EVICTED BUTCHER PUTS CURSE ON TOWN!

“WE’RE BEING ASSAULTED BY LIVERWURST!” SAYS CITIZEN

The town of Maudlin, Mississippi had been coping with the pandemic and the ensuing financial problems well enough. But hell broke loose right before Christmas. According to Maudlin Mayor Bruce Paisley, the town found itself attacked by meat.

“We were all doing our part with masks and social distancing. They set. up a food bank was set up to help those who were out of work. And we had a town butcher who, while he was a wiseass, worked his tail off to make sure everyone had food on their table. Then, when his landlord evicted him before the holidays, he put a curse on the town. Ever since we’ve been overridden by liverwurst!

When this WWN scribe arrived in the quaint village, there were, indeed, tons of liverwurst rolls of all sizes snaking through town, tumbling, crawling, and growling at pedestrians. “We’ve been inundated by feisty meat. I can only ascribe it to the curse of the butcher.”

The butcher and self-proclaimed warlock Anton Marloff, long-time proprietor of Marloff’s Majik Meats, virtually disappeared after he cursed the burg. “It’s not that we don’t like liverwurst,” said the Mayor. “There are many ways to cook it. It’s a great spread on toast. Sliced? It’s yummy. But, after a month of liverwurst 24/7, the townsfolk are beginning to get restless.”

WWN then set off to find the landlord who started the problem. He wasn’t hard to find.

Chip Rotunda Jr. lived in an ultra-modern home that made it stand out from all the other traditional homes in town. It was the only home totally surrounded by angry liverwurst.

LIVERWURST ROLLS DIVE-BOMB FROM TREES!

This WWN scribe dashed to the front door, dozens of liverwurst rolls dive-bombing from the trees above. Chip opened the door, breathlessly. He was tall and pasty-faced, thirty-ish. He had the kind of permanent smirk that comes from being spoiled. In essence, he was a twit cut from Kushner cloth. “Get in now!” he squeaked.

Inside his cold home of glass and metal, he paced the room. “Oh, sure. Everyone’s blaming me. Look, the butcher was a freak. He never changed his apron and he was nasty to people. This warlock crap is a bunch of baloney.”

“Liverwurst.”

“Whatever.”

But didn’t the butcher provide excellent meat to the town for over thirty years? Majik Meats?

“That was his job,” Chip replies, defensively. “Look, my father hired him after a tour of Eastern Europe three decades ago. He found him in Transylvania, brought him back here and sponsored his American citizenship.”

Was the meat faulty? “No,” Chip says. “The meat was beyond superb!”

What was the problem, then? “He couldn’t keep up with the rent. When Dad died, last year, I inherited all of the business properties in town. Marloff just couldn’t keep up. Once I returned home from New York City, abandoning my career, I had to toss him out!”

How many of Chip’s other clients were behind in their rents? Chip withered. “All of them.”

Why was Marloff singled out? Chip loses it. “Because he and my father were like brothers. Dad ignored me!”

A blast of wind pelted the room as the front door burst open. There, in all his splendor, was Transylvanian warlock/butcher Anton Marloff, holding a suitcase. Carrying a stylish cane and wearing a dark suit topped with a cape, Marloff put down his suitcase and addressed Chip. “That’s because we were brothers, you sniveling, spineless slug.”

MARLOFF

THE WARLOCK CURSE WAS A FAMILY AFFAIR

Marloff turned to this scribe. “His Dad and I were children together in Eastern Europe. But one day we got separated. Then, he came to America to get established. It took him ten years, but he finally found me.”

Soon after that, he focused on quivering Chip. “As for you being ignored? Who taught you to walk, play baseball, ride a bike and drive a car? Who tutored you during high school? And who was the one to help you get into an Ivy League college, bail you out when your frat boy arrogance got you arrested?”

“You-you did.”

Chip calms down. “You miscalculated this time,” he sneered at his uncle. “I can handle liverwurst. Everyone can. Anything but chopped liver! I hate chopped liver. Mom used to massacre that. I used to steal ketchup packets and smuggle them home, just to mask the taste! Now, get out of my house!”

Marloff reached into his coat and pulled out an envelope that he tossed Chip’s way.

“Yeah, about that, Sherlock. You used an old will of your father’s. I just got back from the county’s office of records. This is your father’s last will. He left me everything.”

Chip staggered into his kitchen to get a glass of water. He turned on the spigot, holding a glass beneath. Out came a rush of…chopped liver!

Chip began to scream. Marloff whipped out a bottle of ketchup and aimed it at the still-shooting-chopped-liver-spigot. He let out a massive squeeze. “The power of Heinz compels thee!” he intoned as the ketchup hit the chopped liver, causing it to explode. He tossed the rest of the bottle to Chip, who began drinking it like mother’s milk.

Marloff glanced at this reporter. “He got a degree in economics. Then he oes to New York City to pursue ‘interpretive dance.’ He got arrested, not once, but six times for busking inside Radio City Music Hall. That’s what he called a career!”

THE WARLOCK WAY

He tossed the suitcase Chip’s way. “This is for you.”

Still guzzling ketchup, Chip opened the suitcase. Inside was an outfit identical to Marloff’s and a butcher’s apron. Chip’s eyes widen. “Does this mean…?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. You were born a warlock so we might as well get you up to speed. There are spells and formulas to learn. Now, come on, we have a lot of work to do to get the shop ready for tomorrow’s re-opening.”

That startled this scribe. “Wait! You mean you are a warlock?”

Marloff rolled his eyes. “No. Every piece of liverwurst in town felt the need to go jogging on its own one day. Sheesh.”

Chip scrambled to his feet. “Yippie-skippy! Yaaaay! I’m a warlock, too!”

“Let’s get a move on,” Marloff sighed.

“Hey, I’m not done with my ketchup!” Chip whined.

“Take it with you,” Marloff muttered, turning and leaving the house. Chip skipped after him.

This reporter watched the Eastern European warlock amble down the street, cane in hand. Leaping around him, swilling ketchup and yelling “Yippie-skippy” and “Yaaaay!” was his nephew. This scribe concluded: today probably wasn’t the best day to abandon day-drinking.

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