Crystal meth arrives in Swampton
In this tale of crime, punishment, true love, and dangerous chemistry, unlikely heroes emerge.
Welcome to Swampton County, S.C., home of The Swampton Slinger newspaper, delivered to you weekly since 1876, except during Whisky Prohibition when we needed our trucks for something else.
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Local News
Crystal meth has finally arrived in Swampton. (Yes, we are the last to get anything!)
Well, it almost arrived. There was a horrible accident, you see, but we’ll get to that shortly.
March and April are miserable months in Swampton, where the Bible Belt intersects the Pine Tree Belt, and folks around here will do almost anything to ease the misery of their allergies, and some poor souls even turn to illicit drugs.
Yellow-green pollen litters the landscape like the discarded, unlucky lottery tickets purchased at any of the 12 gas stations in our one-stop-light town. While pollen might be a minor inconvenience in some places, it causes quite a lot of havoc in a normally quiet small town like ours, leaving in its wake a sneezing, sniffling, wheezing, hacking populace.
The pollen is so deep that the kids down at Swampton Elementary School are making “snow angels” in it during recess. Bob Mackey washed his car the other day and discovered it wasn’t even his automobile and had been reported stolen a week ago. Some deranged lunatic-pervert is going around writing obscenities on the yellow-dust-covered windshields of soccer-mom minivans, and now sweet, naïve mothers everywhere are having to turn to the Urban Dictionary for clues and learning nasty new words and phrases in the process.
Old Man Pappy Palmer, Pee Wee’s daddy, sneezed so hard riding through town that his dentures flew out the truck window – top and bottom – and Susie Samaritan rescued them before they could get run over and crushed in traffic. But they fit her perfectly, so she kept them.
Faced with another miserable, sneezy day outdoors, Tamarine Cook sent her six kids off to spend Spring Break with their various and assorted daddies, and since she and her new husband, Bo Diddley, had the camper to themselves, decided to do some home cooking and make a special, “small batch” of crystal meth.
Have you ever heard of craft beer? They were going to call it Craft Meth, and who knows, it might have been a hit. And with six Dollar Generals in town, it was easier than you think to collect enough Pseudoephedrine decongestant pills to experiment with different flavors, like watermelon, which is real popular around here, mango, chili-lime…
Around 12:15 p.m. last Sunday, just as the long-winded preachers were about to say the final prayer, an explosion rattled the ornate, stained-glass windows of all 114 churches in Swampton County at once. Later, folks said they could hear that boom all the way from Speed Limit Road to Prince Willy Boulevard. Susie Samaritan told The Swampton Slinger that it almost rattled her new teeth right out of her head.
The American Red Cross later reported that they found Tamarine and Bo Diddley blackened and blistered and clinging to each other, and to dear life, on top of the Swampton water tower. All of their clothing was shredded, and most of their tattoos were burnt off. The authorities had to use a helicopter to get them down so the HazMat team could decontaminate them, and law enforcement could arrest them.
Mayor Richard B. Randy held a press conference and informed worried citizens that he had called in the state police, the ATF, the FBI, the DEA, the CDC, and the EPA, but he may have to raise taxes again to pay for it all, so there was that good news.
But in the aftershock there arose an ominous cloud on the horizon, a dark fog that rode the western wind toward the center of town and hundred of innocent souls...
Luckily, that Sudafed dust cloud drifted all across the county, from Fat Mammy Avenue to Coosawhatchie Creek. Soon, locals everywhere reported that the wheezing and sneezing had miraculously stopped, the headaches and the itchy, watery eyes were gone, and the world was a much clearer, better place! Pee Wee Palmer swore he could once again smell his wife’s cooking, which wasn’t really a blessing, but he was thrilled nonetheless.
Bo and Tamarine stand on the steps of the Swampton County Courthouse. They are in police custody and wearing matching jail jumpsuits, which everyone thought was a nice touch and quite sweet and romantic. Her once long, golden hair is much shorter now, burned crispy brown, and he has no eyebrows or facial hair left whatsoever, but they are together and alive, and that’s all that counts. Luckily, the kids are safe with their various and assorted daddies.
Citizens have gathered in droves on the courthouse lawn, demanding justice. A hundred feet away is the ancient oak tree where they used to hang criminals and anyone deemed unfit for society. The criminal couple glance at each other in fear, their future uncertain. Bo tries to take her hand and comfort her, but the handcuffs stop him.
Mayor Randy approaches and delivers a rousing speech. “On behalf of the Town of Swampton, and for your lifesaving efforts that helped improved the quality of life for every congested man, woman and child in Swampton County, I hereby present both of you the Key to the City! And as a final act of appreciation, the Swampton Technical College has awarded you both full scholarships to study chemistry and the pharmaceutical arts, when you return in five to ten years, of course, assuming good behavior…”
As Tamarine Cook and Bo Diddly are led away by state police, chains clanking in harmony, the townsfolk salute them by blowing their noses in unison and waving their mucus-free handkerchiefs like fettered flags of honor, as the would-be meth manufacturers are loaded onto the county prison van, which just goes to show that each and every one of us is capable of heroic deeds and helping others in times of crisis and great need.
And every town needs a hero, especially a town like Swampton.
Thanks for visiting Swampton County, a quirky little fictional corner of the world where nothing ever really happens – and yet anything can happen.
Swampton is a place not unlike every other small town in America, from the Deep South to the Mid-West, from the Catskills to the Rockies. Think Mayberry, think Lake Wobegon – and then put a little more dirt under the townsfolks’ fingernails and sprinkle in a healthy dose of eccentricity, small town drama and big dreams.
Swampton is an hour away from anywhere, by car or bass boat, but once you get to know its people, they will feel familiar, and then Swampton could be anywhere: just around the corner, a few hours down a freeway, or simply in your heart.
Come back and see us.