50s Joe and the Great Newton Protein Famine
by Martin Waldseemuller

The year was 1957. August 10, 1957 if you need the exact date (asshole). This great American epoch was what scientists would later commonly refer to as "The 50s", or the "common era". And since no other country in the world had enjoyed a period of time between 1949 and 1960, it can be safely said that the 50s truly was the era of the quintessential Native American Indigene.

Which brings us to Joe. "50s Joe" for the freshmen. The date was, again, August 10, 1957 (prick), and the weather was as Joe would say in his parlance "GOOD." But the weather can sometimes be a liar. It was raining nothing but 100% American made sunshine that dawn when a copy of the Newton Gazette came flying across a perfectly groomed lawn, nearly hitting Joe's 1948 Congealing-Blood Red Schwinn Whizzer. Joe lifted an eyebrow. Even in the dawn of his well-earned rest Joe can sense portentous abherration/fucked upness.

With a great roar that sent a gaggle of portentous and abhorrent crows respectively fleeing from the trees (portentous on the left, abhorrent on the right), Joe tore through the front house wall of Old Mrs. Hughberry's house (he was a roomer back then, as required by law for all Americans under the age of 33). Joe's finger underscored the bold capital headline on the paper as he raged the news out loud "NEWTON UNDER SIEGE: SAUSAGE-LINK FAMINE CAUSES MAYOR COLE TO SIEZE ALL DOGS UNDER THE AGE OF 7(1)." The paper burst into flames in 50s Joe's glowing red hands. If there is one thing that 50s Joe hates more than sausage-link scarcity, it's puppy seizure.

With a whistle over his shoulder Joe was off as his Whizzer followed in tow (the whistle was for effect because even though his Schwinn seemed to have a life all its own, it was 50's Joe's tidal pull which actually carried it along behind him). A backflip and a heeyah and Joe was soon pushing the Schwinn to near capacity straight towards City Hall. If there was one thing that 50s Joe hates more than puppy seizure, its puppy seizers.

Mayor Caesar Cole stood there admiring the the 9 foot long figure eight of steaming breakfast links. The aroma was heady, as if containing the hopes and dreams of boys and girls across the county; boys and girls craving their first delicious meal of protein of the day, only to see those dreams stolen and stuffed into link after link after link of buearocratic corruption. Mayor Cole couldn't help but laugh at the thought of all those disappointed children. To him, disappointed children was a funny thing.

To single-handedly orchestrate the takeover of Uncle Merle's Godly Breakfast Links Slaughter Company's controlling interest was one thing. To hide Uncle Merle's 'godlies' in a giant freezer beneath City Hall for a highly lucrative future mark-up under the cloak of phantom famine was another. But to then propose a puppy-seizure for emergency food rations as an economic means to stave off starvation and thus further drive up the dollar-per-godly, well that was sheer artistry. Also, as if that wasn't evil enough, he also wore a monocle and top-hat, walked with a cane, and drove a brand new gas-saving 1956 Hirohito!

A great pillar of smoke double-helixed to the sky (the Schwinn's wheels were almost on fire!). 50s Joe chained his CBRS Whizzer to a huge iron cue-tip which threatened from the sidewalk (he would later learn that it was actually one of those new-fangled inventions called "King Parr's Meters" which nefarious Vice President Rex Parr's band of rogue scientists had recently created for the sole and evil purpose of painfully extracting nickels from the backsides of hard-working Americans). Joe took out a nickel and chewed it slowly (50s Joe only uses Buffalo Nickels for fresh breath relief).

Meanwhile, inside City Hall, Mayor Cole opened his office door and told the 6 armed deputies to let no one pass under strict orders to shoot-to-maim-then-kill, and then shut the door firmly behind him. He sat down before the figurative eternity of breakfast links and inhaled the tantalizing scent. Yelps. Yelp after yelp after yelp. The caged puppies in the corner smelled the delicious breakfast treats too. Oh my.

Mayor Cole began a rhetorical monologue (it was rhetorical because puppies can't yet comprehend monologues, and even if they could they still would be too young to infer all the nuances and intertextual associations):
"Ah pups. Pups pups pups. What is it that you yelp for? Is it this steaming Quetzlcoatl of tasty delicious steaming links?
Hah.
Hah ha ha.
Ha, hah ha ha ha; ha (HA!)
Do you not know? Can all you cutsies really be so dumb? You are craving your own demise!
Fools! Do you not yet understand the circumstances of your bondage?
Soon children all over the city of Newton will be craving you!
For you see, I intend play fetch with all of you. As in once you are all ground and linked, you will fetch an obscene amount of profit. Aw damn, infernal monocle!
---his monocle fell out---
Where was I?
---he had at this point replaced said monocle---
Oh yes, profit!"

"DON'T YA MEAN PRISON?"

50s Joe had gotten past the armed officers.

"Why 50s Joe ______! I see that you got past my sentries!"

"SENTRIES?"

"The deputies, the ones outside my office door."

"OH THEM, WELL THEY LEFT."

"They left? What did you do to them?"

"NOTHING. IT'S 7:00 A.M., I THINK THEY DECIDED TO GO HOME TO THEIR FAMILIES."

"Heh, well I'll deal with them later."

"DON'T YA MEAN YOU'LL BE DEAD AND IN PRISON LATER?"

"I'm sorry?"

"PRISON-DEAD, YOUR FACE, IT WILL BE DEAD. AND...IN PRISON!"

"Ah, I see, I'm assuming that you intend to reveal that I've been hording the godlies all along and foil my plans?"

"NO, I'M JUST GONNA BREAK YER FACE! AND THEN PUT IT IN PRISON! WHERE IT WILL BE DEAD! FOREVER!"

"Oh. But what about my own little Caesar Cole Jr.? And what about my dearest wife Minerva? How will they get along with a father, a husband?"

50s Joe thought for a moment. Could he really do it? Could make an orphan and widow out of a family? All for the sake of---

"PUPPPPPIIIIIIEEEEEEESSSSS!!!"

If there was one thing that 50s Joe hated more than puppy-seizure, it was puppy-sausage-links.

Joe punched the mayor in his head so hard, that within seconds there was a fine cloudy mist of pinkish red in the air. The blood, flesh and bones that where once inside Mayor Cole's face had completely and utterly disintegrated. That's how hard ya get punched when ya get punched by 50s Joe. The monocle and top-hat which had hovered cinematically in the air for just the briefest of seconds fell dramatically to the floor, and the Mayor's body slumped down after them (also cinematically, but only a little bit dramatically.

50s Joe looked down at what was once Mayor Cole. Yelp. Yelp after yelp after yelp. No, it was not the puppies. It was Mayor Cole's death-gasp! For you see, in its slumping over, the Mayor's body had contorted in such a way as to squeeze his remaining oxygen, which in truth was now carbon dioxide (a tale for another telling!), out of his body, past his voicebox and thus in the incarnation "yelps". These yelps though reminded 50s Joe of something.

"PUPPPIIIIEEEEESSSSSSSS!!!"

Peeling away the bars from the cage, 50s Joe took out and gently cradled all 94 of the seized puppies. They all gleefully and thankfully muzzled 50's Joe. This made 50s Joe tear a little bit, but 50s Joe's tears manifests themselves solely as steam.

Children everywhere awoke to the sounds of the Schwinn Whizzer and yelping pups, followed by a dull sickening thud. One by one, Joe whizzed past the children's houses and returned their puppies to their front doors. Can you imagine the joy the children must have felt to open their doors first thing in the morning to see their long-lost puppies hurling towards them at prodigious speed? Of course you can't, so it will be described to you: they cried. Child after child after child, all of them cried at the sight of their prodigal pups flying through the air, safely intercepted by a wall or a door. For joy in its extreme can take cry-forms.

That is what 50s Joe did on that morning of August 10, 1957 in the city of Newton. As for the Mayor, well, Joe kept his word and delivered Cole's dead and headless (and thus faceless!) corpse to the authorities were it was imprisoned at 50s Joe's request for---er---life(?). Okay, yeah---of the Mayor's kid and wife: They were arrested and convicted for conspiracy to turn l'il pups into sausage links. Thus, instead of them becoming orphaned or widowed, they became convicts, which at least gave them a fighting chance at redemption when their respective parole hearings came about.

And Joe? 50s Joe you ask? What did he do next? Where did he go? What does he look like?
Well, that is a tale for another telling. Well, okay, maybe just in case you ought to know for now that he left Newton not too long after (the children's perpetual tears of joy got to be a bit much) and he moved on from town to town leaving his mark on napkins in the local watering holes. What mark you ask? Only this: a really bitchin' lookin' weasel, with the words 'East Coast Weasels' scrawled beneath (what can this mean?).

He sometimes walks coast to coast in search of 'real coffee and good surf'. 50s Joe is tall. Really tall. And he has some tattoos. On his left forearm: *censored by eastcoastweasel.com*, on his left shoulder he has a *censored by eastcoastweasels.com*, and on his right arm he has a band of *censored by eastcoastweasels.com*. He hails from *censored by eastcoastweasels.com*, New *censored by eastcoastweasels.com* and is said to reside in *censored by eastcoastweasels.com*.

If ya see him, look'im in the eye and say 'thank you 50s Joe, thank you for *censored by eastcoastweasels.com*'. For all those times when you saw your lone set of footprints in the sand on that beach, it was not because you were alone, but because 50s Joe was *censored by eastcoastweasels.com*.