This time of year is always weird and somewhat confusing for the landed gentry of Fecal Creek: the nights are appropriately Fall-like…with a bit of a chill in the air, but the days are still cruelly summer-like, with highs in the 80s and 90s.  People don’t know what the hell to do: it’s clearly too hot during the day to have the heater on or bust out fall clothes, but then they freeze their balls at night.  These people haven’t yet figured out California’s climate confusion: while the entire rest of the country enjoys four distinct seasons, California sports only two: Summer, and Not Summer.  Which is more like one season with a privation.  But never mind that.  Summer here is preposterous: this last July, the temperature soared to well over 110F every day, with the nighttime lows only dropping to maybe 85.  It’s so brutally hot, people die.  Usually the old and infirm, but you never know.  Most species of insects have died from the heat and lack of water by August 1.  Birds explode mid-flight, making a light “poof” sound, and leaving nothing but a chaotic spray of feathers gently floating down.  It’s awful.  The only things that seem to thrive in this climate are the lizards and snakes.  Fortunately we don’t have scorpions or tarantulas this far north, but give it time: they will be here soon enough.

From Cinco de Mayo until Halloween, yrs. truly generally doesn’t leave the house, preferring instead to spend my waking hours sitting naked on the cool tile floor in front of my open deep-freezer, sipping whiskey and loudly cursing whomever’s stupid idea it was to originally settle in this egregiously inhospitable place.  I’ve always assumed that everybody that lives here pretty much operated the same way.  But I’m starting to think I’m alone in my suffering.

Fecal Creek, CA is a banal suburbia where the grass is always green on the other side of the septic tank. Sundays here are like Groundhog Day on acid, but instead of a lovable rodent predicting the end of winter, we have gangs of vicious turkeys that roam the neighborhoods like terrorists, menacing anything that isn’t part of their flock.  Until, of course, they start high-tailing it for their lives from the local animal control officer who seems perpetually tanked on Sterno.

I’ve never been a big fan of Sundays.  But Sundays in Fecal Creek defy logic and sanity, when time seems to dilate, and the absurd becomes the norm. The sun rises reluctantly, casting a jaundiced glow over the town as if even it is too hungover to shine properly. It’s the kind of place where the turkeys’ godawful gobbling is replaced by the tubercular cough and mucous-spitting of Mr. Shitbag (I know that that’s not his real name…but that’s what I call him), the street’s unofficial alarm clock, bellowing from his porch as he sips a questionable brew from a thermos labeled “NOT COFFEE.”

Today happens to be the Fecal Creek Pancake Derby, a chaotic spectacle of culinary and vehicular misadventure. Picture this: a gaggle of local eccentrics armed with spatulas and a suicidal lack of fear, racing on modified lawnmowers while flipping pancakes into the mouths of unsuspecting spectators. The rules are simple—there are none. It’s a syrupy, flour-dusted free-for-all that ends when the last pancake hits the pavement or when someone finally breaks a hip.

By noon, the town shifts gears. The Fecal Creek Farmers’ Market opens its gates, offering an array of goods no sane person would ever need or want.  Some hippy chick seems to be selling artisanal mud pies.  She sits proudly next to some dude’s collection of slightly sinister garden gnomes. The air is thick with the aroma of deep-fried everything and the faint whiff of existential dread as cash exchanges hands for items destined to clutter garages and provoke marital disputes.  I generally try to avoid the Farmers’ Market.

As do most of the folks on my street: Sunday’s are evidently for lawn care.

I awakened this fine (or not so fine, as it were) Sunday morning to the cacophony of church bells and lawnmowers, my head throbbing in time with the frequencies of a thousand dying angels. I stumble to my window, naked as Diogenes but with less philosophical intent, and witness the terrifying tableau below: the air is thick with the aroma of overcooked potatoes and regret as families emerge from their cookie-cutter homes, still dressed in their Walmart-bought pajamas.

I gag and retreat indoors, desperate for solace from this Dantean landscape.

Inside, my sanctuary is no better.  The television offers nothing but golf, football re-runs, and “inspirational” biopics starring those Hallmark channel actors who sleep with the light on to avoid their own mediocrity. My so-called “smart” phone, which I might add has a Ph.D. in Failure Studies, only offers me “fun day” suggestions: brunches with saccharine mimosas, hiking trails to nowhere, and worse, fucking arts and crafts!

I try to escape this madness by venturing out into the world, hoping to find safety in numbers. Alas, the streets are littered with the slack-jawed zombies I feared most: families ambling along sidewalks four abreast, oblivious to the anguished honking of cars behind them. Dogs in humiliating costumes trotting obediently behind their mindless masters, their eyes begging for a swift end to this likely feline-conspired nightmare. And the children—oh, the fucking children! Hordes of them, stained with the remnants of their Easy Mac Last Supper, wailing for attention like some horrific game of “Pin the Screaming Brat on the Impatient Uncle.”

As the day already seems to be dragging on like a sloth with a broken metronome, I return to my lair, defeated and demoralized. Trudging back, I see driveways filled with the lifeless husks of automobiles, their owners hypnotized by the alien hum of their infernal lawn implements. The air is thick with the acrid stench of burnt gasoline and freshly mown grass clippings.  Back in the house, I check on some marijuana I left in the garage, then go to my window again.

Lunch!  The men don their “World’s Greatest Dad” aprons, which last saw use on Father’s Day ’98, and fire up their charcoal grills to prove their manhood to an audience of one: the neighbor’s cat, Dildo. I doubt that that’s the cats actual assigned moniker, but that’s what I call it.  Because it fits.  That’s a story for another time.  Burgers sizzle and beer cans hiss, and soon enough, the smell of charred meat and sweat permeates the air.  They desperately cling to the dying vestiges of Summer, before Not Summer starts.

The ladies of the street gather ’round someone’s plastic kiddie pool, discussing the latest gossip about nonsense. Their kids run amok, their shrill laughter competing with the sounds of Blink-182 from one of their idiot kids’ bedroom.  As their neighbors peek through their weed-covered blinds, sipping on their cheap Chardonnay and adjusting their polyester drawers, Fecal Creek braces itself for another week of the same old shit – literally, figuratively, and metaphorically.

I have concluded simply that Sundays suck. And like an ageless vampire, they will rise again next week to feast upon our sanity and grace us with their idiotic influence.

Until then, I leave you with this bittersweet advice: stock up on booze and ammo, barricade your doors, and pray for the End Times. For while the sun may rise on another Sunday, at least there’s a 50/50 shot it’s the end of the world as we know it. And I, for one, won’t be mowing my goddamn lawn.

N.P.: “Skin City” – Robert Rodriguez, Rebecca Rodriguez, Rick Del Castillo, Steven Tyler

Happy Saturday, dear reader.  On my new ridiculous schedule with the audacious goals, Saturday is just the sixth Monday of the week.  And I’m still behind schedule!  But I’ve got a good feeling about catching up reasonably soon.

An unfortunate side-effect of this pre-dawn-til-after sunset schedule is the losing track of time and days.  It was just over 100 degrees and September, next thing I know, it’s the last half of October, and Halloween is suddenly right around the corner.  It seems like a couple weeks ago I was cursing the fireworks stands that had popped up like patriotic acne all over the parking lots of local strip malls, and suddenly, there are pop-up Halloween costume stores in the same strip malls.  I’m not sure how this temporal chaos happened, but it is obviously high time to get into the Halloween spirit.

Here, then, is the first of what I suspect will be a steady stream of bad Halloween poems and maybe short stories between now and Halloween:

In the shadowed woods where whispers creep,
A forgotten path the night fog keeps.
Beneath a sky of ink and lace,
The moon’s frail glow hides its face.

Branches twist like gnarled claws,
Scratching secrets, breaking laws.
The air is thick with ancient dread,
Where once the lost and lonesome fled.

A rustle, a sigh, a chilling breath,
A dance with shadows, a waltz with death.
Eyes unseen watch the wayward stray,
Luring souls to eternal gray.

Footsteps echo, then fall to hush,
In this realm where nightmares rush.
Dare you wander, dare you stay,
In the haunted where phantoms play?

N.P.: “Rigor Mortis” – The Hunger

Today is a fine day.  Yahya is in hell.  #FAFO

N.P.: “Adir Adirim (feat. Victoria Hanna)” – Balkan Beat Box

Sorry to so abruptly end our time together last Monday when we were talking about the brilliance of Benjamin Netanyahu and the IDF, IAF, and Mossad, dear reader, but I Had Things To Do.  Having done them, I’m ready to continue.  Where were we?  Ah, yes.

I had concluded with some cheap Socratic banter, for which I also apologize.  But as I’m sure the always-intelligent reader quickly deduced, the difference between the Hamas situation and the Hezbollah situation is obvious: the interference of the pusillanimous Biden/Harris administration. Those two treasonous dolts have done everything they can to undercut our closest ally in a time when they are fighting an existential war, having been attacked on multiple fronts.  From withholding multiple arms shipments (then lying to the press about it), to constantly leaking Israel’s next move (in order to try to get Israel to agree to some absurd peace agreement), this administrations betrayal of Israel has been reprehensible and disgusting.   They know nothing about actually prosecuting a war.

But the problem is much greater than them.  The real problem is with The West overall.  Simply put, the United States hasn’t definitively won a war since WWII.  The reason is simple: the progressive feminized softening of the entire country for the last 70 years.  Participation trophies, no red pens, no keeping score in sports because everyone’s a winner, hate and “hate speech” are made criminal, “toxic masculinity.”  All of that horseshit has led to a West that is uncomfortable even mentioning things like “victory.”  Most modern Americans can no longer even conjugate the verbs “to defeat” or “to conquer.”  It’s embarrassing.  Shameful.  Stupid.  It’s small wonder I’ve been far more interested in the news out of Israel than out of the U.S. for quite some time.

Speaking of which, back to our original topic: the refreshing badassedness of Israel.  When we last left our heroes, the world was waiting for the hell that Israel was going to unleash upon Iran.  Apparently the cowards that infect the Biden/Harris administration were expecting a specific report, maybe even a list of targets when Israeli Defense Minister Yoav Gallant came to the U.S. last week to meet with Defense Secretary Lloyd Austin.  Alas, they still hadn’t “gotten” that Israel had quit informing the U.S. of its moves because the U.S. immediately leaks them and starts trying to pressure Israel out of it.  So Netanyahu cancelled his Defense Minister’s trip at the last minute.  The only thing that has been said officially by Israel regarding their plans for Iran was when Gallant was speaking to Israeli soldiers: “Our strike will be lethal, precise, and above all, surprising.  They won’t understand what happened or how.  They will see the results.”

That is how one wins a war.

N.P.: “Burn Your Whole World Down” – Ledfoot

Hot damn, dear reader…today is Columbus Day!  Never mind the whiny bullshit you hear from leftists on this day: Christopher Columbus was a goddamn superstar.

In 1492, Columbus takes his fleet of three small ships – the Nina, the Pinta, and the Santa Maria – and goes pretty blindly sailing across the uncharted waters of the Atlantic to find a new route to the wealth of the East, something no sailor had dared to attempt before.  We all “know” that part of the story, but think about the balls that it would take to even begin such an undertaking.  Dude had nothing but a compass, three rather rickety boats, a vision of a better world, and sheer determination.  Most American men can no longer leave their house without their phones.  Christopher was a G.

His voyages are truly legendary, marking the beginning of the Age of Exploration.  His journey not only unveiled a whole new world but also ignited an era of global exploration that would forever change the course of human history.  The course of human fucking history, dear reader!  He didn’t just navigate the unknown ocean, he enthusiastically leapt, balls first, into The Unknown, inspiring generations of curious dreamers to pursue their own quests in a similarly testicles-forward way.

This is when the when the white liberal women start whining about Columbus personally arrived on these shores to spread disease and racism.  Bongwash.  That is a totally anti-American rewrite of what actually happened.  Don’t believe it.  Anyone with a modicum of historical knowledge scoffs at the idea.

Columbus’ voyages weren’t just personal triumphs…they set a global transformation in motion.  By opening new trade routes, Columbus spurred economic growth and paved the way for an unprecedented exchange of goods, ideas, and cultures.  New crops and products going to Europe and America revolutionized cuisine, and cultural exchanges revolutionized art, science, and philosophy on both sides of the ocean.

Don’t believe the tripe: Columbus’ legacy is a testament to the power of exploration to forge connections and expand horizons, bringing our world closer together.  He ushered in an era of collaboration and innovation that shaped the modern world.

Big ol’ glass of whiskey raised to Christopher Columbus, a goddamn superstar.

N.P.: “Firing Squad – Instrumental” – Overseer

Alright dear reader…if you are a crime fiction aficionado, today is your kind of day.  Today we tip our fedoras to one of the truly coolest American writers, Elmore Leonard.  Born on October 11, 1925, Leonard wasn’t just any writer – he was the godfather of gritty crime novels, a master of dialogue, and a storyteller who knew exactly how to keep his readers on the edge of their seats.

I’ve always been a big fan of “Get Shorty” (both the book and the movie).  It’s follow-up, “Be Cool” was also well done.  “Rum Punch” was turned into “Jackie Brown” by Quentin Tarantino (also of which I am a big fan).  Leonard gave us so many really iconic stories: “Mr. Majestyk,” “3:10 to Yuma.”  His novella “Fire in the Hole,” was turned into FX’s “Justified.”  Apparently the success of that, along with encouragement from actor Timothy Olyphant, Elmore wrote his 45th novel, Raylan.

Leonard had an amazing knack for crafting truly authentic-sounding dialogue which shows the various flaws and charms of his characters.  He writes about rogues and anti-heroes, which tends to be right up my strasse. 

So happy birthday and cheers to Elmore Leonard!

N.P.: “Can’t Play Dead” – The Heavy

Happy Badass Birthday to one of my favorite authors, the indomitable James Clavell.  Born on October 10, 1924, Clavell, an Aussie-born Brit, wasn’t just another writer; he was the architect of some of the most epic sagas of the 20th century.  The legendary stories he crafted were of dramatic worlds filled with intrigue and cultural clashes.  His books actually made me take a more active approach to my history classes in high school.

When we were assigned “Shōgun” at the beginning of sophomore year, I confess I was a bit daunted…it was, at the time, a very thick book.  But I quickly got lost (in the best of ways) in those endless pages.  I actually considered changing my career aspirations to include “samurai.”  The following semester, we were assigned “Tai-Pan” were we learned about the art trading like a genius, armed with nothing but a sharp wit and charisma.  That year, “bad joss” became part of our regular vocabulary.

The plots he was able to come up with were tight, dear reader…tighter than any fictive thing I’ve ever been able to do.  His characters had surprising, compelling depth, and his eye for detail often made his historical fiction feel like documentary.

I of course recommend his “Asian Saga.”  If you caught this summer’s release of Shogun on Hulu, you have James Clavell to thank.

So today we pour some out for James, then drink the rest: cheers!

N.P.: “Sacrilegious” – Marilyn Manson

Hats off to the IDF, IAF, and Benjamin Netanyahu for an absolute masterclass on how to wage war and defeat one’s opponents.  In what has widely been praised as the most ingenious and successful series of highly targeted strikes against a terrorist organization in the history of modern warfare, Benjamin Netanyahu, the Mossad, the IAF, and IDF have completely defanged and dismantled Hezbollah and brutally humiliated its state sponsor Iran.  First, a quick run-through of the 14 Days of Israeli Military Mastery.

Sept 17 – On the morning of September 17, Israel announces a new focus of their war: having essentially dismantled Hamas in Gaza, it is now time to return tens of thousands of Israeli citizens who have been displaced by a constant barrage of rocket and missile fire from Hezbollah in Lebanon into northern Israel since Oct 8 of last year.  In what has been subsequently dubbed “Operation Grim Beeper,” Israel causes thousands of pagers that had been issued directly by Hezbollah leadership to the groups lower level members to explode across Lebanon and Syria, killing at least 13 terrorists and critically injuring (blowing the balls off of) roughly 4000 Hezbollah operatives.  There is abundant cc footage of these explosions happening, and honestly, they get funnier with every viewing.

Sept 18 – Hezbollah leadership bans the use of their pagers (which pagers they adopted when they figured out Israel had access to all of their cellular communications), and instructs its members to now use only walkie-talkies.  A couple of hours after that instruction is given, Israel blows up the walkie-talkies, killing another 14 terrorist shitbags and severely wounding about 400.  Footage of these explosions is not as abundant, but still just as funny.

Sept 19 – Israel strikes hundreds of rocket launchers in southern Lebanon that were poised to be launched into northern Israel, knocking out a significant amount of Hezbollah once-formidable firepower.  Iran, Syria, and Lebanon all ban beepers, walkie-talkies, and other communications devices on airplanes.  Communications between Hezbollah’s senior leadership and its soldiers as well as with each other has been completely destroyed.  Senior leadership decides that in-person meetings are the only “safe” way to communicate.

Sept 20 – The first such meeting of Hezbollah takes place commanders takes place.  Following long-standing human-shield policy, Hezbollah intentionally hold their meeting in a residential building in a highly populated suburb of Beirut at the height of rush hour, knowing that the West no longer has any stomach for winning an actual war, and as long as Biden holds Israel’s leash, they won’t strike in an area where there are likely to be civilian casualties.  But Netanyahu, having grown exhausted with Biden’s egregious incompetence combined with his senility and Harris’s egregious incompetence combined with her antisemitism, has stopped asking for permission.  In fact, he’s stopped even notifying Biden/Harris, the U.S. State Department, or anyone else in American government what Israel’s plans are.  So Israel blows the hell out of the apartment building killing 37 people.  Israel announces that they had killed Ibrahim Akil, Hezbollah’s military commander.  Later, Hezbollah confirmed Akil’s death along with 15 other senior Hezbollah commanders.  This particular shitbag had been wanted by the U.S. for the 1983 U.S. Embassy bombing in Beirut.  According to the Israeli military, Akil had been planning an October 7 attack in Northern Israel, designed to mirror the October 7th attack by Hamas the previous year.

Sept 21 – The IAF simply Puts It To Hezbollah, hitting some 400 Hezbollah targets in Lebanon, including more rocket launchers and “military infrastructure.”  Ayatollah Khameini goes into hiding somewhere in Iran.  Mossad likely knows exactly where.

Sept 22 – Heavy fire is exchanged between Hezbollah and Israel overnight and into the morning.  Witnesses report “huge explosions that lit up the night sky.”  Israel hits 290 targets, including still more rocket launchers, while Hezbollah managed to lob some rockets deeper into Israel than in previous days.  This just pisses Israel off.

Sept 23 – Israel courtesy calls the entire population of southern Lebanon telling them quite clearly to GTFO most ricky-tick just hours before bombing the piss out of the entire area with over 1300 airstrikes, killing 558 people, and injuring more than 1800.  Hezbollah fires more than 200 rockets into northern Israel, the vast majority of which are intercepted by Iron Dome and David’s Sling.  Hezbollah fires rockets into Haifa for the first time in the war.

Sept 24 – Fire between Hezbollah and Israel continues through the night.  Israel again courtesy calls the fools who didn’t heed yesterday’s warning and managed to survive, to, again, GTFO tout de suite, and again, hours later, proceeds to bomb the shit out of the place, killing dozens more.  Among these are Ibrahim Kobeissi, the head of Hezbollah’s missile division.

Sept 25 – Hezbollah launches a long-range missile at Tel Aviv, the first time the shitbags have targeted Central Israel.  The missile is shot down by Israeli forces.  Israel continues airstrikes across southern Lebanon, killing another 72 people and injuring 400.  Israel calls up two additional brigades of reserves for a ground invasion of Lebanon.

Sept 26 – The vaginal United Nations General Assembly proposes an absurd 21-day ceasefire agreement.  Which is pretty rich considering Hezbollah has been rocketing Israel daily for damn near a year and nobody said shit.  Israel tells the U.N. to go screw.  Hezbollah fires dozens of rockets into Israel, most of which are batted down easily.  Israel responds with 200 airstrikes, none of which were intercepted, and 92 people die and 150 are wounded.  One of those killed is Mohammed Hussein Sarour, the commander of Hezbollah’s air force.

Sept 27 – Surprisingly, in the middle of a rapidly escalating seven-front war, Bibi Netanyahu flies to New York to address the aforementioned vaginal United Nations General Assembly.  It’s widely speculated that he’s going to show up hat-in-hand and propose some middle ground or “limited military response” in response to the idiotic ceasefire agreement proposed the day before, in the hopes of appeasing the Biden administration enough to get restart delivery of 2000lbs bombs.

Nope.

With timing and panache lifted directly from “The Godfather,” Netanyahu strides up to the podium and proceeds to absolutely blast the whole wretched United Nations, calling it a “swamp of antisemitic bile.” [Fact Check: True] Rather than mincing around and asking for help, Bibi delivers a fiery speech telling these cowards that Israel is “winning” on all seven fronts and would continue to attack Iran and its proxies anywhere in the Middle East.  He delivers these lines knowing that 10 minutes before the speech, he gave a significant order to the IAF.  Just as he concludes his U.N. speech, southern Beirut is absolutely rocked by a series of airstrikes which demolish several residential buildings, which blasts can be felt throughout the city.  Israel immediately announces they have targeted Hezbollah Headquarters.

Sept 28 – A few hours later, Israel announces that the blast has killed Hassan Nasrallah, the leader of Hezbollah, a fact confirmed by Hezbollah hours later.  This strike totally reshapes the calculous of the Middle East.

Sept 29 – Israel targets the Houthis (another Iranian proxy group) in Yemen, who had targeted Tel Aviv with a missile strike the day before, sending the IAF to blow the hell out of the Yemeni city of Huydaydah, destroying multiple power plants and the city’s large seaport, which was “used by the Houthis to transfer Iranian weapons to the region.”

Oct 1 – Israel begins ground invasion of southern Lebanon.  The IDF carried out “limited” raids in villages hear the border while the IDF continued to pummel the rest of Lebanon.  Iran, having been completely humiliated daily on the world stage for two weeks, launches the largest ballistic missile attack in history on Israel, firing over 200 missiles in two waves of attacks.  All of these missiles are intercepted, shot down, and thwarted.  There is some property damage, but the only reported death is that of a Palestinian from Gaza who had snuck into southern Israel.  Israel vows “significant retaliation,” within days.

Oct 7 – The anniversary of the vile, subhuman Hamas attack on Israel.  The world awaits Israel’s response to Iran.  Popular speculation includes 1) Israel destroying Iran’s oil production facilities, which would permanently devastate the Iranian economy, 2) wiping out Iran’s air defense systems and nuclear facilities, and 3) targeted strikes/assassinations, forcing regime change in Iran once the Islamic Republic government is dissolved and the Mullahs and Ayatollahs have been torn apart by the Persian masses.  I strongly advocate for taking all three actions.  Additionally, as sort of punctuation for emphasis, I would sink their navy.  Just to really drive the point home.  What is certain is this: in the last year, Israel has taken both of Iran’s knights off the table, and Iran has been exposed as an embarrassing paper tiger.

The two knights are, of course, Hamas and Hezbollah.  At the start of this war, Hamas had somewhere between 5000 to 20,000 medium and long-range rockets, and around 30,000 fighters.  Hezbollah was estimated to have 150,000 more advanced rockets and missiles, as well as sophisticated Shahed 136 suicide drones and anti-ship weapons.  Two weeks ago, they boasted well over 100,000 fighters.  Perhaps the reader will notice an egregious discrepancy in these two terrorist forces.  And perhaps this will inspire the reader to wonder how it is that it has taken Israel a year now to eradicate Hamas, with questions remaining as to the fate of the hostages and Hamas’ leader, Yahya Sinwar, yet it took Israel a mere 14 days to completely dismantle and defang the many-times-larger-and-better-funded Hezbollah, with minimal “civilian” casualties and certainty that it’s all of its leadership, including their General Secretary, are dead.
Ponder this, dear reader, and we shall continue our discussion soon.

N.P.: “Black River – Jeff Martin Rock Mix” – The Tea Party

In the shadowy twilight of literary history, October 1849 in particular is etched with intrigue and mystery, marking the final days of Edgar Allan Poe, the enigmatic Master of the Macabre™.  Found in a state that could best be described as disheveled desperation, Poe was discovered in October 4 outside Ryan’s Tavern in Baltimore, an unexpected stopover on his journey from Richmond to Philadelphia.  His attire, a jarring mismatch of ill-fitting garments, added to the aura of mystery, as Poe was known for his meticulous sartorial choices.
The circumstances of his discovery quickly spiraled into a whirlpool of speculation.  The propinquity of a tavern led many to wag their fingers at that devil alcohol, a specter that had haunted Poe since he was a student at UV.  Notorious for being heavily affected by even modest amounts of alcohol (a “lightweight” in modern literary parlance), Poe’s battles with the bottle were as tumultuous as the tales he penned.  But, while an easy scapegoat, it didn’t explain the full scope of the mystery.
Enter the sinister theory of “cooping,” a practice as convoluted as any of Poe’s plots.  This political trickery involved abducting unsuspecting souls, drugging them, and coercing them to vote multiple times under different disguises.  Given that Ryan’s Tavern doubled as a polling place, and Poe’s bedraggled appearance was uncharacteristic, this explanation gained traction.
But, skeptics argue that Poe’s fame in Baltimore would render him immune to so much manipulation, as he was too recognizable to slip through unnoticed.
More recent conjectures suggest an unexpected culprit: rabies.   Some doctors have suggested that Poe’s erratic behavior in his final days aligns with the symptoms of the virus: confusion, aggression, and hydrophobia – the latter evidenced by Poe’s refusal of water.  Without the definitive clarity an autopsy could provide, this remains an intriguing hypothesis in the enigma of Poe’s death.

N.P.: “Kushcloud” – Kidneythieves