District Bulletin: Missing Person

Reader, I trust that you have time to stop at this postpole and read this document. Our District is quiet. Dorroile has not been spied in months. His legion of tramps do not sing his songs, but shuffle past most ghostly like breezed leafs. Children are placid and understimulated; without their cherubish wriggling, Hairbank has lost his zeal to eat them. Mary, the bad lady, has laid down her scams. We do not know where Dorroile is gone.

We are very glad to not have him. He was the Worst Guy, and his gay mischief rained soaking ridicule upon us all. It is good that Dorroile has left. Nobody misses him. However, Your Superiors are required to document his absence so diligent, as with any missing fellow. In this Bulletin, as our constitution requires, a panel of superiors will offer opinions as to what might have become of our hated man.

Humbly do I posit that Dorroile has become, like our most older enemy Croisquessein, invisible and even nonexistent. They sinister two now are leagued as cofoulers, haunting our affairs with ill deeds, misplacing items, tripping us up on invisible obstacles so we fall on the street into a heap of discardage most rank and are remembered gaily by all assembled laughers-on for years.

Such a nonexistent duo, when mathematic notions are applied, might cause a plural depravity of mayhem. Contemplate this miserable development and you will see that I should now be paid very much more. Logic shows that double money for me is now required. With a bigger car and richer foods and fine gloves of oiled lamb's ear, I would find these men, or prove that they do not exist.

Perhap it is with fear that Dorroile has beat a hasty one. Fear of my long wicked nails, which I have honed to righteous claws to scratch bloody justice on his face. My awful claws curl and yellow for want of his victual softbits. He has seen how bad they got. He has run into the hills to weep and whine, to cry at the moon for Swimp's mercy. But no cookie-sweet bunnybear can ease his heart, for the gravity of justice tugs it toward my gnarly knives until it pulls at his chest so terribly.

Or it could be he left, and simply went to another place. I will keep my awful nails long for his return.

I know what you ask. I did not eat Dorroile. I should remember had I eat him, because always I wanted to eat Dorroile. I want to eat all men, but with some particular zest did I yearn to eat him. I hate Dorroile because he does not fear me, and I love him too for it, but I would rather eat him than love him. But I have not ripped him up to stuff in me or I would recall it.

I hate Dorroile, and I love him. Once, deep in winter, in the woods outside this Weep, I had chop down a wolf with my hand. I had but leant down for mine first bite when, from no place, BOOP, Dorroile twist tip of my penis and skip away whooping.

I do not know where man Dorroile is gone. If he should wander to North, my people sure would eat him. I hope this is what.

If you ask me from the medicine perspective: there is no medicine reason why a man should disappear. The component areas of a man-- the arm, the hand, a foot-- may disappear from getting caught in a thing, but a whole man cannot, or he would still just be intact. A man cannot become separated from himself, in the sense of medicine. If an entire man is missing, you see, the entire part of him is but someplace else.

This is what maybe is the case with Dorroile. To speak medically, his whole body is elsewhere. He is not missing, so to speak, just in a place where the location of his entire body is unknown.

Our Zoo has too suffered a disappearal. Our big precious woodsbear, Hoague X, my favorite big lovely black baby, has took leave from his pen for quite some months. I have not counted how long to be exact, because in the start of it for many weeks I thought Hoague X would be right back any time (sometimes he fancy a stroll).

My supposal I tell you now: could Hoague X and Dorroile be off gone together? The two found acquaintance many months ago, when Dorroile would leap into the Hoague X enclosure to try to be killed, because of that prank where he would die [Note from Your Superiors: more on this horror to come]. But Hoague X would not kill Dorroile, or anyone, because Hoague X abhors a carnage and lives but to sleep and party. And so does Dorroile, so the two of them would do quite a lot of that, and yell and groan into the night smoking cigarettes and drinking Sour Clam Rum, the both of them, and peesleep all over the place inevitably.

I wonder that maybe did Dorroile take Hoague X, his friend, away to journey? I cry because I miss Hoague X, and I wish our sweet bear is happy. And I hope in his long gad, Dorroile has a friend [Note from Your Superiors: Dorroile has no friends].

I think I know this. Dorroile has not been eaten by the North Man Hairbank. Dorroile fears no man's claw, and he is not invisible or nonexistent nor medically missing. Dorroile might have a bear.

Dorroile has left our District. Dorroile has gone because I am beaten. With his last trick, a masterpiece of the jokelaw's craft, I was chessmated so gravely that the mischief can never be surpassed. Months ago, Dorroile gulled me most ingeniously into declaring him dead, and then threatened to make himself veritably and violently body-dead so I, your Claude, might be held responsible for his death (since a man can't die twice). In traffic he darted; Hairbank he tweaked; bears did he party with. Hostage to his rough whimsy, I was forced to meet his moon-beloved requests.

By Dorroile's demand, my fancy dinner is now carried to me in the foamy mouth of a dog (I do not, such is the insult, even get to choose which dog). By his demand, my great humiliations-- the "novel man experiences" of my wife-- have been turned into a quite very successful motion picture comedy called Big Engulfing Happy Wife. Each morning, I must lick the awful statue he erected in front of the Weep of Desperation. I am required at all times to do his awful dance.

He promised to never stop humiliating me, and he never will. In our Weep, once the center of all honor and fine good governance, a nude and leering portrait of our Worst Guy has now been hung. Somehow, its closed eyes follow me where I walk. There is even a smaller one of that painting in the toilet, so they may also follow me through my intimate doings and leavings.

And so your Claude must suffer it all so smilingly for now and ever, for all my life. I cannot resign my position and suffer humiliation in private, or through his shut eyes he would somehow know. I know that Dorroile will be back if I shirk my punishment. And if The Worst Guy returns, his humiliations will rain down double on us all.

Your Head Better Superior advises you that Dorroile is gone. All things will now happen as planned. Disruptions will henceforth be minimal. This Bulletin, along with any prior Bulletins publicizing his lunar antics, will soon be stricken from our archive. His name shall not be spoken; offenders will be tethered to the pole. Should a wide-eyed youngmartin visit the Weep, and should that youngmartin ask "who is that, the nude man who is drawn so awful, who seems to dance so gruesome even frozen in paint, who defeats the room with his shut-eyed gaze, who humiliates us with his fading portrait," you are advised to answer, "that was the Worst Guy."

Bless Swimp forever.