From the lost archives, A History of Merced.

This was written by a different author than the one who wrote the original History of Merced.

Obviously much older, these pages were tucked into the manuscript that I boosted from the public library. Pausing briefly to swat at a huge fly, hell bent on nose spelunking, I settled deeper into the shade of my bridge and continued reading.

Satan only knows what cursed hunk of earth old Tinplate blew out of. From the ocean deep to the starry heavens you’re not likely to find another so downright poisonous as he. Crab apples used to be sweet as honey, till old Tin went and peed on one, ever after them apples been sour as an old crone with a lemon up her ass, its true! Never was there one so mean as Tin. I guess it’s fitting in a way that old Tinplate, a man so cantankerous that a Rattlesnake would sooner jump off a cliff than risk getting in his way, would go on to found a town like Merced. If just plain old meanness could rub off a someone, Tinplate must a done a lot o rubbing agin this town.

Near as anyone can figure, Tin came west from Fort Dodge in the spring of 1840. He had a run down wagon which he hated and a team of oxen that he just loathed. Old as he was, Tinplate could have made better time pulling the wagon himself, but instead he’d just a set there and watch his poor starved oxen toil in the hot sun. Tin was just that sort. It took over a year for Tinplate to make the trip west, that’s mighty slow going, but the fact is ol Plate hated them oxen so much, that when he got over a particularly nasty stretch of trail, he’d turn around an make his oxen do it again, just to be ornery. Tin didn’t know any shortcuts, but he sure knew plenty of long ones.

Tinplate arrived in what is now Merced in 1842 intending to keep heading north, but at the Bear Creek crossing his meanness caught up with him. After watching his poor oxen pull his creaky overloaded wagon through the neck deep mud and finally reach the other side, he promptly made them about face and cross back. This went on for the better part of two days, until finely the poor beasts could take no more. In a fit of desperation the oxen gored themselves to death stranding Tinplate, and forcing him to stay on in Merced to the end of his days. Ever the entrepreneur, Tinplate proceeded to mark off the plots of land into lots, using the nicest plots for factory sights and rubbish dumps, and the swampiest squishiest plots for parks and churches. Once he had lured in the town’s folks with the promise of a better life, he proceeded to sell rotgut and rifles to the local Indians, just for his own amusement.

From here the manuscript became unreadable, the combination of age and water damage had taken its toll. But I do believe I saw the words noose, and angry mob in the last pages. What ultimately was Possomgrumbles fate? Perhaps we will never know, but his legacy lives on all around. Every year when the creek floods, the parks fill with swamp flies, and the churches sink a little deeper into the muck. I can’t help but think of Mr. Tinplate up there laughing at us all, happily living in the backwards town born out of his sick twisted imagination.