The Man Too Stupid To Fail: The Saga of Wilberforce, #1

By D. Throop

This is where it all started, the beginning of the saga of Wilberforce Jones.  See his humble origin of freelance rabbit-raiser.  Witness his rise to media powerhouse--sort of.  Know that anything is possible.  If Wilberforce can do it, so can you.

• Language: English
• Publisher: D. Throop
• Release date: Sep 13, 2016
• ISBN: 9781536574821

Book preview

FOREWORD

A while back, the editor of the rather small and undistinguished periodical for which I worked decided that we needed to adopt a more holistic viewpoint.  In practical terms, this meant that he wanted to send someone down to the southern part of the state, relocating to a more provincial setting.  Writing from there, he would become something of a rural correspondent.  I still haven’t figured out what a Rural Correspondent is supposed to write about, especially since the publication in question has always catered to a purely metropolitan audience.  But this was our commander-in-chief’s bid to be properly liberal-minded and non-exclusionary toward all facets of society.  I have learned that it is impossible to debate a man with a vision.

As a lifelong city boy, I wasn’t too worried about being approached for this assignment.  That is, until the editor did just that.  He informed me that I was the lucky candidate who had been chosen to pioneer this bold, new field, and before I could raise a protest, he also informed me that my position in the city had been eliminated to make room for the rural experiment, as it came to be called.  Now, I was really about to raise a protest, but was then given to know that an extra hundred dollars a week accompanied the new position.

What the hell, I decided.  I have marching orders and a raise from the guy who signs my paychecks.  How bad can learning to hunt and fish be?  I know guys who spend their vacations doing such things every year.  I packed my things, rented a trailer, and prepared to relocate south.

As a parenthetical aside, I want to mention that I used to read social and political cartoons with great enjoyment.  It always amused me to see Bosses depicted as people who had received surgical procedures similar to lobotomy—making them bureaucratic idiots—before they were deemed worthy of leadership positions.  In recent years, however, I’ve come to embrace the idea as doctrine.  If the reason for my shift in paradigm is not already obvious, it will become so in short order.

When I got to the town to which I’d been assigned, I was supposed to meet with a man my editor was particularly interested in.  He was reputed to be quite the social philosopher, possessing more intellect—and even poetry—than many folk suspect can exist in a small town setting.  The editor figured we’d get along famously.  My boss had called ahead, arranging for me to meet the guy at a bar with an outdoorsman’s setting.  Having no better idea of how to start my new job, I went to the appointment.

I was met by exactly the sort of large, muscular, corn-fed country boy that most of us suspect only exists in very cliché movies.  He genially shook my hand in a fist the size of a bone-in ham, steered me to a corner table, and proceeded to order us drinks for which I paid.  I found myself wedged between our table and the barroom wall.  My companion occupied the only path out, effectively cutting off escape.  He then proceeded to tell me the tale of one of his more colorful relatives.

I must admit that the man’s storytelling technique was marvelous.  He varied the pitch and volume of his voice to match perfectly each situation he described, and did not use hand gestures more than necessary.  His distinct country drawl did not so much distract the listener from the stories he told; rather, it added a certain dramatic flair, not to mention down-to-earth authenticity, to everything he said.

I have changed all the names in this narrative, and mentioned no locales.  Not for the purpose of protecting the privacy of others, but to forestall any lawsuits that may arise.  While no celebrities enter the story directly, a few are mentioned.  I have left these descriptions as-is; since these people have sought the public eye proactively, they do not have the same rights to privacy as others, and I like my chances should they decide to litigate.  With these caveats in mind, what follows is a more or less faithful rendition of the tale that was told to me that day, as far as my notes and my memory can be depended upon for accuracy.

I.  THE BINGO GAMBIT

Call me Cletus.  I’ve lived here all my life, so I suppose I’m as qualified as anyone to tell you about this area.  And I’m guessin’ the best way to introduce an outsider is to tell you about my second cousin, six times removed—Wilberforce Jones.  And yes, before you ask, that is his real name.  Let’s just say he comes from a side of the family the rest of us don’t talk much about, and leave it at that.

Wilberforce likes to think of himself as an open-minded, forward-thinkin’ sort of person.  He had a domestic partner named Lulabelle Jim-Bob, a personage of indeterminate gender and—lord help us all—orientation.  (No one ever broached the subject with them, of course.  In our provincial corner of the world, there are some questions one simply does not ask.)  They lived in a converted storage shed on a parcel of land no one seems to own; the county recorder gave up tryin’ to figure it out two years ago last spring.  There, they would eke out a marginal existence growing rutabagas and cabbages.  They also raised rabbits, which they sold to outlying pet stores and research labs, when they weren’t dining on the little critters themselves.

Well sir, a while back, Lulabelle