A True Story I Found in My Attic


You don’t know about a band called The Beat Machine without you have been to a town called Pittsfield, Massatushits. Now that is the most recal-kit-traint and nugatory territory that’s north of Washinton, lest you been to Orange-Athol, drawed out a there on your way to find some place sivilized. If you hasn’t been to Pittsfield, it ain’t no matter, there’s nothin’ there ‘cept factories that gone under and parking lots a body don’t park in cause motor cars is too ‘spensive. People there had to git mighty comfortable with walkin’, cause if they do afford a motor car than they gets em ‘pounded on account a that the gov’ment don’t like people who gets to drunkin’ and drivin’; les of course they themselves is the one doin’ it ‘cause they the Judge, or a politicer. The rest of the town quits to drivin’ and stead goes out drinkin’ all the time cause there ain’t nothing left for a body to do seein that em-ploy-ment’s pretty dried up up there, which is Boston’s fault; or so some sez. Now ten year ago a young group of young hopefuls that was sick of the drinkin’ and the walkin’ and the takin’ stock in lottery tickets gets to thinkin, “ maybe the fine city of Pittsfield could use some culture and get sivilized.” Well, when you ain’t got culture, you got the most ignorantest city full of larceners and bottle suckers boutin’ and sleepin’ in front o Newberries, just beggin’ for a building to collapse on ‘em in hopes that they might get dis’bilities money or at least die and somehow pity their ways into Providence. But this gang of kids decides to start up like a choir group with electric organs, drums and stringed inst’uments and go round sivilizin’ ev’body weather they wanted to be that way or not. Personally I thinks they should of spent more time in school learnin’ books but I warn’t there more than a few days and couldn’t tell if it would a made much a difference in them as sometimes its their nature to want to go around culturin’ everybody stead a grown up just decent and regular like most folks. As fortune would have it though, most of the gang had turned out right anyhow and ended up someplace bettern’ whence they came from. ‘Cept the most fanatical n’ bullheaded one of them all, that one that calls himself The Beat Machine who continued to go around getting’ the town cultured, though it was long past overdue, on account of that it seemed a good Idea at the time; since it was the early nineties. He made the most irritatin’ cacophonous noise I ever set my ears to -sound like a litter of feral cats got dumped into a mailbox . Not only did The Beat Machine bother to go out disturbing the peaceful community of Pittsfield Massatushits getting em sivilized and cultured, but the disruption most damn nearly killed his poor elderly mother and his loyal dog Henry too. It got to be so bad that the towns people drove him out all together and eventually he had to move to Lake Pleasant; which is also in Massatushits. In case you don’t take no stock in dead people, Lake Pleasant ain’t no ordinary place on account a that it’s hunted. They is so many ghost and dead things walkin’ around that the census don’t even come there no more cause its too darn confusing to take stock in live people, when there’s so many dead ones a comin’ and a goin’ like they’s still alive too. The reason ‘cause it’s so hunted is that spirtoolests set up camp there many years ago, last century and the dead spirtoolests that come with ‘em ain’t never ad’ nuf’ sense to leave after the big fire. Them spirtoolests had so many ghost that come with ‘em that they had to use special Chinese lanterns to see ‘em all. Well, one day some kid lighten’ one of those China lanterns forgets to “light fuse and get away” like it says on the package and by the time he gets to the lake to ‘stiguish himself, half the village was burned up. Some Sez it was arsen, but that’s a lie. Had they all chose to live in cabins, like ordinary folks, the fire could a been ‘stingushed in time -but since spirtoolests likes circus amusments, they all has to live in tents. After the camp burn down they set up a po’ farm, for vagrants mostly, during the Great D’pression. Rich folks during D’pression didn’t want no hunted house cause they could ‘ford to move some place that warn’t so -and that’s exactly what they done. Now Po’ folks don’t have no such luck wid’ land so they has’t to shack up wid’ the ghosts. After a while they got so sick of the ghosts and the huntins that they gets to thinkin’ ‘bout ’rectin a bridge so that the ghosts might go to the other side to reside. The people of cos’ had no money so they ‘rects the bridge out a ol’ telephone poles, rail road ties and rich folk’s fence stakes they had just lyin’ ‘round. Well, when they was all done they was so mighty proud of the bridge that the whole village hadta’ get their names put on it. After they all put their names on it of course they hadta’ to put their relatives names on it, after that it was their friends names, then it was their friend’s relatives names and so on til’ everyone in Massatushits had to get their names put on the bridge; including the gov’ner and the Sena-tooors. After all that, it warn’t no use cause ghosts is ornery and don’t move som’wheres just cause of some ol’ bridge o’ names. Now the people who live there now-a-days ain’t exactly poor, but they ain’t the type that goes around lookin’ for trouble takin’ intrest and gamblin’ their money in ‘vestments like city folks is ‘customed to doin’. They warn’t gettin’ ‘vested in no huntings neither, ‘specially since the line at the local post office was backed up all the way to Hartford, goin down on I-91, on account a so many spirits mailin’ ectoplasms, rappin’s and automatic writin’s to their relatives on Holloween. After a while the gov’ment up and declared Halloween a national holiday and quit deliverin’ to grave yards altogether, as a means to save the town folk an the post office from the trouble. Well by the time this happen the ghosts was perty much takin’ over the place and the lake itself had to be closed to the public on account a the villagers kept seein bathin’ nudes of the dead sunbathing and takin’ up the space that they was payin’ taxes for. It may interest you that ghosts even had there own steamship line runnin’ up and down the lake, boaters kept getting run down by a phantom steamboat blowing soot all over the place lookin’ for its way back to the great Mississippi! Well, the Village was mighty glad when The Beat Machine showed up cause the racket of the culturin’ hymns he created scared the ghosts to go back to where they come from. As to sivilizin’ the villagers, Lake Pleasant don’t need no help with culture, as they is so close to No Hamp’in, and Am –erst. As a matter of fact, they has so much culture that they’s sick of it already and gone back to more regular ways to pass time such as Huntin’, fishin’ and fixing snow-mobiles. Since they had ‘nuff culture, they don’t care for The Beat Machine’s noise but they is alfull grateful that there ain’t no postal lines backed up on I-91 and there ain’t no more nekid ladies scarin’ kids or phantom boats smokin’ up the place. The ghosts musta trembled up people perty good though, cause sooooo many of the village took to bathin’ inside their houses that they had ta’ turn Lake Pleasant into a drinkin’ reservoir so as they don’t use up the Quabbins. Anyways, that’s what I knowes about The Beat Machine in case Elvis or some other dead person comes lookin’ for ya, so as ya know who to speak to about gettin rid of ‘em.

Go Gitch yer MP3s!!


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