My name is Fritz Capell. I come from a long line of Capells, ranging all the way back to Ugh Capell, who was the first Capell, hatched from an egg in 5221 BC. He was a distinguished gentleman, who hardly ever beat anything to death with a stick, preferring to use a large rock. Such it was to be distinguished in those days.
I was born and raised on a gentleman farm in New Zealand. While not all produce from these unique farms makes the cut and is allowed to become an American citizen, the panel of judges was apparently enamored with my unique podiatric assemblages, which they could not believe suitable for walking. This was indeed a miracle child, said they. Call it fate, karma, or just a random, silly, made-up story, but I was placed in carton #4223, along with a dozen unique compatriots, on a fateful journey to the Land of Promise.
Unfortunately, the Land of Promise was not as it was promised.
A big ol' lie, I realized later. They said that the streets would
be paved with gold, and actually it was a cheap brass alloy. They said the land would be flowing with milk and honey, never
even mentioning the hand fatigue and flagrant kicking involved in milking cows, or the bees that so viciously guarded their sweet
treasures. We might have been fresh off the gentleman farm, but we knew we had been had. So, with aching forearms and
blistering with stings, we climbed back in our crate and were loaded back on the ship.
To be honest, I have little recollection of the journey, but I do recall
being seasick beyond what I ever though seasick could
be. The ocean swelled, the waves turned, and days and weeks went by. My only recollection of the collision was a dull thud
which resounded through the bowels of the ship, and shook carton #4223 something fierce. And then I remember the water.
We didn't know much of ocean voyages, but my friends and I were thinking that water wasn't supposed to be filling up the
baggage compartment like that. There were sirens, and screaming, and water everywhere. I'm sure that ship sits at the bottom
of the ocean to this day, but probably nobody knows where. Or cares.
I washed ashore with this hard rock band called the Screaming Meemies,
who were playing regular gigs at the Outhouse Away from Home, in a small
part of the large city that is most of California. Never one to laugh
at success, I laughed at failure and
merely chuckled at success. They gave me a job as lead calliopist. Well, as they say... the rest is history.