The Disappearing Mayor

Someone spiked the donuts. There's no other explanation. Everyone who partook are staggering in seasick parabolas on the church lawn, eyes crossed, tongues swollen, and complexions like paint thinner. Meanwhile some wastrel in Bermuda shorts hoisted himself up the marquee pole and with toothy chomp sanses the serif off the "J" in "Hang Ten With Jesus."

Nothing's been the same in town since the mayor disappeared. Not a word to anyone, his car engine left running, laundry still in the dryer, secretary's pen still poised for dictation. Everything's gone downhill since then. The master keys to the post office have been mislaid, though no one can afford stamps anymore so it hasn't really been noticed. Trash piles up uncollected, roadkill left to rot, traffic lights blinking out lyrics to popular showtunes in morse code. Professionals can't afford office space so everyone works out of the parking lot of a boarded up tarpaulin factory.

"Sure, it's gonna hurt," says the Belgian dentist, hunched over his hapless patient in the back seat of his Volkswagen. "Who told you otherwise?" He gives a little prod for emphasis with a rusty retractor. "Strange place for a snakebite, I must say." Before starting the procedure he knocks ash from his cigar into the sanitizing bowl balanced uncertainly on the drink tray.

Here comes a wily character wheeling a stolen shopping cart loaded with back alley prosthetics. Times are tough, even for black marketeers. Hardly a leg to stand on. At least you can still buy cheap fish tacos from the stand along the highway, at least when the old seadog's in port. Which is admittedly not that often these days. But the locals set their lips firmly and tell themselves when there's a down there's an up, or when there's a back there's a forth, or when there's a will there's a way, or whatever will help to keep their spirits up. It's that kind of town.