Casimir Lowry

He swatted at the goats flying overhead, battling them like a good Mormon soldier. The goats took flight a-farting, a stink settling over the canton and parish. The Slovo Bros., proprietors of the Bothell brothel, haven’t a leg to stand on. Born unto this world with stump-ends rather than legs, they allot the day-to-day duties of the brothel to spanks and blowhards. Spanks are great one’s for keeping tabs on flow, cash coming in and nary a copper going out. Blowhards, on the other hand, are masters at keeping things in line, their disposition akin to slaphards and Mormon soldiers. That winter the dogmen found a half-frozen woman in the scrubweed behind the aqueduct, her left eye caved-in, the cheek smashed to bits. Word had it the whalers had thrown her overboard, a harpoon line tied round her ankles, the North Atlantic swallowing her whole. Thawing her scavenged body, the blaze of the fichus fire summoning bluebottles and fireflies, the dogmen danced like Mormon fools, the littlest playing a tympani on the drum of his chest. Paraná fell victim to rum and scurvy. Brimblecombe cut the harpoon line, sending Paraná headfirst into the swell. Casimir Lowry, who had booked passage aboard the whaler exclaimed:

He knowing well the miserable hags
Who tend the queen of endless woe

Brimblecombe tittering like rum sated fool.