I have been researching small, low-profile towns across Massachusetts and the states in general, in hopes of finding news that has already occurred but was never outed to the public ear.

Hudson, Massachusetts, is a small town in which I have spent significant time roaming and speaking with people from various walks of life. I've heard many stories in Hudson. I would like to share with you one of them. It is about a boy named Timothy.

Timothy once lived in Hudson.

Timothy had but one quality; he was fat. His buddies, however, varied widely in the number and nature of their qualities.

Jimmy Grunsom, for example, wore a tuxedo suit to his mother’s wake. The wake took place at a small funeral home in Hudson. If Jimmy had not been the only child of a widow, he might have stood alongside his siblings and father at the wake. He might have shook hands with and gave hugs to the many teary-eyed givers of condolences who had made appearances. But Jimmy, having no living family members —— he strutted in, one hour and fifteen minutes late, wearing his muddied cowboy boots. An old woman kneeled at the feet of Jimmy's mother's casket, saying her final goodbyes. Jimmy slammed the casket shut, though, making the kneeling woman cry and whimsically closing away his embalmed mother having not bothered to say goodbye first.

Jimmy sat on his mother’s casket. He rested his backpack on his knees. He unzipped the thing and reached inside in order to get his hands on a thick, important-looking book aged many hundreds of years.

Carefully, he placed this book beside him, on the casket.

He tossed his backpack into the crowd of shaken mourners. It hit the chest of a feathery conservative woman, a stereotypical image of a 17th century aristocrat, and it landed on her lap.

"Gosh!", she squealed. She was flustered. She snorted while trying to catch her breath.

With everyone's attention, Jimmy crossed his right leg over his left, and opened to a page somewhere about midway through his ginormous book, and he read the following poetry.

“I see red cheeks,
and I see blue eyes.
I see weird freaks,
and I eat French fries
when the crowds are
sparse enough for me
to see through the woods
and past the normality
of it all."

Boy Grunsom slammed the book shut. He rested his hands on top of it. And he stared straight into the eyes of that conservative-looking woman. She was gripping onto Jimmy's backpack, which remained on her lap. She gasped when Jimmy raised his arm and pointed directly toward her.

In a staunch, powerful voice contrasting with his poetry-reading tone, Jimmy said, "I see your ass is tight, women." And he told her, "Loosen up, bird lady. Think about it. What's the point?"

The woman turned red. She blew steam from her ears. She was furious; but she was also horrified. She froze, short-circuiting in place. If she were a turtle, she would have hidden inside her shell. But, she was bird-like, and so she fluffled up her feathers and hid behind those.

Jimmy shifted his attention to the crowd in general.

"See this book," he said. "Read the fucking thing."

He pointed to some tall, overweight, aloof-looking fella equipped with one of those curly French mustaches. "Especially you."

Jimmy pointed to a well-dressed midget, and he said, "And you, short stuff."

Finally, Jimmy pointed back to the conservative-looking lady. He stared at her intently, pensively, thinking of what to do with her. Suddenly an idea brought life to his eyes.

Jimmy Grunsom picked The Book over his head. He gazed upwards as though he was offering his gift to the Gods. The people in the funeral home jumped when he roared like a lion, and when, with two hands, he hurled the heavy old book at the conservative lady's head, shattered her glasses and caused her to bleed somewhat and cry.

Promptly, Jimmy stood from his mother's casket. He walked over to the lady who he had thrown the book at. She was afraid of him more than ever.

"Don't bother being afraid," Jimmy said. "I'm not out to hurt you. I just want to fetch my belongings."

At this, Jimmy pulled his backpack out like a tablecloth from underneath The Book, leaving The Book alone resting on the lady's lap. With his empty backpack, he walked to the double window behind the casket. He swung the window doors open wide, exposing a cold winter breeze that sent the curtains dancing. Then he tossed his backpack out and into the snow. Shortly after, he jumped into the snow himself.

The conservative-looking woman wiped blood and tears from her eyes. Despite her shattered spectacles, she could make out Jimmy Grunsom, in his white tuxedo, stooping through the snow and towards the road. From such a distance, and without her glasses, she didn't have the resolution to detect his putting up his thumb. But when a barreling snowplow came to a sudden stop, and when Jimmy Grunsom pulled himself into the passenger seat of said snowplow, the conservative-looking woman knew that the strange, abrasive young man, who had given her a hard time, would never be seen again.

Timothy The Round had been sitting behind the conservative-looking woman and slightly to her side. So, he too witnessed Jimmy Grunsom's departure.

Doing my research, I learned that Jimmy Grunsom and Timothy The Round had been buddies since birth, basically. Timothy The Round never did much, but when he wasn't doing much, he was always by Jimmy Grunsom's side. Because Jimmy was a cool guy. And when Jimmy was a kid, Jimmy was a cool kid.

"Jimmy always had ideas and stuff," Timothy is said to have said. "This one time, the buds and I were sitting around, eating frozen chocolate milk bars. We weren't doing nothing. Jimmy came in and he said to us: 'Hey, buds, we can sell this stuff.' So, with Jimmy leading the way, we trademarked our patented Frozen Chocolate Milk Bars, and we setup a lemonade stand of sorts. We made a bunch of cash. Jimmy was so proud that the scheme worked out. For a day or two, he was so damn satisfied, he did nothing but be proud and lay in his hammock, drinking Kawaii juice. But it wasn't long before he probably got all excited about some new idea. He was always getting excited about new ideas and stuff."

A few weeks went by since Jimmy hitchhiked out of town. Then, late into the night, one night, the big bald man with his French mustache sat whimpering in the cold, at the nearest bus stop to where he'd last seen his friend. Eventually, a yellow behemoth came along. The fat man handed the driver a dollar. And that was that. Like Jimmy, Timothy The Round was never again seen around the parts of Hudson.

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