Travelling Salesmen

Dear Oliver,

Greetings my old friend. It has been some time since we last corresponded. My travels have taken me into the some truly interesting places. I have seen lands that show that this can do country of ours is a wonder. Some areas take instantly to my invention, while others view it with a vague skepticism, as though it were a device used by jackanapes. Some of these mountain men and women seem so backwards compared to our hustle and bustle life of Boston. If it weren't for my companion, the red faced German, Iron Jaw McGraw, I fear I would be lost in these dark places. Even McGraw proves to be both a blessing and a curse. A blessing in his strength and protection that he provides me on my travels from those that do not that what I bring them is not mysticism, but the future. However, the people are frequently just as afraid of him as they are of my tool of tomorrow. My invention, what I believe you call the "ass wiper", you always were cheeky, but what I have dubbed "toilet paper" seems to be catching on these parts.

I must say, the feeling I get when I show these people a roll must be how grand Prometheus must have felt bringing fire from the gods to mankind. They stare at the paper in a most peculiar ways. Many think me a witch, so it is a boon to have Iron Jaw along as my bodyguard. He is a most faithful traveling companion, he has even given me some delightful nicknames which I think you will find most amusing. Often times he will say "Don't judge me by the faggot, he just pays my bills" and point his thumb in my direction. The cad! Other times, when McGraw and I are alone on the road, after I have unfolded a jolly tale of one of the adventures you and I have shared basking in the gardens or wrestling in the hay, he will mutter under his breath "pillow biter." Which I do find odd, as I don't believe I have used a pillow that regularly on this adventure. Regardless, I believe you two would get along swimmingly.

Some of the local townsfolk view McGraw with an air of trepidation. The man has the most uncanny ability to bite anything with gleaming his white teeth. They are so radiant I once saw my own reflection in his hearty smile. In the town of Donkey Trail, North Carolina McGraw ate four iron horse shoes for breakfast every morning. The people of that town would insist upon a nightly show of McGraw's feats before anyone would slide toilet paper across their backside.

Another myth that has sprung up around my bodyguard is that he bare knuckle boxed and killed a Sasqutach, and that McGraw knows a secret recipe for Big Foot Stew. In almost all the villages we have seen, they have asked the man for a boxing exihibition. McGraw looks forlorn at them, grits his teeth, and denies them the experience due to some oath taken in the last year or so. The man can be a mystery. For a man that has seen so much of the world and its various cultures he can be positivley pedestrian. If we happen upon a larger town he always insists we stay the night, then he disspepears for hours to filthy eateries where they must have copious amounts of food. I'm not sure of the where he goes, he simply asks if I'm sure I won't have any of his "sloppy seconds," I assure him that I abhor sloppiness of of any kind,to which he retorts "Your loss." What a marvelous fellow! A truer man I have never seen.

For all his robustness, he does have one weakness. A rash around his private bits, "picked up in some town or other from some floozy or other." he says. The man must constantly scratch that region of his body or adjust himself. It's how our deal was made, I as a scientist, will help cure the man of his disease in return for his protection against the hordes of misunderstanding. A fine friendship forged for all time!

The work I am doing is of the utmost import to mankind. No longer must we use our hands or take a chance on a leaf. Some see my invention as a failure, they say it tears to easily and dirties the fingernail, but I'll take a dirty nail to a handful of feces, wouldn't you say chum? that's one of the reasons I am writing to you. My invention, while still new, and if I must say, exciting, may be undergoing a revision. I am working on the thinness of the paper, creating a thicker ply which I am dubbing Toilet Paper Mark II. Still, I don't want to destory the minds of these locals too soon, I must ease them into this luxury, allow them to try toilet paper Mark I before I move them too far into the next stage of evolution with Mark II.

In the town of Cow Lick, West Virginia the people were so dumb founded over Mark II, that they strung me up as a witch. We set up shop next to a tonic salesman. The villagers gathered round to see what fancy acoutrements were coming in from the cities. That's when I sang the song "when you go to pop a squat/don't worry a jot/ this is toilet paper/ it's a handy dookie scraper," etc, but the people so used to using their own hands found it appalling. One man, Jed Turner, threw a bottle of his recently bought Thunder Tonic at me. Actually, the tonic salesman did well that day as bottles would be purchased from him and then flung at me. I'm not ashamed to say I was quaking in my boots, McGraw was off galavanting around no doubt, and I was put upon by the bum's rush. The town, led by Turner, had me strung up and prepared me for a tarring and feathering.

There is no due process of the law in these backwards little towns. Yet, I do not judge them, for they are so unused to our city ways and speedy life. No, they are quaint creatures that are being dragged, kicking and screaming into this future world of the 19th century. They prepared one of their witch tests for me, something about a line of arse kickings to see if my bottom turned blue, but if it remained a rosy pink then I would surely be a witch. After a few kicks my rump did indeed become the color of twilight, to which the town believed I had shape changing abilities. The vat of tar was prepared.

Of course my curly red haired, mustashioed savior arrived just in the nick of time. In actuality, I could have sworn he participated in the keister kicker line, his words, not mine, but due to the doubling over of pain, as one stray kick hit my testicles, I do not remember much of that event of my life. I do remember McGraw arriving, not with a mad warriors bellow, but with a bit of a sigh and the mumbling of "Here we go again." The man raced to my rescue in the nick of time, and he became a whirling dervish of violence. It seemed as if each hit sent a townsperson flying in all directions, as if they were being knocked into the air like ten pins. Eventually, McGraw succumbed to their numbers. Something to do with the weakness in his groin area, he had to stop the fight to administer to the unbearable itching. To save my life McGraw broke his oath of boxing. A bout was arranged he would fight a bear for the delight of the townsfolk. I was kept imprisoned until a bear could be secured, after a week, McGraw and the town finally caught the biggest brown bear anyone in those parts had ever seen. It was yet another two weeks before the match could begin. Something about Iron Jaw needing time to train, but I never saw the man so much as lift more than a mug of beer. Perhaps he was distrought over breaking his oath, and that's why I would often see him in the arms of women, whom he was surely confessing his sins to.

Just when I thought I would never leave my cell or see the light of day again. A jury rigged ring was made in the town square, all the men and women of town put on their sunday best for the exhibition. The bell was rang, and the bear set loose on the barechested McGraw. Oh how the man glistened with sweat. The bear struck first, raking his claws across McGraw's back. McGraw struck back with rapid body blows to the bear's midsection. The rapid fire haymakers caused the bear to vomit in the ring, to which the most mighty smell of alcohol permeated the entire town. The bell sounded and the first round was over.

Round Two was a rough round for McGraw, as the bear had him pinned against the ropes, and worked over McGraw's face and bread basket. McGraw freed himself when he stomped on the bear's toes. After that, the bear seemed to be wearing down. Had it been McGraw'a plan to take the beating and tire out the bear? I thought I was doomed to be dipped in the boiling hot tar for sure. The round ended in McGraw's favor when he bit the bear on the snout.

Round three began with the bear gnawing on McGraw's genitals. Apparently, this was just a useful plan to deal with the itch, as McGraw deemed it tickellish. Then, spinning his fist like a tornado, McGraw popped the animal on the nose. My day of rescue was at hand. McGraw delivered an uppercut to the bear that sent him flying out of the ring and into the crowd. The town began to panic, in the mayhem, McGraw ran to free me from the jail. My delightful savior bit through the iron bars, snatched up my sack of toiletries, grabbed me by the scruff of my neck and we lit out of that town in a hurry.

McGraw had broken his oath, but not completely, the match was a hoax, we met up with the bear some distance down the road. Apparently, he and Mcgraw are old friends. Money was exchanged, and McGraw and I headed on to the town Burp Breath, Kentucky, where I write to you now.

I urge you to write me back friend Oliver. Tell me the delights of town life. I miss home so, but I also miss my Vivian of the alabaster skin. I think you will both find me changed upon my return, for I have grown more rugged since last we supped. My trip is half over, and will be returning in a matter of months. Please write to the next town on my agenda, which is Yellow Falls, Kentucky. Curious name. I miss you greatly my friend.

Sincerely,

Maxwell Toilet