Scrawled in ketchup on the back of a faded Bass Pro Shops receipt.
I woke up with Jasper the raccoon sleepin’ in my beard and a mysterious corn cob tucked into my boot like a message from the gods.
The cans had spoken the night before — all twelve of ‘em hummed in harmony, the fire flickerin’ sideways as if nudged by ghostly hands. “Go east,” they said. “To the Hills Where Time Forgot.”
Now I don’t usually trust directions from a can of lima beans, but this felt different. Fateful. Like the smell of bacon on a breeze that knows your name.
🚶 The Journey
Eastern Iowa ain’t marked on most hobo maps — not the real ones. That land is stitched with forgotten hills, whisperin’ switchgrass, and radio static that don’t belong to no station. Blaze warned me not to go:
“Ain’t nobody come back from them hills ‘cept that fella who only speaks in riddles now and thinks he’s a box turtle.”
But I was called.
🏞️ The Discovery
After three days of walkin’, I reached a misty ridge shaped like an old woman’s chin. I crossed a field of wild vending machines (long dead, their offerings fossilized in neon goo), and found myself starin’ at the impossible:
A whole tribe of folks, painted in mud and lightning bug light, livin’ in harmony with the corn and coyotes.
These were the Burlapi, a people thought long vanished — whispered about in freight car tales and whispered lullabies told by boxcar mothers.
They wore clothes made of woven license plates and spoke in a language made entirely of wind chimes, harmonicas, and flatulence.
🎶 The Culture of the Burlapi
- They don’t eat by mouth — they absorb soup directly through the soles of their feet.
- They worship the Spirit of the Rolling Grill, a hot dog rotisserie powered by thunder.
- Their chief, Elder Twelve-Packs, rides a massive turkey vulture named “Dorito.”
- They communicate largely through interpretive dance and deeply sarcastic haiku.
When they saw me, they did not panic. They sang. In perfect harmony. One man offered me a sacred sock. I understood: I had been accepted.
🔮 The Prophecy
At midnight, under a sky thick with stars and the smell of old bacon grease, the tribe gathered for a ritual.
They poured expired Mountain Dew into a sacred urinal-shaped basin and declared a new prophecy:
“The Bearded One from the Outer Rails shall awaken the Cans That Roar. He will bring fire to the vending stones and tell the tale of the Falling Spam.”
They handed me a gnarled, humming stick and vanished into the corn.
🌽 Aftermath
I woke the next morning alone — burlap prints in the dirt, one still-glowing Slim Jim wedged in my beard. Jasper stared at me solemn-like, as if to say:
“You’ve been touched by hill spirits, my friend. Now we gotta lay low a while.”
🪔 Today’s Fire-Flare of Truth:
“Some truths hide in the corn. Some people, too. But if you walk long enough with open ears and empty pockets, the land might just tell you her oldest joke.”
—
Until next time, ride gentle and listen to the beans. They know more than you’d think.
— Hobo Harry, Friend of the Forgotten, Receiver of Sacred Socks, Scribe of the Smoky Hollers
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