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Help! I Can’t Keep These Decemberists Fans Out of My Lithograph Shop!

I live a simple life. I own a small emporium where I sell lithographs to the good folk of this here small seaside town. Even more, I keep a special supply of ankle bearing tintypes in the back for the folks predisposed to more lascivious proclivities. But lately, I do confess I’ve found myself in a bit of a sticky wicket. I just can’t keep these fiendish Decemberists fans out of my lithograph shoppe.

Now do not mistake me, it’s not that I find myself stricken with fear by their presence. Indeed, a stiff wind could send the average Decemberist fan bucket-over, tea-kettle. While they do not obstruct me or my business in any meaningful way, and indeed are wont to occasionally purchase a lithograph or piece of ankle smut, they have also set about the task of staring at me in seeming awe, slackjawed as if they’ve ingested too much of Dr. Bonnefeld’s Toothache Opium.

Moreover, these tweed-adorned denizens seem privy to the most intimate details of my life. Just the other day, a man dressed mostly in scarves asked me if I was the same Aloyisus Tuttleston who had once cut himself free from the belly of a mighty whale, and whose late wife Bronwyn had succumbed to mercury poisoning while treating consumption. I said I was the very same, and the patron, so flustered, lost consciousness (conveniently upon my fainting couch). Upon regaining his humours, I set about querying the fellow as to how he came about these personal particulars, to which the good patron merely provided me with a miniature phonograph record. Whence upon listening, mine ears did find themselves struck with shock, and not simply at the lifelike reproduction of sound!

The balladeer sang lamentations of the tribulations of a destitute lithograph shoppekeeppe, one whose life could stand as a facsimile of mine own. A solitary queer detail set our stories distinct; the bard sang of the shoppekeepe’s violent end in their very shoppe. As I am still alive, I found myself flush with relief at my good fortune. I believe I will commission a sign barring these roustabouts from my shoppe.

Apologies for my peremptory nature, but I must cease this communique, for it grows late, and though it is past business hours, it appears a dark claden figure has entered my shop.