Fall upon your knees knaves, before the holy specter of the sacred god and father of us all-the most gracious and sanctified of all beings great and small-your supernatural extraterrestrial primogenitor, here trussed up and beatified in his most holy sepulcher for your worshipping pleasure. Accept no substitutes and pray to no false idols...this is the one...help us out at the most holy church of the possum by sending us your donation today...if you don't, you may wind up in purgatory, so save your soul today.

Rooting Out Evolutionary Prejudice On Vashon Island
-Tab Tabscott

  I didn’t believe my eyes when, through swirling dust clouds and tangled cobwebs, the skittering beam of the headlamp pierced the darkness to reveal a most horrific sight—a poor, desiccated carcass. A pitiful, withered husk of what had once been a bright, vibrant, living being…trussed up in ritual bondage, for all eternity hung from his midsection in a macabre fetal pose. The gruesome sight had lurked beneath my feet for years--unknown, unseen, and un-smelt.  

  The strange and overpowering desire to explore the crawl space beneath my house had come to me in the night. As if by some transplanted tell-tale heart, I was inexplicably drawn to the deep, dark hole beside the deck. And there, past the old windsurfer, beyond the leftover bathroom tiles and roof shingles, on the other side of the central concrete footing he hung. Hairless, wrapped in decades of webs, the mute testament of a life snuffed out cried out to me for justice.  

“Help me…Help me”, I heard over and over in my head, or was it my head? As I hurriedly gophered my way back to the real world, I knew what I had to do. I had to set the record straight. I had to find out how this miserable chap had come to die beneath my house. And I knew the police could not help.

 I had a sneaking suspicion that there were none of his kind here--after all, I hadn’t seen any of them on the streets. In a place like this, they would stick out like sore thumbs, ripe for persecution and ostracizing. Guys like this are easy marks, and with no relatives, no friends, and no real business on the island, it is easy to understand how even our politically correct island culture could shackle, pillory, and stone one of his number.

   I have always been a friend and comrade of the downtrodden. I believe in standing up for the rights of the oppressed. I believe it takes all types, AND a village. Yet I wonder how many islanders would protest an influx of his type here. Would you turn and stare as you saw them hanging out on the Village Green? Would you pick them up hitchhiking in your Subaru Outback? Would you invite them to your Tupperware party? I doubt it. Were they to establish a foothold here, no doubt many more of them would suffer the fate that befell the unfortunate fellow who found himself to be the only one of his kind on Vashon.

Be kind to Possums!!!