b). Reverend Powers
Rev. Caleb Powers dressed like a dandy. Fortunately the
standards of rural Oregon weren’t high in that regard, so it was easy to do.
His black jacket and trousers were stained and threadbare in spots. His
embroidered waistcoat had been spotted and scrubbed so many times its colors
were faded. A fraying silk tie was carefully knotted beneath his neat silver
beard. Unruly graying locks hung down from the battered plug hat that sat on
his head. In one hand he gripped a shiny black walking stick by its silver
handle.
After Charlie Jackson kicked him out of the saloon, the
reverend stood for a few minutes on the board sidewalk in front of the place.
He sniffed the night air; the heavy, muddy scent of the river filled his
nostrils. Sweet William was not really much of a town – only two streets back
from the river and one block on either side of the landing, but it was the only
river crossing for miles. For Caleb it represented the center of his circuit,
the place he always returned to.
He thought for a while about what to do. There was no use in
staying here if Jackson had soured and wouldn’t sell him any more whiskey. He
turned from the river and contemplated the rocky road that led up into the
hills. The trees clung darkly to the edges of the road, but the moonlight
illuminated the path in its ruddy glow. Not
a bad night for traveling, he thought, might
as well get on my way. Caleb turned and ambled down the board sidewalk
toward the stable where his mule and wagon were waiting.
Two shotgun blasts sounded in the hills; boom, boom. Their
reverberations echoed for minutes. Old
Ben must have found his wolf, Caleb thought. When the echoes finally died,
Caleb was at the stable door, but he could hear voices raised down by the
river. The thick night air clung to Caleb’s skin where it was exposed. He felt
the heavy load of too much whiskey as he turned and moved more quickly down the
sidewalk to the river.
A short walk brought Caleb to the landing. Moonlight
illuminated the leaden river; copper sparkles shone from every ripple. Less
than one hundred yards upriver Marshal Tate’s lantern illuminated a patch of
beach. Caleb saw two bodies on the rocky ground. Marshal Tate, handgun drawn,
stood over one of the bodies as Caleb approached.
“Trouble, Marshal?” Caleb called.
Marshal Tate startled at the voice from the darkness. He
pointed his gun in that direction.
“It’s you, Reverend,” Tate said. A look of relief passed
over his face as he slipped his pistol back into its holster. “An injun killed
Charlie Jackson,” he said.
Caleb recognized the small figure of the Indian from the
saloon. He was on the ground, hands bound behind his back with rough iron
cuffs. Charlie Jackson, eyes wide in surprise, sprawled lifeless beside him. A
cracked jug, leaking vile, tobacco soaked spittle, lay near his head. The sharp
stink of vomit wrinkled Caleb’s nose.
“Charlie got what was coming to him,” Caleb said, “He was
mean as a rattlesnake.”
“Maybe,” Tate said. His brain chewed Caleb’s words like a
cow working on a cud. “Can’t let an injun get away with killin’ a white man,”
Tate finally said, “Not in my jurisdiction.”
Tate chewed it over some more. He looked like all the other
farmers; pale and lumpy like something that grew in the dirt. Even his pale
brown mustache resembled lichen beneath the stony outcrop of his nose.
“This boy will hang,” Tate said.
Caleb went to one knee next to the Indian’s head. He put his
hand on the small man’s shoulder. Will Walksaway rolled his face upward toward
Reverend Powers.
Caleb shuddered as the Indian’s golden eyes glowed in the
red moonlight. Will’s lips curled back in a gleaming ivory snarl. His voice
issued a low growling note from deep in his chest. Caleb let go of the Indian’s
shoulder and rose gingerly to his feet.
“This boy’s sick,” Caleb said, the acid smell of vomit
radiated from the Indian’s clothes.
“I’ll have Doc Hansen check him out,” Tate said, “Judge’ll
want him good and healthy when we string him up.”
“The boy’s a Christian, Jacob,” Caleb said.
Caleb watched the changing expressions on the Marshal’s face
as the feeble machinery of his brain worked that over.
“Don’t you worry, Reverend,” Tate said, “Judge won’t be here
for six or eight weeks, yet. You can tend to this injun’s spiritual needs when
you get back.”
“You’ll treat him well?” Caleb asked.
“Like my own little huntin’ doggie,” the Marshal said with a
grin. He stepped closer to Will’s prone body and probed him roughly with a
boot.
“You’re leavin’ for Damascus tonight, aren’t you?” Tate
asked. His eyebrows told Caleb that he better be.
“Yes, Marshal,” Caleb said, “I’ll be back by the first at
the latest.”
“Sooner begun, sooner done,” Tate said, “As my grandma used
to say.”
+
“One bright morning, when this life is over,” Caleb Power’s
full rich baritone echoed from the rock ledge overhanging the road as it wound
its way up over the hill and on toward Damascus, “I’ll fly away.”
The melodious voice belting out the old hymn kept the
spirits at bay as Caleb’s rough wagon creaked and rattled its way up the rocky
road. Old Sal, an aging mule, provided the muscle as the hard wheels squealed
across the uneven soil.
The ancestors of Will Walksaway fled back into the shadows
of the trees at the preacher’s noisy approach. It is an old tradition in the
northwest for holy people to announce their presence loudly. Although they
shrank in the presence of the preacher’s advance, the ancestors’ voices persisted.
“Avenge us!” they chanted.
Caleb swigged from the flask he kept on hand to keep away
the chill. He kept time with his foot, so he wouldn’t lose his place when he
was ready to sing again. He would reach the settlement of Balsam just before
dawn. He took another nip of whiskey and slipped the flask back into his
pocket. He picked up the rhythm of the song with a slap of the rein on Old
Sal’s broad rump. The beast gave him an annoyed look over her shoulder, but she
picked up the pace a bit.
“I’ll fly away,” Caleb sang.
Within one hundred yards of where Reverend Powers’ wagon
wheels splashed mud, but out of the preacher’s sight, Ben Deaver lay. Throat
torn and bloody, Ben had a look of grim determination in his eyes. Lifeless fingers clutched the furry throat of
the dead wolf collapsed on top of his body.
+
Will Walksaway retreated into his own mind, blending
invisibly into the gloomy nightscape of his own personality. The ravenous
spirit that gnawed Will’s liver with painful, ripping bites echoed in his
deepest hollows and rumbled from his arid throat. The acid stink of his sodden
clothes filled his nose like smoke from a camp fire, wafting through the airy
spaces of his head, forcing his eyes open. He couldn’t hear the words of his
ancestors’ voices, but their rhythm ruffled the edges of his consciousness. He
knew what they said.
Darkness all around. Will stretched his hands out to both
sides and scraped his fingers against rough walls. A coffin, he thought, a great
big one. Will sighed with relief; knowing he was dead. Now he just had to
solve the riddle of how to join his chanting ancestors in the woods.
Will’s mind dissolved into the shadows where he knew an
answer hid. Rough hands shook his shoulders. Pain rang through Will’s cavernous
sinuses and his mouth tasted as if it had been dowsed in kerosene and set on
fire sometime in the recent past.
Doc Hansen shook the Indian’s shoulders again. Hansen was
none too gentle with his regular patients and he was convinced that red men
couldn’t feel pain the same way whites did. All in all, Doc considered the
Hippocratic Oath’s injunction – do no harm – a good suggestion, but
impractical.
Will’s eyes glowed yellow as he raised his shoulders. The
long narrow cell was barely wide enough for the cot that supported his body. Doc
set a hard hand on the center of the Indian’s chest. Will snarled, flashing
jagged teeth in threat.
“Down, boy,” Doc said, pushing the Indian back down on the
rickety cot. Doc took a small bottle from his bag. It was filled with dark
brown liquid. He popped the cork from its neck and extended it toward Will.
“This what you need, chief?” Doc said.
Will’s nostrils dilated at the smell of whiskey. He clutched
the smooth glazed bottle and lifted its narrow neck to his cracked lips. He
poured the sweet burning liquid onto the parched desert of his tongue and the
intolerable world of the white man began to dissolve.
Marshal Tate eased his finger from the trigger of the
handgun he held ready. The Indian, no longer a threat for the moment, sucked
the small bottle like a nursing baby. Doc reached into his bag and began to
prepare a hypo.
“Just a little case of the D.T.s.” Doc Hansen said, “You
give him a dose a that a couple times a day and he’ll stumble back to the
fields in time for planting.”
“He’s like a wild animal,” Tate said, nervously, “And he
killed a man.”
“Charlie Jackson
wasn’t much of a man,” Doc said. He injected Will’s arm and emptied a dose of chloral
hydrate into his blood.
Turning from the prone man, Doc noticed that Tate still had
his pistol ready.
“You won’t need that,” Doc said, “He’s in pretty bad shape.
Let him sleep it off.”
Doc closed his medical bag and rose from the cot where Will
Walksaway drifted off.
“We should just let ‘em have whiskey,” Doc said, “Makes ‘em
docile and easy to handle. It’s when they can’t get it that they turn mean.”
The empty whiskey bottle fell from Will’s lips and Doc
Hansen rescued it, his eyes nearly affectionate as he watched the Indian slip
into sleep.
“Not even as close to human feelings as a nigger,” Doc said
with wonder, “Can you imagine that?”
Tate slipped his gun into its holster and stepped out of the
cell, holding the heavy door open for the doctor.
“He’ll sleep it off,” Doc said, “He’ll be fit to hang by the
end of the week.”
“Good,” Tate said, visibly relaxing as he closed and barred
the heavy door.
“What do I feed him, Doc?” Tate’s voice was worried, “The
county don’t give me no allowance for prisoner meals.”
“Table scraps, my boy,” Doc Hansen answered with a
patronizing expression, “I suppose he’ll eat what you give him. If he’s
hungry.”
+
Will Walksaway dreamed of a land where people lived free
according to the seasons. The season of the sour prunes. The sweet season of
the blackberry. The roaring, burning grass season when our bellies are full and
our cheeks are stained from eating. He smacked his lips and opened his eyes.
The cell was dark, only the small moveable slot at the
bottom of the heavy door let any light into the confines of Will’s great big
coffin. His stomach growled; a loud, bubbling sound in the hot dark cell.
“Drink some water, get the blood flowing,” Will’s
grandfather said inside his mind and he sat up with a groan. There was barely
room to stand in the long narrow cell, but there was an old sink behind the
cot. A tin cup on a chain sat on the edge of the stained porcelain.
Rust colored liquid sputtered from the faucet and dribbled
into the bent metal cup. Will traced the geology of prisoners’ urine burned into
the pitted white sink. When enough water pooled in the cup to make a good
swallow, Will turned the handle and stopped the feeble drip from the iron
faucet.
He drank the bitter, metallic liquid and dropped the cup
into the sink. The short chain stopped the cup from falling into its filthiest
depths. Will’s empty stomach grumbled.
“Do they mean to starve me!” Will raged.
Time disappeared into itself. It was impossible to tell how
long he waited. The cell never changed. Still no one came.
“So they do mean to starve me,” Will said after what seemed
weeks of contemplation. How long was he able to survive without food? When was
the last time he ate? What had it been?
“They think they can starve me,” Will snarled. The chant of
the ancestors beat in his breast forcing his voice upward until a long,
ululating howl burst from his chest.
“I’ll teach them to starve!” Will Walksaway raged.
+
How many weeks later before the door creaked open? Unnatural
light poured into the gloomy confines of Will’s coffin, casting wild shadows in
all directions. Will fumbled his hands to his eyes and crawled away from the
brilliance. Marshal Tate walked into the cell; one step. Will cowered backward
on the cot – away from the light; away from the man. Tate set a metal plate on
the bunk where Will’s feet had been. A plump beef rib gleamed in the harsh
lantern light, congealing in a thick pool of amber fat.
“Sorry you didn’t get no breakfast,” Marshal Tate said, “I
plumb forgot ya. Here’s lunch anyhow.”
Tate walked back to the door. The slot in the bottom rattled
as the Marshal started to swing the heavy door closed. Before he slammed and
bolted the door, Tate took one last look at the Indian, cowering distrustfully
in the shadows.
“Go on, eat it,” Tate said, “Right off my table. I ate the
same thing.”
Tate watched, but Will didn’t move. His yellow eyes glowed.
Tate shuddered and slammed the door shut.
“Suit yourself,” Tate called through the door, “Doc said you
could have whiskey after you eat. I’ll be back later with a bottle.”
Shadows were uniform with the door closed. The air was
almost too thick to breath and now it was filled with the heavy molecules of
roast beef. It was no longer Will’s liver being devoured by the sharp teeth
that raged inside him; now it was his stomach. Whiskey, he sang, tasting the heavy, fat rib as he breathed.
Saliva gushed in Will’s mouth as his fingers touched the
elastic surface of the cold roast meat. His fingers closed on the rib and he
raised it toward his eager mouth. More saliva, and he could imagine that
wonderful feeling when his teeth tore meat from cold bone.
No. Will’s ancestors screamed. He stopped the rib just short
of his lips. At close range he contemplated the death the butchered remains in
his hands entailed. He flung the offensive body part away from him. It skidded
across the floor and out the little swinging door.
“I’ll teach them to starve!” Will raged.
+
“How are things down here in the forgettery?” Marshal Tate
joked as he opened the door, shedding harsh light into Will’s great big coffin.
Will crawled away from the light like a spider.
“I guess you didn’t like your dinner,” Tate said, “The Mrs.
never could cook worth beans, but I humor her.”
Tate chuckled. Will’s eyes glowed from the darkness at the
back of the cell.
“Well, I guess you don’t want this either,” Tate said,
raising a small glass bottle. He popped the cork out of its neck with his thumb
and poured the contents over the smeared rib on the floor just outside the
door. The amber whiskey made a puddle around the congealing meat.
Tate slammed the door and slid the bolt home, chuckling to
himself.
“The forgettery,” Tate said, “That’s a good one.”
+
Will slept and woke. He felt the cycles of the days in his
bones, but sometimes it took a lifetime for a minute to pass; other times years
flew by like seconds.
Days, months, years, minutes later Will’s stomach devoured
itself with hunger. The spirit of the wolf paced his brain, saliva dripping
from its famished jaws.
His body was weak with hunger. Will raised his head from the
cot, every muscle protesting feebly, and looked at the door. At the bottom he
could see a crack of light from the swinging trap. He knew that the meat and
whiskey were on the other side.
Will flung his head; nearly overturning the rickety cot. Why
was he thinking so much of food? That was all behind him. No more food for him.
Soon he would join the ancestors chanting in the woods.
He lay on the cot in the darkness, willing himself not to
breath; listening. He couldn’t hear them anymore. The ancestors’ voices were
gone. What was their chant? Will
wondered frantically. He couldn’t remember the rhythm or the words.
Will sat up with a start. Tears coursed down his cheeks. Don’t abandon me, he pleaded; but the
ancestors were silent. Will felt the pounding of his heart, but its rhythm was
wrong. It no longer beat in time to the ancestors’ chant. Their voices could
not be heard. I’ll kill myself, Will
thought. His eyes peered into the gloom around him looking for the means.
Finally his attention settled on the stout door itself.
Will stood, eyes closed, his forehead pressed to the rough
surface of the door. Experimentally he raised his head and smacked it hard
against the unyielding wood. Pain rang through his skull. There was the tearing
of skin between the hard dome of bone and the rough, iron-bound surface of the
door. There was the painful rush of blood away from the site of impact and its
excruciating return. There was something deeper, too: a resonant pounding that
approximated the rhythm of the ancestors’ chant. Will pounded his head again on
the door. He could almost hear them. With a running start maybe he could hit
his head hard enough. One more time he pounded his head on the door; welcoming
pain.
All thought of food gone from his mind, Will worked in a
frenzy. He pushed the cot as far back in the cell as he could, breaking off a
leg in his excitement. Once the wooden cot was broken, Will kicked it
frantically until, a bundle of sticks and canvas, he was able to push it under
the sink. He had room to run several paces. He walked to the door and smashed
his face against it as hard as he could.
Blood gushed from his battered nose and Will licked the
salty liquid from his lips greedily; hunger snarling in his stomach. No more, Will commanded. Holding his
head in position to receive a killing blow he walked to the far end of the
room. He ran as fast as he could; head aimed directly at the door. The blow was
stunning. Will collapsed to the cold floor.
He lay unconscious for he didn’t know how long. He woke with
the smell of the beef rib wafting under the door, filling his nostrils and
driving him to a frenzy of hunger. He tasted salty meat and opened his eyes.
One eye was swollen and he couldn’t open it much. He licked blood from inside
his mouth. His stomach growled like an animal. The tantalizing, fatty smell of
the rib clung to his nostrils, amplified by the salty taste of the blood in his
mouth.
Will’s bruised cheek lay against the hard wooden boards of
the floor. The thin light leaking through the door trap illuminated a tiny
landscape of debris on the floor near his face. Slowly his eyes identified the
debris as the remains of the rib that had slid out of the cell. Without a
thought his tongue lapped the greasy smear from the filthy, wooden floor.
When it was gone, Will was left with a faint memory of the
flavor of the beef rib overwhelmed by the dusty flavor of the floor. His nose
twitched. Will used a finger to open the trap door and saw the rib; not far
away.
Hope leaped in Will’s breast. No matter how much he wanted
to die his body wanted to live. Just out of reach on the other side of the door
was the means to stay alive for just a little longer. He stretched his fingers
through the slot, his wrist, even part of his forearm. He stretched until the
tight iron band of the slot wouldn’t let him go any further. He sawed and
chaffed his arm against the rough metal, but he couldn’t get any closer to the
fat rib.
He could feel the dampness of the wood floor outside the
cell where the Marshal poured the whiskey, but his fingertips were still inches
from the plump rib. Will concentrated on the meat; imagining its taste and
texture against his famished teeth. He strained and pushed, tearing the skin on
his arm against the rough door slot. A large yellow glob of fat, torn from the
rib in its journey across the floor, lay a little bit closer and Will reached
for it. He could just brush the globule of fat with the end of one finger. If he could just hook it with a fingernail.
The steady tread of Marshal Tate’s boots made the floor
boards squeal. Will snatched his arm back through the trap door. He slipped his
fingers into his mouth and sucked the traces of fat from it holding his breath.
Will’s cheek pressed against the floor. Even the thought of rising made his
head whirl. Will prayed for invisibility and soon the Marshal’s heavy boots
receded with a last thump and squeal.
The spirit of the wolf went wild; in a frenzy it smashed
itself against the inside of Will’s skull trying to break free. A stick, Will thought, reasserting his
humanity. With a stick he might be able to capture the crushed rib.
Although not immediately fatal, Will had done some damage to
his head against the solid door. Something was wrong with his neck and he couldn’t
move much without terrible pain and swooning dizziness. Will passed out for a
while before he made it to the back of the cell, but eventually he found a
broken piece of wood with a sharp point on the end. He thought about plunging
it into his eye or his throat, but the smell of meat outside his door
overwhelmed him. If he could just poke the rib with his stick he could bring it
to his eager mouth.
Finally Will lay with his face on the floor, his fingers on
the trap door. The hinge rattled as Will raised the swinging door and his
unbelieving eyes found the rib gone.
His spirit sunk. All hope of survival was gone. He closed
his eyes and a tiny whimper escaped him. He clamped his hand painfully over his
swollen lips. Mustn’t make a sound.
He couldn’t let them hear his despair.
“I’ll teach them to starve,” Will whimpered into his
stifling hand.
The globule of fat was still there. It glistened in all its
congealing glory just at the extended reach of his arm through the slot. With
the stick he had more than enough reach, but with his arm in the slot he could
only flail blindly. With just the stick it would be close, but at least he
could see.
Will saw the shine of two watchful eyes as a large rat
waddled toward the blob of fat. He waved the point of the stick threateningly.
After an initial start, the rat realized the threat couldn’t reach him. The rat
kept his eye on the pointy stick as he squatted and nibbled the morsel. Will
howled in despair.
The animal howl spooked the rat and it made off with its
prize.
+
Herman Bing was a big man. His thick wrists grew from the
ends of his sleeves as if they couldn’t be contained. His large, square hands,
their blunt fingers stained with axle-grease, looked as if they were the
chipped stone hands of a statue.
“Reverend, can I speak with you?” Herman’s shy voice seemed
too small to be coming from his sturdy form. He stood in the vast open space of
the unfinished church and looked at the tall reverend and the young woman who
stood with him near the door of the one finished room.
Caleb Powers turned away from Charity Dorfman and walked
across the wooden floor platform toward the young workman. Caleb had the gift
of remembering names. He knew its value and constantly practiced and honed the
skill.
“Herman,” he said with a grin, letting his delicate hand be
engulfed by the rough grip of the younger man, “How’s your mother? And Lloyd?”
The rough, bearded features of Herman Bing lightened as he
smiled at the reverend who remembered his name and his family.
“Mama’s fine,” Herman stuttered, “She’s been plannin’ supper
for after your sermon, so you better come hungry.”
“Few things whet my appetite like a good sermon,” Caleb
said, sliding his eyes toward the young woman who waited with a small bible
clasped in her hands.
“And how’s your brother?” Caleb asked.
“That’s what I want to talk with you about, Reverend,”
Herman stammered, “Lloyd and me been workin’ on a project and want your
advice.”
Caleb’s ears perked up at the words. Herman and Lloyd Bing
enjoyed the reputation of the best wagon-makers in the valley.
“I was just about to do some pastoral counseling,” Caleb
motioned toward Charity, who waited a few feet from them. The scarcity of women
in the area promoted Charity’s plain features to prettiness; her smile nudged
them toward beauty.
“Truth is, Reverend,” Herman said, “We got a gift for you.”
“Lay not up treasures upon the earth,” Caleb quoted in all
insincerity, “Matthew six nineteen.”
Herman blushed and his stutter got worse.
“It’s not like that, Reverend,” Herman got out, “It’s for
your work. God’s work, I mean.”
Caleb smiled indulgently.
“Don’t give it another thought,” Caleb said. He looked at
Charity, his eyes hungry.
“Maybe about lunch time,” Caleb said.
“I’ll tell Mama to put on a spread, Reverend,” Herman said,
“She’ll be so happy to see you.”
Caleb smiled at Herman.
“I’ll see you for lunch, then,” he said, dismissing the
young man.
“Thank you, Reverend,” Herman stammered. Caleb patted his
shoulder. Herman turned and walked across the wooden platform. Caleb looked up
into the eaves of the barn-like space. He could see birds’ nests among the
rafters. He would have to take up a special collection so they could finally
put up the walls, he thought.
Caleb turned back to Charity Dorfman, devouring her with his
gaze. The young woman’s hazel eyes looked adoringly back at the preacher. At sixteen
there was no doubt she was a woman. The faded cotton dress she wore did little
to hide her charms. Caleb put a gentle hand on her shoulder and guided her into
the one complete room of the new church.
The room was simple. No furniture other than a large wooden
desk and two straight chairs on either side of it. No decorations other than a
wooden cross on the wall and plain white curtains to mask the window, closed to
the raw morning air. Soft silver light fell through the wavy glass pains,
illuminating the tight, wooden space. Caleb ushered Charity into a chair and
leaned his hip against the desk in front of her.
As a divinity student at Yale he would have sneered at the
simplicity of his surroundings. After half a decade traveling a circuit on the
frontier, Caleb could appreciate the simple comforts of the room and its
inhabitant. As an ex-theater student he valued the stark drama of the setting.
“Have you been studying, my child?” Caleb asked.
Charity straightened on her chair, shifting her body
interestingly as she sat erect.
“Yes, Reverend,” she said, hazel eyes lowered.
“And you’ve told no one about our special instruction?”
Caleb asked.
“No one, Reverend,” Charity said, her cheeks reddening.
“Good girl,” Caleb said, “Let’s hear the reading.”
Charity opened her small leather bible to a bookmark.
“Genesis, chapter three,” Charity read aloud, “Now the
serpent was more subtle than any beast of the field…”
Caleb let his mind wander as the girl pronounced the archaic
words. He remembered that horrible night in New Haven. He thought it was the
end of the world, and in a sense it was. Ejected by Yale, exiled by his family
to the ends of the earth, Caleb found his true calling.
“…And the serpent said unto the woman, ye shall not surely
die,” Charity was not an accomplished reader, she pronounced each syllable
distinctly, intent on wringing the meaning from the uncooperative words.
Caleb nodded as Charity glanced up from the book. The girl’s
smile stirred him as she bent her face back to the page.
Caleb sighed. It wasn’t what he had envisioned, he thought,
but a simple life among simple people had its pleasures. Simple pleasures.
“For God doth know that in the day ye eat thereof,” Charity
stumbled on through the thicket of words, “Then your eyes shall be opened and
ye shall be as gods, knowing good and evil.”
The girl glanced up again, her eyes shining with pride.
“Excellent, my child,” Caleb praised her.
He stood up from the desk and took a step closer to Charity.
He unbuckled his belt.
“Now we’ll continue,” he said.
Coming Next: Episode Three - The Forgettery
Caleb Powers returns to Sweet William for the climax of this chapter. If you're enjoying the Werewolf of Portland please subscribe so you won't miss any episodes.
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