were accelerated by a number of human beings in the 19th century, but Chonny Burpins almost single-handedly crapped on the southern bird's path to extinction. At the zenith of powdered Victorian restraint, Burpins hid in bird costumes for hours waiting to pounce on bee hunters who unwittingly disturbed the habitat of the Carolina Parakeet.

She also stabbed hundreds of feather poachers. Sometimes in the face. Sometimes in the eyes. Always with icicles. No fingerprints. Even today, Carolina Parakeet Rejuvenation Scientist Community Encyclopedia describes Burpins as,  "a right handed Parakeet defender living with a left handed person's brain. Also, maybe she killed a few dum-dums every once in a while."

One day while waiting at Kaw Point she spotted local bee hunter, Donnie Turtle. Donnie Turtle whistled as he carried a honeypot towards a rotting tree trunk. The trunk was full of Carolina Parakeets and as Turtle approached the tree, birds burst from the top of the tree like green smoke rising from a chimney.

As Turtle reached in to pull out a honeycomb, Chonny Burpins emerged from her camouflage of dookie-colored logs.

"Don't do that!" Burpins said, and she thought about stabbing him in the eye and the face with a rusty nail but something happened in her heart and instead she took a handful of leaves and stuffed them in Donnie Turtle's virigin honeypot. She pulled them out, covered in sweet goo, and began to paste Donnie Turtle against the tree one leaf at a time. Donnie Turtle resisted and she pinched his nose, very, very hard until he farted quite extremely.

"You will stay here until you learn the ignorance of your ways. Consider the woods your school and you the sticky, farting, unwilling pupil"

Donnie Turtle stayed honey glued to the tree trunk for nine days. On the tenth day he said, "Please let me go I need to go to the bathroom."

Burpins quickly unpealed Turtle from the tree and within 36 hours Donnie Turtle began dressing as a bird and hiding behind rotting tree trunks as well.

Producer/Engineer: Bill Pollock

Editor: Sarah Rendo

Cover: Rob Mitchell

One night in the late 40's a bunch of bus boys were busy soaping up rags in the bar of the Missouri Hotel. It had been a long night but now it was time to flip the chairs and sweep beer caps into dustbins. The bus boys worked hard and before long all the glasses stood tall and sudsless on the drying rack.

Soon Arnie the bar keep was handing out nickels and sending the bus boys out the door. When they left, Arnie poured himself a tall glass of Nasty Boy and soaked in the silence. For twenty minutes everything was still and Arnie even began to wonder what would be like to fall asleep in a museum but then he was jarred awake by a clatter coming  from the peanut pantry.

Arnie wondered if maybe one of his busboys was scratching around for a few peanuts but when he climbed down the stairs he found that the peanut pantry was empty. Arnie walked to the corner and found a tiny mouse door that had been boarded up. In the cracks of the boards a faint light filtered into the peanut pantry.

Curiosity aroused, Arnie kneeled down and popped the boards off the mouse door. He stuffed his head into the mouse door and found a miniature speakeasy. Arnie pushed away the cobwebs and under the glow of one mutant lightbulb he saw six tiny figures sitting at a table dealing cards and smoking cigars at a green velvet table.

Even more shocking was the sight of Arnie's dead dad Barnie behind the mouse-sized bar.  Barnie waved at Arnie and walked to the door. He patted his son on the tip of the nose and gave him a big kiss.

Barnie said, "Hey look it's my beautiful son! Watch out, these goons are soaking wet but they play for keeps,"

Arnie asked, "Dad, why did you shrink?"

Barnie said, "I never said it was terrific. This is just the way these things happen."

One of the six rose from his seat and threw his cards down on the table. He pulled a machine gun from his side.

"You're all crooks-every lousy one one of you!" Jerry the Goose shouted.

The other five loosened their hands from their cards and placed them below the table. Arnie could tell that they weren't reaching for their keys.

Another of the five said, "Careful Goose, we've got your numbers."

Goose said, "Joey that's a gas, a real gas- them numbers are crooked just like the fence post at your mother's house."

And without hesitation Goose flipped the card table over and sprayed bullets at everyone at the table. Barnie's dad Arnie took cover inside Arnie's nose.  Predictably, the other five pulled out their own guns and began to fire.  It was as loud as a tiny junior high brass band and bullets times infinity rained throughout the hideaway.  But even though thousands of bullets passed through their bodies their wounds were bloodless. It was an eternal standoff between ghosts.

As the shooting continued Barnie climbed out of Arnie's nose and into his son's earlobe.

"The angels told us we were gonna be tiny, like potato chip crumbles but they also said that we could play with our guns and drink our drinks as long as we wanted."

As the bullets pounded the air Arnie said,"Huh, so this goes on every night then?"

Ghost Dad Barnie said, "Dem's da rules, sonny boy. If you want to get some sleep tonight I'd go home now. They're going to shell each other for more four hours before they get thirsty and I serve 'em up dem salty peanuts."

Arnie said, "Uh, okay, Dad, bye, I love you. I always wondered what happened to you."

Barnie said, "Me too son, me too!" and Barnie placed a tiny kiss on his cheek and sent him out the door.

Producer/Engineer: Bill Pollock

Editor: Sarah Rendo

Cover: Rob Mitchell

The Union Depot Train Station was an architectural marvel, but it was built in the middle of a floodplain and in 1904 the Union Depot was completely flooded. When preparations for a new train station began, city planners began to focus on a strip of land adjacent to the O.K. Creek. It was agreed that if the waters of the O.K. Creek could be diverted and channeled underground, that this would be the ideal location for a train station.

And so the city began to confront that wrinkle. City officials began to contact all the plants and animals living along the creek, telling them they had 30 days notice to vacate their creekside parcels.

Waterproof notes were handed out to all the fish and turtles. Eviction notices were seed pasted to the nests of the local waterfowl and all the street cats were contacted. Every cricket and water bug was notified via paper boats. Cattails and creekside willows are no dummies. They read the writing on the ripples of the water and de-rooted themselves. The creek water became salty with the tears of all the plants and animals and it was stained with the blood of thousands of dead tadpoles. The bullfrog community agreed that death was preferable to a forced migration.

With heavy hearts, most of the creatures accepted their fate. Except for the crawdads.

Crawdads are blue shelled luddites - freshwater lurkers who don't take kindly to trespassers and their ilk. When they heard the news they tapped into the old alliance and sent an owl to the mayor's office with a note of their own. It read:

"Dear present administration,

Mess with the tiny daddies and you'll get the claws. Rome will burn before we surrender our homes. You ugly, ugly, shit head man!"

The mayor laughed and crumpled the note in the newspaper.  His administration did not respond to threats from hooligans. If he would have listened, perhaps a great horror would have been avoided, perhaps a mighty disaster would have been circumvented - but a massive collision was being prepared and it would not be denied by the watchful eye of history.

Thus, on the debut evening of the first train rolling into the new train station, just as the mayor prepared to clip the dedication ribbon with the scissors of great purpose, an army of 9,000 crawdads surged over the nearby hill. And they did not stop at the appointed boundaries, but began to pinch noses, pinch butts, and pinch ankles. Shovels were produced by the train station police, but even as they smashed one or two crawdads, more crawdads began climbing into the conductor's cab and twisting the machine to and fro until the great machine - the great machine that had upset them from their homes - toppled over and burst into flames.

The records show that the rebellion lasted for one hour, until Donnie Turtle, the master crawdad smasher of Raytown, began to stomp on the their shells. And in ten minutes he had killed almost all of the crawdads, and in the eleventh minute Turtle pulled out a giant sprayer and began to wash their parts into a nearby drainage ditch.  

Producer/Engineer: Bill Pollock

Editor: Sarah Rendo

Cover: Rob Mitchell

Derrick Thomas was a great football player for the Kansas City Chiefs. His football coaches knew he was fast so they nicknamed him the Falcon. In one game, the Falcon sacked the quarterback a record seven times. The Falcon was a legend but tragically his life was cut short in a fatal car crash.

When he passed away a void was created in the football shaped hearts of thousands, but within a few short days birds began to hover near the milemarker that claimed Thomas's life.  First, it was only a few hairy rats with wings and their night bat friends. Then, it was all the pigeons and doves who like to eat popcorn out of the trash. Thirdly, all the cardinals and bluejays and all the other seed suckers flapped over.  Fourthly, all the hawks showed up with fresh mouse meat blood dangling from their beaks. Before long every bird of every species and every feather was lording over the highway.

Most drivers passed through the tunnel of feathers but not Donnie Turtle. Donnie Turtle had drank an entire trashcan full of beer. His friends tried to stop him from driving but he punched them in their dumpholes and said,

"Donnie gonna do what Donnie gonna want to do."

When he hit the highway, he began to swerve between lanes. The giant congress of birds swooped closer to his van and began to sing.

"Pull over! Be safe! Don't drive! Pull over."

When he did not stop the birds began pecking at his windshield. Peck. Peck. Peck.

"We can see inside your soul. You are dangerous. You are a dangerous man. Pull over!"

Turtle replied "You turkeys don't know nothing!" and kept on driving wildly down the highway.

Out of nowhere a brilliant falcon wearing a football jersey appeared. "Clear a path!" the falcon squawked.

The falcon dumped all over Turtle's windshield making it impossible to see. Finally, as the white sludge covered his entire car, Turtle pulled the van over and took a long nap.

Seven hours later Turtle woke up and realized what had happened. Tears streaming down his face, Turtle thanked the falcon who had saved his life and pledged to be the safest driver in the history of the world. After the solemn oath was made Turtle scraped the crap off his windshield and ate seven burritos. He never told anyone what had happened but he donated to the Audubon society

Producer/Engineer: Bill Pollock

Editor: Sarah Rendo

Cover: Rob Mitchell

The original town of Kansas sat on a bluff towering above the river. The height of the bluffs made offloading river goods, such as molasses and horse pelts, a nightmare. After years of slow delivery times, horse pelt industry officials threatened to leave Kansas City. That's when intrepid Mayor Johnny Filth stepped in.

Mayor Johnny Filth took the city's entire annual budget and bought a shovel for each citizen in town. He handed a shovel to every man, woman and child at Kansas City's annual bean dinner and said, "Get to digging! Do it for the horse pelt industry!"

Together the city cut into the river bluffs like a giant stack of chocolate cake. Within days the bluffs began to shrink and the speed of horse pelt delivery was mightily increased. The work continued day into night and night into week and week into fortnight.

After a fortnight, Donnie Turtle, one of the hardest working shovel boys slipped a note into Mayor Filth's pocket. It read: "I'm an honest and lowly shovel boy and I never hope to be anymore than that for as long as I live. But I've started to notice that the more we shovel, the more piles we create. We used to have one big bluff but now we have a thousand tiny bluffs. My brains are little more than duck paste but I know that the good Mayor Filth will conjure up a fit solution. ASAP."

Mayor Filth got up early the next morning and scratched the pox hole on his face. He pulled the blowhorn down from the ring of honor and spoke bravely,

"Let the city gather all the piglets and all the saddles for the piglets. All the piglets will carry the dirt to the lowlands and the waste places so that this dirty dirt will be gone. Call all the piglet wranglers of Westport. Today is the day the piglets set this town in order. Together they will lead a legion of piglet wagons to redistribute dirt into the low places of the city. We will work until dirt fills every gully, every ditch and every ravine. "

As Donnie Turtle listened, tears streamed down his face. He tossed his shovel and began to hammer together dirt wagons for every piglet wrangler in town. According to legend, Donnie Turtle banged together a thousand tiny dirt wagons for all the bacon babysitters of Westport. At lunch that day all the hoggy handlers of Westport applauded and marveled at the industry of Donnie Turtle. He could barely gnaw a bite of beaver wad jerky before a swineherd supervisor slapped him on the back. They say the cheering was so relentless he never finished his sandwich.

That afternoon he hand delivered another note to Mayor Filth. It said, "I hope you are happy. You have helped forge a path for Kansas City to join the cosmopolitan glow of the 20th century and impressive towns like St. Joseph and Fall River. Unfortunately, the success of my piglets wagons has brought undue attention onto my lowly nature. You will continue your great work, Mayor Filth, but you will do so without me. I will leave this place now. Hopefully in a better place than when I started making dirt wagon hours ago."

Donnie Turtle left the office of Mayor Filth with a sly grin on his face. He collected his hunk of beaver wad, his pipe and his hat he wore when he thought about church. He hitched a dozen piglets to a wagon and slapped the reins against the piglets. The porkers mushed and mushed for months until Donnie Turtle finally reached a tiny cave. Donnie Turtle lived out the rest of his days in the cave making candles out of bat guano and writing letters to the Mayor of the cave, which was of course, himself.

Producer/Engineer: Bill Pollock

Editor: Sarah Rendo

Cover: Rob Mitchell

The Elmwood cemetery caught the animal buddy world by storm when Margarine the deer befriended a stray dog named Rusty. Rusty and Margarine, with every frolic among the headstones and every cuddle among the tombs, sent inspirational shockwaves across the mammal community. But the transcendent friendship was cut short when a local hunter named Omalley Squeezums shot and killed Margarine in the heart of the cemetery.

Omalley Squeezums was quickly brought to justice and promptly paid the ten dollar fine, but the damage had been done––the dreams of a trans-species Camelot were lost forever. However, even as the nation mourned the death of Margarine, the cemetery's humble plastic-flower duster, Donnie Turtle, made a curious discovery. Turtle found a notebook whose cover read "Private Deer Diary! Don't touch! Or read! Ever! (Unless You Are Rusty)."

Turtle rifled through the pages and instantly recognized Margarine's distinct hoofwriting, but the tone of the first entry struck him like a frozen bundle of raisin-sized turdlings dropped from a rooftop on a cold winter's morn:

Rusty stinks! He stinks like poop!! Just kidding he's my best friend and a truer friend than any squirrel could be. Squirrels, dirty rotten squirrels! If I could I would cut down all their trees and drown them in the river. Good thing we bought poison capsules. In a week or so we will begin to wipe this graveyard clean. No more squirrels defecating on the benches of remembrance. All the squirrels will be dead in a week and we will finally have some peace and quiet before our big animal buddies calendar shoot.

Later that day Donnie Turtle found Rusty licking his buttcheeks in the shadow of an ornamental fox statue. Although Turtle knew that Rusty enjoyed licking his butt he asked if Margarine had always hated squirrels.

Rusty yelled, "Margarine was a saint in life and a martyr in death!"

The old bloodhound popped up from his pose and lunged at Donnie Turtle with one of his giant paws clawing out his eyeball like a grape from a shallow bowl. Rusty yelled, "Squirrels are a menace! And squirrel sympathizers who support their activities will be eradicated presently."

Rusty stood over Donnie and prepared to strike again when a shot rang out in the cemetery. Rusty's tail went stiff and the old bloodhound keeled over like a slab of red concrete. Footsteps quickly approached from the east. Donnie Turtle feared his breaths were numbered and when the shooter leaned over him he prepared to die.

But the shooter quickly handed him the eyeball Rusty had scraped out his face.

"Are you looking for this?" the shooter asked.

"Yes," Turtle said.

"You probably want to hand me over to the graveyard sheriff for shooting a beloved member of the animal buddy community," the shooter said.

Donnie Turtle slid his eyeball into his socket until it clicked. His vision was immediately restored. Omalley Squeezums stood before him.

"Actually Omalley," Turtle said, "how's about you help me get rid of this dog body."

And it was on that historic day Donnie Turtle and Omalley Squeezums burned Rusty's carcass at the limestone quarry and implicitly pledged to protect all the squirrels in the cemetery.

Producer/Engineer: Bill Pollock

Editor: Sarah Rendo

Cover: Rob Mitchell

Nelle Peters was one of most prolific architects in Kansas City history. She designed over a 1,000 buildings including one of the city's most iconic high-rises, the Mark Twain.

What most people don't know is that the Mark Twain apartments have a dark secret. To understand that untold mystery, we need to first look at the moral tug of war between Peters and J.C. Nichols. Nichols was a famous real estate developer, but in the process of gobbling up land and spitting out commercial and residential properties, a radical concept began to dominate his mind.

As the plans for the Mark Twain apartments neared fruition, Nichols became more and more obsessed with the idea of secretly stealing Mark Twain's body in hopes of burying him in the cornerstone of the building.

Nelle Peters pushed against this idea from the beginning, but it was like convincing a spider to clean up his own cobwebs.

"Drop this body-snatching nonsense. How could you even think about stealing Twain's corpse," Peters said. "I won't allow it. And neither does the law."

"If you say a word about it, you will be dead where you sleep. And besides, who would believe a dull pencil face like you?"

"Nichols, your threats are like mouse farts, they make noise but very little thunder. Even so, if you do your deed, lock the door behind you. You will never see me again and I will never smell you again."

Two days later J.C. Nichols met up with famed grave robber Donnie Turtle at Mark Twain's grave. It was midnight when Donnie Turtle threw away his first shovel full of dirt.

Nichols paced around the graveyard for hours and hours as Donnie Turtle struggled to loosen the coffin from the earth. When the coffin was raised from the ground it was clear that it was much bigger than Nichols' anticipated.

"Boss Nichols, this here is Twain. He's a dead big boy and his coffin is even bigger! Sneaking this coffin on to the train is going to be like trying to stuff a piglet in a jelly jar."

J.C. Nichols became enraged.

"Donnie Turtle! Donnie Turtle! Donnie Turtle! You lack foresight!"

J.C.  Nichols pulled out his bowling ball bag and grabbed the grave digger's shovel striking Donnie Turtle on the head. Life and blood alike poured out of Turtle's head and into the cold, cold turf of the graveyard. No one knows if remorse or regret ever filled Nichols' heart over these unseemly acts, but seven days later a local dry cleaner published a small advertisement in the local paper:

"DEAR CUSTOMERS,

WE DO NOT CLEAN BLOOD OUT OF BOWLING BALL BAGS. ESPECIALLY LEATHER ONES. ESPECIALLY LEATHER BOWLING BAGS FULL OF BLOOD AND TINY CHUNKS OF BRAINS. WE STILL OFFER TREMENDOUS CLEANING SERVICES FOR NORMAL CLOTHES LIKE TUXEDOS AND OVERALLS BUT PLEASE, NO MORE BOWLING BALL BAGS FULL OF BLOOD-YUCK!"

As if there were any further doubts as to the dastardly nature of the deed of defilement, they say that a mere 70 years later the Mark Twain Apartments were getting brand new Panasonic VCRs in every apartment, when the VCR installation specialist made quite a discovery. The VCR installation specialist spent a lot of long nights connecting the VCRs to the standard issue Zenith televisions and on multiple occasions he reported hearing the distinct sound of a river boat chant.

Don't mind me and my fart butt

I'm floating down the river

as regular as the Hannibal rain

They call me Mark Twain

and they cut off my head

but it don't matter none

because I was already dead.

Chop me and slice me

from my head to my toes

till the blood runs dry

all the good parts are gone

like a half eaten pie.

I wrote all my bits

I left big old shits

and I loved every day

that I saw your muddy eyes.

Producer/Engineer: Bill Pollock

Editor: Sarah Rendo

Cover: Rob Mitchell

Oscar Wilde, one of the brightest wits the Emerald Isle ever burnished. In 1885 Wilde toured America with speaking engagements dotted across the country. Unfortunately, critics treated Wilde's performances like watermelon seeds spit in the face of a very wise turtle.

In fact the Kansas City Star gave his performance at the Coates opera house a bad review. They declared Wilde to be a spectacular nincompoop. As if that wasn't bad enough, Wilde was reviled for his off stage habits as well. In particular, they didn't like his hollow tooth.

Some said he kept jewels in his tooth. Others said he kept manuscripts in his tooth. A select and depraved few hinted that Wilde kept tiny baby teeth in his hollow tooth. This was an era when people were very secretive about their dental life and so rumor has it that almost no one, with the exception of Wilde's dentist, spoke about the hollow tooth.

Of course, one person did speak about it, and he spoke about it very rudely. Rumor has it that that person was Resse Rames.

Rumor has it that one person in particular gave Wilde a hard time, a famous bank robber named Resse Rames. Resse Rames had just lost to Wilde in several hands of horse mouse at the Monkey Tree Saloon. Frustrated at his mounting losses, Rames challenged Wilde to a boot drink.

Rames pulled the boot off his foot and poured seven bottles of whiskey past its tongue. When Wilde refused to join Rames grabbed Wilde by the mouth and pulled out his largest hollow tooth.

"Won't give you your stinky yellow tooth till you take off your boot!" Rames' said.

Wilde said, "Fine, you hideous oak! But you will be forever marred on the stage of life."

And, without ever making eye contact with the bank robber, guzzled it down in a single gulp.

Resse Rames took his boot and filled it to the top but after three or four medium guzzles a wild jack donkey burst through the doors of the Monkey Tree Saloon.

The donkey was a tornado of saddled might, smashing every chair and stool with the might of its back legs. Everyone with half a brain molecule hopped behind the bar for safety. However Resse Rames froze up like a concrete turtle and the jack donkey stamped him with hoof prints on his chest.

After an errant kick of jubilation the donkey settled down at the bar and began to slurp out of Rames' boot.

Wilde heard the sound of the donkey slurping the last of Rames' guzzles and while everyone else remained motionless, Wilde walked around the bar. Wilde leaned over the dull lump of Rames' body and collected his hollow tooth from the top of the bar.

Wilde ran his fingers through the donkey's mane and onto the horn of the saddle. The leather of the saddle crunched and crackled as Wilde lifted himself on to the back of the wild animal. Backing the pack animal up with a few clicks of his heels, Wilde lead the donkey away from the saloon and down a dusty West Bottom Street.

Producer/Engineer: Bill Pollock

Editor: Sarah Rendo

Cover: Rob Mitchell

A modern Odysseus, Rube Foster was a giant concoction of pitcher, manager, businessmen and visionary, all shaken up together inside a 6 foot 2 Texan frame. In 1920 Rube Foster gathered a group of businessmen to the Paseo YMCA. By the time the men left they had created the modern Negro National League.

Some say that Rube Foster never left that room and even though he died in 1930, he never stopped watching over the YMCA. One day someone tried to steal a car outside of the YMCA but the thief retreated when he was pelted by a cascade of ice. Some say it was a freak hailstorm. Some say it was Rube Foster chucking ice at the dude.

Some say that Rube Foster never left that room and that his genius is so powerful it resonates through the room in a constant current of electricity. Some say that there's enough in Rube Foster's room that if electricity were tiny packets of ketchup there would be enough tomater sauce to overflow a regular sized volcano.

Some say that Rube Foster never left that room and if you try to throw away a tiny paper cup it's going to always land in the bottom of the waste paper basket-even if your eyes are closed.

Some say that Rube Foster never left that room and that if you go that if you go swimming at the YMCA and try to grab some toast you won't be disappointed. Dolorous Jones wasn't disappointed

Dolorous Jones stopped by the Y to grab some toast and a few laps in the pool. She had half a loaf of bread and a clean women's swimming suit. She stuck one sliver of bread in the central terminal of the public toasting area. And she waited. And she waited. And she waited. But no toast. But suddenly, all of a sudden, without warning, all of a sudden, a floating finger stuck out of the wall and pointed at the toaster and the toasting irons became orange-lava hot, heating those bread shanks from a pale white to a golden brown. When the toaster went "ding-ding-ding" the finger retreated back into the wall.

Dolorous Jones ate that toast and gathered her belongings, her swimsuit, her purse, her toast kit, her stick of butter and she headed for the door. As she left, she took one look at that toaster to see if it was a special kind of toaster, like maybe it's one of those special toasters you read about in the papers. And she was right, it was a special kind of toaster - it wasn't even plugged in.