The Dislocation of Destiny
Tragedy befell the SlantShack and brought the Feds ever closer to the then still illegal SSJ operation.
Our loveable Lankster, always the sacrificial lamb, dislocated his elbow during a ferocious SlantShack pee-wee soccer game, and spent the subsequent eight weeks in a bionic, Percocetic daze. Many thought he may never recover, that his wingspan would be forever halved. But without this appendage he did quite the opposite. He grew new, unique powers. His subjects cowered as he stretched the very tendons of time and ulna. Email chains cobwebbed and went stagnant; Bessie wept for lack of affection. Weeks turned to months, and very little got accomplished.
But in the Lankster's lair, a bionic arm was quietly inching to life.
Throughout this daze of laziness and pain-killers, this mythical bionic arm remained cradled to his body. The Lankster protected his arm, petting it gingerly, mindful of his budding, girlish ligaments. "Patience, patience" you could here him murmuring (should you dare venture near the desolate lair), "Soon we will be reunited." Indeed, the arm, finding new strength, awoke from a partially self-induced coma and began clawing at a wallet overflowing with money, and bank statements teeming with new digits. Not foreseeing the economic disaster on the horizon, he tested his new powers...
Sure, science and lore are sometimes the most disappointed of bedfellows. Nevertheless, legend has it that the remaining SlantShackers were awed that day, when the arm took on Rookie-Of-The-Year qualities and burst its cast from its body, from the bionic Lankster and found its new power. "Vacu-sealer" he bellowed, stretching his four foot arm like a wand, and there appeared a vacuum-sealing device. "London Broils" he commanded, and this time there appeared stacks of gorgeous steaks. The conjuring continued; beams of light, purple red and yellow shot out the windows of the hitherto condemned SlantShack, as ingredients, tuperware, and barrels of marinade suddenly appeared in their rightful places. I tell you here, as not-quite a witness, that the feeble infrastructure of the beloved Shack did sway, did creak, but it most importantly, did stand.
It was winter. PSE&G delivered no longer. The heat was gone.
So as the SlantShackers stood breathing frosty air, latex-clad fingers already blue, the Lankster spoke: "Wake her. Wake up... Bessie."
She awoke, and her matronly odor warmed the entire shack...with money.
Yes, the Lankster was reborn, and so was SlantShack. The jerky went on sale, via the worldwideintertubes, and the secret jerky company was saved.
(And oh how science and lore did copulate!)
After this, the triumphs of SlantShack Jerky have been well documented and are no longer of interest to this historian. It's far too difficult to exaggerate that which is written in more reliable resources elsewhere.
That's all for now friends. But it doesn't have to end there. It's your turn to contribute to the history of SlantShack, by obeying us and...