Superfab was really SUPER.
He lived in a SUPER rabbit hole with a SUPER living room, where he read SUPER books.
He even had a SUPER kitchen, where he made his SUPER-spicy pumpkin-carrot soup.
But, best of all, Superfab's SUPER rabbit hole had...
...a SUPER walk-in closet!
FRENCHMAN’S CREEK LINGERS ON the last trace of the prairies, a tendril nudging uncertainly into the Rocky Mountains, postscript rather than herald. Passersby ignore us tucked away as we are behind the gas station and abandoned motel, satellite dish rusting in lonely vigil. At one end of the welcoming strip is a giant wooden teepee, crumbling as its dream of welcoming tourist throngs fades. A street heads modestly into town; at the far side it ends abruptly at the creek facing the remnants of the bridge built to carry campers to the now remote island campground. Weekend nights in our bucolic setting are not as serene as you might expect but are interrupted by drunken arguments; pickups racing up and down the street; and by campers, f rustrated at the inaccessibility of the campground, parking on the edge of town, building bonfires, digging latrines, joining locals in their nighttime pursuits. During one such weekend of rustic revelry, the town leaders resolved to carve a ski hill into the side of Raven Mountain, sacred burial ground for the previous ten thousand years, looming behind. As the night progressed, the scheme became more grandiose, then, in the following weeks, took flight. But our conspiracy to rise from the flats, to be transformed from two dimensions to three, brought us to the attention of the Gods. On the ski hill’s opening day, students from our local school shouldered their wrath. After boarding the chairlift, one student, then thirteen, began to rock the chair. As they pitched ever more violently, the cable first came off its rollers then rebounded upwards. According to local reports, the students were then “slingshot sixty feet into the air.” The ski hill closed, but the trails left their scar, the shape of a pitchfork aimed down our throats pinning us to the ground evermore. Giant teepees, derelict dishes, unwanted campgrounds, ill-advised ski hills, dashed dreams. Perhaps the land is cursed. The Natives who first inhabited the land avoided the Flats, sending here only young men on vision quests or crossing it on their way to leave their dead on the mountainside. The first Europeans to settle were two dairy farmers from France, François and Pierre Joirret. Soon after their arrival, François began hearing voices in his sleep. His dead parents appeared in his dreams ordering him to kill his brother. “He is the spirit of evil!” they shouted. “He is building a machine with which to murder you!” “It was self-defense, ” François claimed in one of his few lucid moments during his trial. He had driven an axe into his brother’s head with such force it had entered even his neck.
