Spamsville
Spamsville.
All the characters in this story are invented– Only the names are real. They are all people who have spammed me today. As all my spam seems to emanate from the Deep South of the United States, I have decided to write a southern gothic short story.
The granite-faced trooper pulled off his mirror shades to reveal a worried, expression.
“ Whatchu wanna go da Spamsville for Sir? I wouldn’t reckommen it. There’s stuff goes on up there thas damn strange.”
Having extracted directions from the spooked lawman, I threw the Chevy 57 Smart Ka into cruise, and hauled ass and burnt not much gas along Information Super Highway 2.0. The afternoon heat brought the road up in sticky welts that threatened to grip the tyres and melt me in its tarry slop, until some hungry alligator could be energized enough to crawl out of the cool swamp water and finish me off. The moss covered cypresses hung still and low on either side, with not a hint of breeze to rustle their funereal blossoms. Somewhere up ahead, the town of Spamsville beckoned, and I gunned it at a steady fifty-five.
As I reached into the dash compartment for a nicorette gum to take the edge of my cigarette craving, I spied a figure standing in the middle of the road up ahead. Stamping on the brakes, I brought the old Ka to a squelching halt with only inches to spare. Amazingly, the old biddy didn’t flinch. She was a wild looking woman aged somewhere between sixty and two thousand, wearing a silver lame cocktail dress and a pucci patterned cloak.
“ Hey Mr, can you tek me ta Spamsville?”
Although not the usual sort of woman I’d wish for a travelling companion, I felt obliged to assist. With great effort, I pulled her clear of the tar she’d sunk in, and helped her into the passenger seat.
“ Medusa Tuttle’s the name. Ah’m the Queen of Spamsville. We don’t normally like strangers, but honey – I like you. I got Viagra in case you can’t giddit up, Di –agra – in case you can’t giddit down ,Shy-agra – in case you’re too shy ta ask, Niagra – to make you cum like a waterfall, Dryagra – to make you stop, and Hi-Agra if you jus wanna say hello to a purdy lady?”
As delicately as possible, I explained to her that I was a freelance journalist who had – on discovering that all the spam emails he received came from her town, decided to visit the place to see it for himself. To my surprise, rather than being defensive, she seemed delighted.
“ Yep, thass us – ain’t nobody sens out more spams than we do.”
We motored on without further conversation, the silence broken only by the throaty hum of our hybrid engine, the lonesome call of whippoorwills, and the tap tap tapping of Medusa Tuttle’s ancient fingers against the keypad of a palm-pilot, as she fired out a million spam emails across the globe.
At last, having turned off the information super-highway and headed for several miles down a backwoods dirt track, which seemed unlikely to be heading anywhere but into the swamp, we came to the edge of a town.
As if to confirm Medusa Tuttle’s enthusiasm, a large brightly painted billboard by the roadside bade:
“Welcome to Spamsville Mississippi. Home of Spam.”
“If you tek it slow along the main drag, I’ll introduce you to folk” said Medusa.
The main drag was as far as I could tell, the only drag in Spamsville. Its low houses and shop fronts seemed typical of much of the Deep South. Folks sat out in porches on rocking chairs or on swings, wearing dungarees or white cotton ball gowns, sipping sarsaparillas, or home made lemonade fortified with moonshine, and chewing tobacco. At first, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. I knew about the South, its legends, its relaxed habits, its particular way of doing things, its veneer of serenity and underbelly of strangeness. Spamsville looked no different to any other small Southern town off the beaten track in the back of beyond that hadn’t seen a stranger in twenty years, but then a thought struck me. Nobody was playing a guitar or banjo, or blowing a harmonica; no farmhands or sharecroppers were dancing to the blues; instead, every single person was busily working on a PC. Stranger still, on closer inspection, I could see that the houses were all made from Styrofoam and polystyrene.
“ Hey Lula Ledbetter – this is John Moore – he’s from Engerland” called Medusa.
“ Sure I know him,” shouted back a rather large raven-haired lady from her porch.
“ Hey John, when you gonna mail me back? I got some beautiful fake Rolex watches for you baby”.
I smiled politely and me sped on.
“ This is Brandi Hatfield’s place – you need some o dat Photoshop soff-ware…she got it all, and at a guuud price”.
“ Er, no thanks, but if I ever do, I’ll certainly purchase it from her.” I said.
“ Oh my…don’t know I should show yer this place. It’s my competitor.”
We were level with a storefront, emblazoned with the name ‘Wondercum’.
“ This is my sister’s place – Missy Lavonne Myles. We fell out over Viagra spam. She’s doin OK, but ain’t nobody spamming more than Lil Ol’ Medusa. Over there yer see – that’s Willy Burgers place – he’s the software king o Spamsville…AINCHU WILLIE?”
The elderly black man looked up from his PC and waved.
“ Sho am Miss Tuttle, Sho am. That John Moore you got witchu? Hi Mr Moore, when you wans software, you be sho to come see ol Willy Burger.”
“ Sure will.” I replied, rather embarrassingly lapsing into the Southern American lingo.”
“Let’s stop by the Creative Suite an I’ll introduce you to Miss Hilario Lynn…she sure is sweet, and she sure is creative. Then I’ll tek you by Art Putnam’s place – he ain’t arty like Lord Putnam, but he can help you to ‘not be just an average guy any more’, then when you’re not, we’ll go find old Manuela Corcorcan – she can make you ejaculate five times more than you usually do….aint that a blast?”
I felt that my patience had been pushed far enough with all this disgusting talk of erectile dysfunction, sperm ejaculation, software, postcards from an old school friend and imitation watches.
“ Madam, I came here with the intention of putting an end to all your spamming. It clogs up my computer and annoys me. I have no interest in improving my sexual performance, as this is something that has never been put to the test. I am Plymouth Brethren. I am unsmited, untainted by the wotsit of womankind. I have no need for your pills and potions as I have never ejaculated – either by accident or design, and shan’t even attempt to do so until my marital bed contains a virtuous lass who I’ve known since we were bairns, that I’ve just made my wife in an austere ceremony lasting several months – do I make myself perfectly clear?”
Of course, anybody with half a brain whose ever watched the television or visited a moving picture house will know, that no stranger ever gets out of a small southern town ( an American one that is ) – or Scottish island – especially if he’s claiming never to have had his end away…or does he?
The second instalment of this tawdry tall tale will follow next week on the Guardian Blogs, so stay tuned.