(posted by our Tug administrative assistants, who have been worried sick for months)
Friends, it’s about time we leveled with you. News of our demise has been greatly exaggerated, and boy do we have a story to tell you.
This started, approximately, the week after the New Year, when the city was in the depths of mind-crippling cold, one or more blizzards, one hell of an election hangover, and a flu epidemic. You may not know this, but we all have extreme cases of mysophobia (look it up), and the idea of going outside during the greatest plague of the last several months, at least, and being met with air that would cause even Deer Street Associates to stop building was not appealing. So we took it as opportunity to hunker down, grab some hot cocoa (Irished up of course) and settle down for some serious Hygge.
Little did we know we’d soon be swept up into an adventure no less confusing than a novel by author and Seacoast resident Dan Brown.
(just kidding Dan, please don’t use your vast sums of wealth to blow us up with antimatter or send albino assassins or whatever MacGuffin you next have in mind)
Whilst enjoying said beverages and conversatin’ intently with each other over the current state of local politics and the seal harvest, the lights went out. Normally, a secret society like ourselves would be comfortable with a little involuntary obtenebration, but we should probably admit that our mysophobia is only outmatched by our nyctophobia (we’ll wait) and we didn’t have time to scream or grab our stuffed animals before we each felt black bags being quickly tied over our heads.
“Kinky”, we thought, before “oh fuck”, which we also thought.
We were then dragged out into the freezing cold (the whiskey helped) and shoved violently into the back of a van or truck or barge or something. The next thing we remember is having the hoods removed and being bound by chains in a musty brick-layered underground dock of some kind.
We’ll spare you the gory details, but our “handlers”, one of whom’s name we gathered was “McJerry”(?) kept us under guard, forcing us to move boxes and boxes of various foodstuffs we can only assume were contraband, possibly of the barbecue variety, but we’re not sure. Occasionally McBerry would meet with some cloaked individuals, pay them a fee, and remind them: “I am the restaurant business in this town. Don’t ever forget that.”
Our only clue as to where we were being kept arose one Wednesday night, where, echoing through the tunnels, were the eclectic and boundary-pushing antics of what we now know is Mad Haus. We knew we must be in the smuggler tunnels that connect with Seacoast Rep! (also real, look it up)
With that glimmer of hope, we were able to fashion lock picks out of discarded cocktail swords and ambushed our captors with plastic grocery bags (which thankfully have not yet been banned, Josh), suffocating McQuery and the rest of them to unconsciousness.
It was an ordeal, dear readers. But like all who experience such action-adventure in their lives, we’re back with a vengeance, and promise not to sell out until the third sequel. Keep on tugging.