About Me
The Legend of the Dane County Paragons.Way back in the distant haze of when, five rough handed sons of the
sod sat drinking moonshine and buckspit in a Wisconsin fur trapper's
booze hole so notorious that even the hogs crossed the road before
walking by it. They'd never met, so paid each other no mind until a
colossal bum with hands like raddled mallets burst in through the
swing doors."They call me Papa Molasses" he bellowed, "and I'll fight any man who
reckon he's gotten the gumption – for a price." Even the toughest men
stared deep into their hooch until a giant Cajun called Marcelle
Ramirez calmly uttered "And what's that price?""All I ask for" the hobo continued, "is a bottle of that Snakeblood
Bourbon behind the counter there. And if you beat me – which you won't
– you can get to keep everthang I got in the trunk on the back of that
wagon outsides. "That sounds like a fair bet to me!" Ramirez called
back as he spat out his cheroot and started to take off his shirt.
"One thing more", Molasses shouted. "Half now, half later." "I fancy
that's reasonable" the Cajun replied, and slammed the bottle on the
bar.Papa Molasses broke the top off the bottle with a twist of his fingers
and necked half the bottle of the strongest liquor in all of Dane
County before slurring "Right now, who's going to hold my coat and
judge this foul scrap?" A man stepped forward. It was the town
Sheriff, Harry S Trueman III. "I'll judge this match, but I'll not
hold your coat. It's alive with jumpin' critters". "Very well," said
Molasses, "let's just do this thing" before lurching forward with a
massive swing at Ramirez.The big Frenchie took a step back and Papa's punch missed completely,
sending him into a mid-air pirouette of indignant embarrassment. As he
fell he clocked his temple on the big steel shoe of John Wayne Wade. A
sickening clunch rent the air as the bum's skull cracked clean in two
beneath his leathery scalp. "Well, I was beat fair and square,"
whispered Papa with a wheezing, faltering tone. "Here, take this key
big man. Everthang I own is now yours. Just remember to tell folks
wherever you go the name of Papa Molasses." He let out one last sigh
and fell limp in Trueman's arms. "I'll guess he's dead" rang out state
ranger Marshal Cleetus Pyle "Shall we take a look at his trunk."The barman, Jefferson De Beaumarche Jr locked up the jook joint and
they went out to the wagon. They cracked open the trunk to find pages
and pages of songs so purdy they could make a deaf horse weep floods.
"Hey Trueman" the barman called "you can play the geetar a ways I
hear. Let's go back into the bar and play some of these songs. We'll
prop ole Papa up against the bar with a glass in his hand and play him
his songs in the way they should always have been played – loud and
mournful." Trueman nodded. Then Wayne, Pyle and Ramirez nodded too.
They strode back into the bar, propped the old bum up at the bar and
started to play…And from this day on they travel the land, telling folks of the day
they met ole Papa Molasses, and singing the greatest, saddest country
songs you ever did hear.
