Behold!

A long, standing beef from years gone by.

‘Twas miles high, taller than any skyscraper.

‘Twas stood directly between a tall tale and a necromancer.

Big John Pepper.

…and Baron York Taterton.

The beef long stood between them began as little more than a single beef patty, a trivial squabble, easily fixed.

Necromancers and Tall Tales are not often alike.

But they do, universally, share one thing in common.

You see, the thing about necromancers and tall tales alike is that they are both utterly incapable of change.

And thus, they both dug in their heels.

And thus, the beef grew. And it grew. And it grew.  

And it grew.

🌳 🗝 🌈

DID YOU KNOW? Tall Tales aren't allowed to change.

It's true.

Now you might say to me, Mythos, how do they develop character, grow, become better, and so on, without any personal change whatsoever?

To which I, Mythos, must reply: They don't. Instead, they develop others’ characters, help them grow, and become better.

Consider for a moment, Forrest Gump. Here was a tall tale, unchanging through time.

He remained the same sweet Forrest through the entirety of the story.

It was those who interacted with him that changed. And they changed radically.

That is precisely what tall tales exist for, compadre.

Picture a man walking around with a pocket full of change, handing it out to anyone who needs it, except himself — even when he needs it.

Ain't that a bitch?

It's actually a hard and fast rule among tall tales.

If a tall tale catches another changing?

Well, let's just say, they uh…

They get thrown out of the club.

🌳 🗝 🌈

“Hating is the coward's way of refusing to be vulnerable.” - Craig D. Lounsbrough How a Beef Starts “Changes” by David Bowie plays over the speakers at Pinhead's, a bowling alley situated right in the heart of a town that doesn't matter.

A soaking wet Big John Pepper walks in, a bag of clams hoisted over his shoulder.

Today is the big day. And Big John Pepper is so excited.

He gets to join a squad.

A bowling team, actually.

They are called DTYB. Big John Pepper will later learn that the team name had to be abbreviated, because the real name, ‘Death to Your Balls,’ breaks league rules.

The team is composed of Gavin Yum, a balding shit ass of a man who is apparently both a lord and an Esquire, and Baron York Taterton, a necromancer, and the only man to ever bowl in a black cloak (HIS claim, unverified).

They'd needed a third. And it just so happened that Big John Pepper could fill that role.

When he called the phone number on the flier which read, “BALL CRUSHING THIRD NEEDED” the voice on the other end sounded… well…

“Ehehehehehehe, EEEEHEHEHEHEHEEEEE!!!”

Like a necromancer.

“What's so funny?” Big John Pepper had asked.

“It's just… rare, let's say,” Baron York Taterton said. “That a tall tale wants to join a bowling team.”

“I have my own balls.”

“Ehehehe. That's good… that's good…” BJP could hear BYT thinking, ruminating, musing devilishly, scratching his chin. “But you know, there's a… fee… for joining the team.”

“A fee?” Big John asked.

“Ten thousand clams,” Taterton answered.

“That's…” Big John was bewildered. “That's so many clams.”

“Lots of chowder to make,” Taterton replied.

“How long do I have?”

“Game's Thursday.”

Click.

Big John immediately went to the nearest body of water with an empty potato sack and got to clam collecting.

It took him days. You'd be surprised how hard it is to obtain 10,000 clams when grabbing them one by one with your bare hands.

Given the quantity requested, some say he made great time.

Regardless, it is now the day.

Thursday.

The day has come.

Only, when he marches his wet boots to the lanes, and drops the sack of clams in front of Baron York Taterton, he is…

Well, let down, to be honest.

“Ahhh… fuck,” Baron York Taterton says, which didn't surprise Big John Pepper, as everyone knows necromancers are uncouth, old things. “I uh… I fuckin’ forgot about this whole fuckin' thing. And uh… well, Gavin's cousin already signed on as our third and uh… yeah… sorry man… I can't let you play with us this time… but… thanks? …for?... the… clams?”

In his Big John Heart, Big John Pepper knows he is supposed to teach Taterton a lesson here about keeping promises. That's what tall tales are supposed to do.

He's supposed to ball Baron York Taterton up and bowl several frames with him.

Obviously.

But Big John Pepper doesn't do that.

Naw, he doesn't do that at all.

Instead?

He calmly walks outside.

He comes back inside with two sticks.

He rubs them together vigorously and with great gusto.

He starts a fire.

He blows on it so it spreads more swiftly.

Pinhead's goes up in flames.

The fire alarms go off.

The sprinkler system starts.

But the fire rages on.

Emergency evacuation protocols are started.

Outside, while Pinhead's is on fire, Baron York Taterton screams.

“You fuckin’ shit ass! You purple assholed prick! Not only were we forced to evacuate by your temper tantrum, but you have delayed our league game by several god damn motherfuckin’ weeks! I hope you are just SO. FUCKIN’. PROUD. OF YOURSELF. BIG JOHN PEPPER. I DO. I REALLY HOPE YOU FEEL PRIDE IN YOUR ACTIONS!”

Big John Pepper, not done being childish, skips off as though riding a horse, sticking his tongue out at Taterton.

“I HOPE YOUR CHILDREN ARE REGALED WITH STORIES OF YOUR CHILDISH BEHAVIOR TODAY!” Taterton continues as Big John ‘rides’ away. “AND WHEN YOU DIE, I WILL RESURRECT YOU, AND MAKE YOU DANCE THE MACARENA, THE MOST EMBARRASSING DANCE SOMEONE CAN DO!!! JUST KNOW THAT IS YOUR FATE, BIG JOHN PEPPER!!!”

Taterton frowns. Big John Pepper's just a silhouette in the far distance.

“MACARENA FAAAAAAAAAAAAAATE!!!!!!!!!”

🌳 🗝 🌈

“I don't let the haters get their way.” -JoJo Siwa How a Beef Grows, and How it Ends Lord wouldn't you know it, but Taterton didn't let it go.

He talked trash everywhere a Big John Pepper might appear. By the time Big John arrived to wherever it is he was going, tge place already had a bad taste in their mouth about him.

It made tall tale work real difficult.

After all, if everyone thinks you're a bastard, no one wants the change in your pocket.

Because that might entail setting their favorite bowling alley on fire over a small misunderstanding.

And so, Big John began a counter-necromancy campaign.

Every mass grave that Baron York appeared at in order to resurrect a small army for various necromancer projects were protected by the American Anti-Necromancy League, a group dedicated to stopping necromancy on American soil.

One could say they were AANL about it.

(Could they have figured out a way to make their name abbreviate to ANAL so that joke is better? Sure, but take it up with them. It's not my organization. Not every organization is keen to call themselves ANAL just for the benefit of jokes, you know.)

But regardless, Big John Pepper was tipping them off.

And one thing a necromancer can't afford is to be sanctioned by AANL. Then you start getting tariffed on bone meal and soul stones and it's just a huge mess for the fiscal year.

Needless to say, after several years of this, things reached a boiling point. For the second time ever, a phone call was made.

“I say we settle it.”

“High motherfucking noon?”

“High mother…flipping noon.”

And so, in a western town, close (but not too close) to the Pacific, they met in a dusty street where tumbleweed rolled by.

Big John Pepper figured that Baron York Taterton probably got his hands on some fire ball scrolls to light him up with, or some lightning bolt spells to blast his hind end to Hell.

He wasn't sure exactly. He'd never dueled a necromancer before.

He'd never dueled anyone, actually. Seemed more like a Pecos Bill thing.

And truth be told, he wasn't about to start.

When he arrived, he snuck up behind Taterton and said, “BOO!”

And Taterton said, “ACK! Holy Jesus. You scared me.”

“Hey.”

“What?”

“HEY.”

“WHAT!?!”

“...I'm sorry.”

Baron York Taterton's eyes widened. “You're sorry?”

“Yeah,” Big John replied. “I'm sorry. For burning down the bowling alley. And, for screwing up your nefarious deeds with bureaucratic red tape.”

Taterton raised an eyebrow. “Are you serious?”

Big John nodded. “As serious as a chipmunk.”

From behind him he pulled a potato sack and handed it to Taterton.

“Ten thousand clams. Call it a uh… I don't know. A material apology. I don't know what else you like. Except bowling. And dead stuff.”

“It's… a nice gesture,” Taterton admitted.

“I accept your apology.”

🌳 🗝 🌈

It's funny, ain't it? How all it takes for a long, standing beef to stop standing is for one person to change.

Even a little bit.

For Big John Pepper, that meant softening, that meant realizing he had taken it too far.

That meant approaching the necromancer, looking him in the eye, shaking his hand, and apologizing like a man.

The Club of Tall Tales initially had a real problem with Big John Pepper burning down the bowling alley. After all, he knew he was supposed to be a tall tale in that moment, and he wasn't. He was a child.

But heck, any tall tale can make a mistake.

It was the apologizing part with which they took such great issue.

Naw, they didn't take too kindly to that.

See, one thing a Tall Tale had never done was apologize for something they did.

You don't apologize for failing to stop the snake from biting somebody, you simply turn the snake into a neck tie.

You don't apologize for the machine defeating you in a track laying contest, you die — like a man.

You don't apologize for accidentally creating the Grand Canyon. You just say, “Yeah, but look how pretty it is.”

That's how a tall tale gets their silver key to the club.

Behaving like a bad ass, and teaching lessons along the way.

To apologize means to recognize the harm in one's ways, and to feel bad for them.

But Tall Tales don't have harm in their ways, therefore they don't feel bad for them. They only have bad ass ways, which require no apologies.

So what did that say about Big John Pepper, that he apologized?

It said that, clearly, he'd broken the rule.

And that clearly, he'd changed.

What followed at the Club of Tall Tales is considered, by and large, apocryphal, even from the likes of me, your old friend, Mythos.

But from what I hear?

They took his silver key to the club, and banished him.

When he refused to leave, they picked him up by each of his limbs and threw him from the club.

There are whispers he decked Paul Bunyan on his way out.

Still, he was torn from all that made him what he was. Big John Pepper fell from nowhere in particular for many suns and, somehow, several more moons.

During that time of falling and tearing asunder, he wept. He was no longer a tall tale, at least not officially, and it crushed him. He figured it wouldn't be long before he was forgotten about entirely.

With a BANG!

(not the e-fed, the onomatopoeia)

He landed on something hard, metallic, and elevated.

Not long after that, Fred Dick stepped outside to 1) cuss at Jesus Christ for something denting the roof of his RV, and 2) find out what the hell had just dented the roof of his RV.

Embarrassed, Big John leapt to his feet. He apologized (why not? What's done is done.) and informed Fred he had no idea how he got there (a lie, a bold faced lie).

But then, Fred Dick recognized him.

“Big John Pepper, what're yew doin' up there!?”

And all at once, Big John felt relief and mercy and calm.

He still had a chance at being what he was — officially. After all, if Fred Dick thought Big John Pepper was still an official tall tale, then perhaps, he was not the only one — and Big John's identity could be salvaged.

He just needed a new silver key, somehow.

🌳 🗝 🌈

I've always wanted to be part of a real squad. Clubs are cool and all, but they throw you out if you break a rule. Squads are better because it is much harder to be thrown out of one. Also, to join a club you have to apply. I got chosen to be in a squad. And that makes me feel really, really good.

It's not easy being a tall tale. There's expectations. Rules. Decorum. Though I admit, it's a far different thing from an aristocratic ideal of decorum, nevertheless it must be maintained.

At the banquet, Cecilworth said I could do anything I wanted.

“Just be yourself and have fun,” he said. So that's what I did. Did that start with me covering SIA from a chandelier and end with me fist fighting a minotaur?

Of course it did. Because I was just being myself and having fun.

Even a goofy old tall tale like me knows that being myself and having fun wasn't the only reason this squad was formed, however. There were other goals in mind. Namely, a victory.

A victory in this contest would mean our squad defeated their squad.

Their squad is composed of FLAMBERGE, Kerry Kuroyama, Bryan Dawkins, and led by Rob Williams.

Four of the finest competitors the sport of wrestling has ever produced.

I have watched all of your tapes. I have scribbled my thoughts on each of you.

Look upon them if you desire:

FLAMBERGE. French. Won't hold it against him. Can't. He'll take your neck if you hold something against him. Can't allow him to get close. Won't allow him to get close. If he somehow gets close, create distance. Sprint. Haul butt. If he catches me, last resort, I tuck my chin. Create a double chin. Make the neck inaccessible.

Respect what he has done. Young legend. Worthy of my knee. He has done more than me. Do not allow his slender frame and demure demeanor to lure me into a sense of unearned confidence. Lizard. Cold blooded. Cut the lights somehow? Make it cold? No. Not actually cold blooded. Of course.

Maybe though. Don't rule out.

Kerry Kuroyama. Emerald Apex. Unclear on what that means. Green mountaintop maybe? Could be cool. I like the imagery. Dragon tattoo. Six hour session. Nice. Impressive. Almost as impressive as in-ring ability.

Scary. Better than me at wrestling. Must rely on raw strength. Must rely on height and weight advantage. Must not allow him to capture momentum. Suffocate him. No room. Room means beast comes out. Room means pain. No room. Ever. No matter what. Pretty young lady manager. Be nice and respectful should we make eye contact. 

Bryan Dawkins. Hawaiian. That's cool. Luau. Haha. Traumatized. Messed up in the head. Needs help. He will get there though. We know he will because he is a completely different wrestler now. Old tape, not great. New tape, extremely impressive. What happened? Resolve. 

Won't defeat his spirit. Can't. Spirit already crippled. Somehow more successful. Paradox. 

Rob Williams. Once had two belts. Champion with five stars. One of Fred's best friends. Mean cuss. Makes me nervous. Feels like mean dog. Will bite. Had bad parents probably. Like mean dog. Really tough. Super tough. Could survive nuclear fallout. Already looks like he fits in a post-apocalyptic wasteland. Does not bode well. Won't knock him out. Best case scenario is to pin leveraging my weight. Hook both legs (if possible. Might not be possible. Surprisingly squirrely).

Still, friends with my friend. Friends with my manager. If I manage to pin him, handle it with class. If he pins me, don't complain. Tough guy. Friend of friend. Champion. No shame. It's only right.

So you see, it's clear I have respect for all of you.

I think it's outstanding that, through circumstances no one could ever understand, the four of you ended up on one team.

I really do.

I think it's great because, what's better than this, you know?

Eight tough, strong men.

Some decorated, some not.

Going to war together.

For no other reason than the simple fact that they are a squad with a goal.

That speaks to me deep, deep within my spirit. It sings to my very being. I truly, truly appreciate being on a squad.

And with the way things are looking, who knows? I might just end up on two. 😀

🌳 🗝 🌈

What did he mean by that last little bit there? That's your question. Ain't that right, compadre?

Well, sometimes, a feller finds a key in the most unexpected place… ReVival 83 Big John Pepper had done all he could to stay focused on the work at hand. There was Rip Van Winkle to chastise. There was a Squad to eventually banquet alongside and accomplish Goals with.

But the pain of having been torn from the Club broke his Big John Heart, and from time to time, it made him Big John Sad.

And so, he wandered the halls — aimlessly, as sad ones do.

That was when he saw him.

A man with alfredo hair.

A man with T-shades.

A man who emanated cool. Like “Tron” levels of cool.

But it wasn't his appearance that captured his attention so suddenly and absolutely.

Naw, weren't that at all, compadre.

It was the silver key Big John observed floating above the man's head.

Big John Pepper couldn't help himself. He approached the man, tapped his shoulder.

“You're the key,” Big John said.

The alfredo-haired man turned and looked Big John over. If he were an honest man, he'd say he had no idea what Big John Pepper was talking about. He'd say he had no idea who Big John Pepper was.

He'd ask what key Big John Pepper was talking about. He'd say it makes no sense to approach a stranger and inform them that they are the key.

But the alfredo-haired man didn't say any of that.

He just replied, “I know.”

😎 🤙

And Big John Pepper knew in his Big John Heart that things were once again changing. “The key is to keep company only with people who uplift you, whose presence calls forth your best.” - Epictetus