Haunting The Back Alleys

While haunting the back alleys of Merced, I have heard many rumors, such as the one about the Yeti that lives under old man Finnegan’s apple tree west of the city. I however know for a fact that this is not a Yeti, only a rather smelly Hobo named Smellobad The Wise. This shows that most rumors can be excused as urban myth, or crazed drunken rambling. I know, because I have admittedly started most if not all of them.

One rumor however can not be explained away so easily, and after much research I can only believe it to be fact. According to various reliable sources, there is a vast underground bunker and tunnel complex beneath the city of Merced. Some say it was a war time command center, others insist it was part of a large smuggling operation. What ever the reason for its existence, I have become fascinated by it. So a few days ago I set out to put the matter to rest. The entrance would noboubt be well hidden, and probably in some dark place that nobody would expect. I spent most of the morning drinking Rum spiked with Mr. Clean Toilet Wiz Bowl Wash for flavor, and into my third glass it hit me, the town librarian, Mrs. Tarnacles jam cellar! It was the perfect place for a hidden tunnel, and nobody would suspect it ever……..sneaky sneaky…………..

Dark was the night, a wary shadow detached it’s self from a leafy fig tree. A startled poodle is choked off in mid yap by the heel of a boot. A soft basement window squeak is drowned out by a passing train, and the shadow disappears inside.

I was in! Now to get down to the business of finding the entrance. I had no idea jam cellars could be so dark, and after the fourth rafter head bash, I was wishing that I hadn’t blacked out my flashlight with paint, so as to not give my self away. I reminded my self to make a note of this. Being a bridge dweller though, I was accustomed to the dark, we bridge folk have the innate ability to feel our way in blackness, using a kind of mind radar to see, like that used by bats, or pigmy shrews. But sadly, the highly volatile combination of pitch blackness and thousands of glass jam jars proved too much for even my well honed senses to cope with. Striding out confidently in a half crouch, I had only moved a few steps before my knee collided with the sharp edge of a pruning spade, the pain was instant. Hopping backward with my right knee clutched in agony, my left foot encountered a spilled pool of strawberry marmalade, causing my one good leg to skid sideways in a most unexpected fashion. With arms pinweeling, I began a slow tragic descent backward, my wild gyrations serving only to bring the contents of half a jam cellar down on top of me. Deafening silence followed, broken only by an occasional drip splot of jam falling from a broken jar on the shelves above. Gingerly I rose from the ground, and still favoring my hurt knee I began a painful hobble towards the open window, all thoughts of hidden tunnels forgotten.

This one set back however has in no way dampened my desire to put this mystery to rest. I am certain that these tunnels and bunkers exist. I am committed to keep searching, and will continue to pass along up dates to my faithful readers.