PART TWO
(published in 1999)
Memorial Day Weekend, 1993: I packed up a duffel bag with clothes, threw my tent and camping gear in the back of my rusty but trusty ’78 Ford sedan and headed for the land that time forgot. I had a pocket full of food stamps, two cans of Miller Light and a hundred dollars worth of Shoreview Palace dinner certificates—my pay from the Tattler for my most recent expose: “People Who Lie in Personals Ads.” I was hoping I could trade the certificates for fifty cents on the dollar to the Wisconsinites, if things got desperate. Provided, of course, that the tradees had never sampled the fare at the Palace. Earlier in the week, I pawned my deer rifle and my golf clubs for two hundred and fifty bucks. I would have to live cheaply, that much I knew.
The following are the only legible portions saved from my journal, which was scorched in an unexplained house fire on October 31, 1993:
June, 1993: I’m down here in Wisconsin. I can’t reveal my exact location, for fear the wrong people may find out. I’m staying at a campground near several small towns, using it as a base camp. Am currently trying to light campfire without the use of charcoal lighter. Easy for you, perhaps, but difficult for me.
Just returned from at evening at one of the many Dew Drop Inns to be found in the area, where I was entertained by the sounds of Accordian Agnes and the Raggin’ Bitches. A “riot grrl” band these ladies are definitely not, but on any given night, they could easily blow the Oulo Hotshots off the stage. The finale, when Agnes rips off her fringed, denim shirt and dances on the bar while playing a grunge-reggae version of “Lady of Spain,” is truly something to behold. It left me speechless.
The night’s frivolity begins to fade as I contemplate the weight of my mission. After all, this is Wisconsin—VACATIONLAND. Could there really be ritual satanic activity in God’s Country? But then… maybe that’s why they built all the churches…. Sometimes I feel foolish, but then I remember that Ed Gheen, Jeffrey Dahmer, and the Posse Comitatus called the Dairy State home. I often feel a chill, even when the night is warm. Sometimes it feels as if someone is watching me, but when I turn around, I see nothing.
The fire is finally going, and I feel a little better, now. I think fondly of Minnesota.
Something in the flaming logs seems to warn me of upcoming danger. I take a long pull off my bottle of Windsor and move closer to the flames.
Enough for now, as I must rest. Tomorrow I continue the search.
(To be continued)
Leave a Reply