How do I tell, how do I convey, this most unusual story, of seemingly great changes in characters, that, were these changes not true, would make even the most gullible and naïve among us incredulous, if not cynical? And how do I flip imperceptibly between tenses so the story submits to my will, that The Fickle but Irrefutable Reader might read themselves a good one? O, Muse, hear now my imploration and –
For as the sun waxed gold and steely at midday, and midwinter’s wind blew and blustered mid-Westerly across Kansas’ great grainy plains, the earth all fallowed and sleepy under three feet of snow, Welsh Losser thought it the perfect moment to trundle through the pristine piles and drifts from his little farmhouse over to the antique furniture restoration workshop that also stood on his property, some 20 yards away.
Now, Welsh Losser was a practical man who believed that every such moment he chose was a wasted moment, unless he could accomplish several tasks within that moment, rather than just one, because, failing the latter would leave none at all, thereby seeing the entire moment gone to waste.
“Waste not, want not, I always say. Ah, that sounds so smart, I think I’ll write it down, nyug-nyug…”
Welsh Losser’s favorite number of tasks to accomplish almost all at once was three, because he knew it was easiest to remember things in threes, and also because:
“If I fail at one task, I still have two tasks left at which I can succeed – and what are the odds that I will fail at them all?”
And so it was, for as he stepped out into the snow, his first task was to test how well his new L.L. Bean 8” Waterproof Winter Boots would perform, his excitement easily read in the pieces of torn Amazon box they came in strewn across his kitchen floor.
“And I can’t fail at that, since they are right on my feet, nyug-nya…”
But three feet of snow is three feet of snow.
“Hmm… It’s only 20 yards, but I can see it will be a long walk. Gorumputs! I was smart enough to tuck my trouser legs into the boots, but three feet of snow is three feet of snow. So, looks like I’m destined to get potentially cold and wet right up to my privates – garr…”
Welsh Losser grits his teeth and strains every fiber of his being toward his destiny…
*
Meanwhile, in the antique furniture workshop, the front door of which is about 19 yards distant from where Welsh Losser now stands, stuck in the snow, gritting his teeth and straining every fiber of his being, a dark-haired, short, thickset, rhinoceros-shaped man is deeply immersed in his work.
Presently, Zippy Zamazda, for that is the man’s name, is carefully and methodically applying wax to the legs of a 150-year-old cherry-wood chair; one of six belonging to a large and hefty dining table waiting for his attention in an adjoining room. There is no end to his marveling at the set, originating from The Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, for the degree of its preservation after so many years. And he mourns every scratch, nick, and dent, to which he’s patiently and lovingly applied his gentle but rigorous craft, smoothing the chairs’ slightly damaged lines back into their grains.
He’s particularly proud, in his humble and unassuming way, of the reupholstering he’s just completed for four of the six chairs’ seat cushions, with two left to go, after having hunted down and personally procured (by permission of borrowed truck, courtesy of Mr. Losser) the high-quality deep royal-blue velvet fabric, with which to replace the original covers, because…
“… they were so hopelessly faded, worn, and torn… ooh…”
Zippy Zamazda is so intensely engaged with the object of his deep admiration that, even though he has stopped working for these several minutes, he does not hear the crazed, raspy howling (like that guy in “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest”, the movie, who wanted his cigarettes) of his boss and benefactor, Welsh Losser, who, after an hour-and-a-half of monumental physical exertion, is now only about one yard away from the workshop door.
“ZIIIIIIIIIPYYYYYY – AAAAAAHHH… nyaaaa-haaaa… gra-GAAAAAAAA!!!”
But Zippy Zamazda does not stir. He has gotten back to work and is running a hand over portions of a chair’s finished work.
A last mighty heave of his entire un-photoshopped large and fat body gets Welsh Losser to the workshop door, a frozen, almost frostbitten side of his beardless pedophile Christmas-card Santa Claus face wearing the crazed and forlorn expression of an escaped madman slamming against the door-glass pane.
Zippy Zamazda is on his bench, his back to the door, his large dark head moving back and forth to catch the texture and patina of the antique chair he’s working on under the workshop’s lights – a sight altogether infuriating to Welsh Losser, who now does not know if he will be able to accomplish Task No. 2.
That was to be Welsh Losser inspecting Zippy’s work and praising it to show his ward his fair disposition toward him together with his generous patron’s magnanimous compassion and good will.
But now…? ‘Now’ could only be nothing less than one big question mark…
Of course, Welsh Losser is able to push open the door, for it is not locked, setting off the tinkling of the welcome bells on top – but even these Zippy does not hear.
Welsh Losser actually falls into the shop and plops wetly on the floor. A Welsh-Losser-sized avalanche of snow instantaneously follows and lands on top of him – all just behind Zippy’s bench, and this is what the craftsman finally perceives.
“Mr. Losser!”
At that very instant, Mr. Welsh Losser reminds Zippy, to his slight and self-denying discomfort, of a dying fish flopping helplessly against a dock or the deck of a boat. Zippy does not offer to help Mr. Losser up, even as he continues to express dismay and empathetic horror at his predicament and present condition: “Oh… ah… oh…”
Moments pass and Welsh Losser manages to get up off the workshop floor by his own efforts – the wet front of his winter coat and black stretchy-band dress pants covered in hazardous wood dust – just as Zippy starts to give him a hand.
Welsh Losser is too exhausted just now to vent his rage. Zippy takes Losser’s anxious, silent enervation for spiritual calm and equanimity, which suddenly emboldens him before his life’s master.
“Mr. Losser, Sir!” Zippy exclaims, “I think you’re one of the greatest men to have ever lived! I still can’t believe how you walked into that diner not too far from here, and just went right up and took me out of that… I don’t know what to call it – like a military tribunal, except it was something far worse and… and… TOTALITARIAN! Thank you, Sir, thank you!!!”
Zippy’s words have an immediate soothing effect upon Welsh Losser and soften him toward his charge.
“Well, nyugets, you know, Zippy, those boys aren’t all that bad. I know them, of course, and I’ll admit, they’re very serious about what they do. But citizens of this country are allowed to form well-regulated militias according to The Constitution; Second Amendment, to be exact. I was almost a lawyer.”
“Mr. Losser, I was impressed by you even without that; but now that you say you’re just about equal to being a country jurist, in addition to an expert farming consultant, while also teaching me everything I needed to know about the antique furniture restoration craft off the Internet, I’m… I’m…”
“Nya-a-a-a, it’s just a way of living.
“But anyway,” Welsh Losser continues, “it’s because that tribunal they were holding over you was so clearly extra-juridical, it’s always easier to force such procedures into the framework of common law, which is the first thing I did when I walked in, if you remember; the basic principle being: No harm, no foul.
“Of course, I’d heard about that plane crash, saw the results of the catastrophe with my own eyes, and learned there’d been no fatalities. Hard to believe, but there it was. Which goes to show, it not only could happen, but does happen.
“Ergo, if there was no one to slap you with a petition of grievances, then no court in the country could reasonably try, and bring judgment upon, you for any crime. Much less a local citizens’ militia’s tribunal, nyarupluknits…”
Feeling warm and comfortable in the well-heated workshop after talking so much about himself, Welsh Losser undoes the buttons of his coat, and then decides to take it off altogether, throwing it on top of a nearby stool. His recent ordeal outside and Zippy’s maddening lack of response to his calls and cries now all but forgotten.
Funny, though, not seeing it before, he instinctively begins to move his hands down as he turns to good-naturedly face Zippy, nyugits, who is holding a large, potentially dangerous object of his trade sort of carelessly pointed in Welsh Losser’s general direction.
Too late! Zippy empties his heavy-duty industrial stapler straight into Losser’s guts, but it is only an accident; an unfortunate incident; an unintended mistake.
“Oh, Mr. Losser!”
Welsh Losser looks down at his stomach and sees red. He cannot believe the surreal and horrific picture of his white dress shirt taking up his own blood, the rapidly spreading, darkening, and soppy-wet stain…
What was Welsh Losser’s third task? Does this unexpected misfortune, this mishap, change anything? Is the third task one he will now fail at?
I don’t know. Well, adieu… for now…
Filed by One Who Shall Remain Unnamed, February 25, 2026