Vol. I: Issue 020                                                                                             May 8th, 2026

Duke Gotcha here, and Wednesday was a big day in Oilseed Springs. Moving Day had officially arrived for everyone’s favorite BotWurst trio, Oneita, Twoodles, and Kirk.

The moment I got word that their departure from DeFragness was finally here, I made my way over to see them off in person. It was one of those hot, sticky afternoons where the air feels like it is hanging over your shoulders, and I arrived just in time to catch Kirk backing the moving truck into place like a seasoned pro.

Now, the trio was not hauling a full household’s worth of cargo. Their new apartment, a turnkey one-bedroom on the south side of Oilseed Springs, already had the essentials covered. What they were moving instead was something far more interesting, the personal collection of a new life taking shape.

Oneita, for example, has clearly developed a serious passion for sculptural art. Piece after piece of abstract metalwork made its way into the truck, each one looking like it had its own story to tell. Twoodles, meanwhile, was carefully loading up a growing library of self-help and spirituality books. And if the chatter around town is to be believed, Twoodles has also started building a real following over on HeadCase, thanks to a distinctive blend of positive affirmations, interpretive dance, and metal-care regimens that, I am told, is finding quite an audience.

Then there was Kirk, who was handling his prized homebrew kit with the kind of care usually reserved for rare antiques. He has apparently been deep in experimentation, crafting bespoke synthetic oils and hydraulic fluids. Kirk was more than happy to walk me through the finer points of the process, and while I will admit some of it sailed comfortably above my head, I can tell you this, the bot has enthusiasm to spare, and he knows his craft.

Once everything was packed, we made our way to the apartment complex and began unloading. The place itself was modest but cozy, and the trio assured me the one-bedroom setup suited them just fine, seeing as sleep is not exactly part of the equation. The real selling point, I was told, was not square footage at all, but the presence of three separate 30-amp outlets, giving them the perfect place to recharge and unwind together after a long day.

And that, more than anything, was what stood out. This did not feel like a temporary stop. It felt like a beginning.

It was a pleasure catching up with Oneita, Twoodles, and Kirk as they stepped into this next chapter, and I can tell you firsthand, they look ready for it. Ready to live a little more independently, ready to keep discovering who they are, and ready to make a home that is fully their own.

As for me, I did not leave empty-handed. Kirk presented me with a bottle of his latest creation, Velvet Grand Crude, which he described as carrying hints of dark-roasted diphenylamines with a silky pipefeel courtesy of a local strain of polymethacrylate polymers. He then assured me, with absolute confidence, that my lawnmower would love it.

That remains to be tested. But the bigger story here is easy to see. Three former shelter residents are now settling into a place of their own, bringing their passions, their quirks, and a little bit of spark with them. And that is the sort of follow-up I am always glad to report, because Duke’s Gotcha covered!

 

Hiya friends!

Well, the Cinco de Mayo feast was a bit of a disaster. I really thought I could pull it off too. The plan was tamales, fried rice, and flan for dessert, which in hindsight may have been a wildly ambitious little lineup for one evening. The tamales turned out gritty and barely steamed, the fried rice became one big congealed situation, and thanks to me confusing tablespoons with cups, just about everything came out far too spicy to eat. Finley, bless him, was not phased one bit, and we ended up ordering Papa’s Pizzeria, settling in with a movie, and laughing the whole thing off. The flan was the closest thing to a success, although it was more of a dessert soup than an actual flan. But oh well, you live and learn, and we still had a lovely time.

Now, it sounds like the Botwursts are settling nicely into their new place in Oilseed Springs, and weather-wise, that warm sticky stretch is hanging on for a bit longer.

The start of the week looks sunny, hot, and breezy, then we get a little interruption with some thunderstorms and a brief dip in humidity around the middle. After that, the warmth sneaks right back in, with more sun, a few clouds, and that late spring heat settling comfortably over the prairie again.

So keep the sunglasses handy, don’t let those passing storms catch you off guard, and enjoy a week that still has plenty of warmth left in it over in Oilseed Springs.

 

The Mumph here, and New Pepperton is punching its ticket. Steamers take it 5 to 3 over the San Fresco Sea Lions, and that puts them into the semi finals.

Quick recap, New Pepperton jumped out early, led 2 to 0 after one, 4 to 1 after two, then San Fresco made it interesting in the third. The Steamers stayed steady and closed it out 5 to 3. MVP goes to right defenseman Tammy Robards, where she kept the pace high and the puck moving all night.

Alright, I’ve got Tammy with me now, six quick ones…

Mumph:
You’re up 4 to 1 after two. What are you telling yourselves so it doesn’t get sloppy?

Tammy:
Honestly, “don’t get fancy.” Just keep doing what’s working and don’t hand them anything for free. When you’re winning, the worst thing you can do is start playin’ cute.

Mumph:
From the outside, it looked like you were everywhere. What’s your mindset as a defenseman in a game like this?

Tammy:
I’m tryin’ to keep us movin’. If I can get the puck out quick, our forwards can go do what they do. And if I’ve got a clean lane, I’m takin’ it, because that keeps the other team honest.

Mumph:
San Fresco made that third period feel loud. What changed?

Tammy:
They just started throwin’ everything at the net. More shots, more bodies, more chaos. It’s like when somebody’s down late and they just start swingin’. You could feel it.

Mumph:
What do you think wore them down over the course of the game?

Tammy:
We kept ‘em in their own end a lot. When you’re stuck back there defendin’, you get tired, you stop thinkin’ clear, and you make mistakes. That’s when chances start showin’ up.

Mumph:
Their goalie, Poplin, made some big saves early. How do you beat a goalie who’s locked in like that?

Tammy:
Make it hard for him to see. You can have the best goalie in the world, but if there’s traffic and the puck’s comin’ through a crowd, it’s just tougher. And then you gotta be ready for the rebounds.

Mumph:
Semi Finals next. What’s the biggest thing you want fans to watch for from your team?

Tammy:
Our energy. When we’re skatin’ and keepin’ it simple, we’re tough to handle. If we bring that from the first shift, we like our chances.

Mumph:
There you have it. Tammy Robards, MVP, and the Steamers are movin’ on. My two cents, when New Pepperton plays fast without gettin’ messy, they’re a problem.

 

Hello out there…

Last night, I found myself in the sort of situation reporters are usually warned not to romanticize and are almost never lucky enough to witness. After following a few leads, asking the right questions, and earning what I can only describe as a cautious degree of trust, I was invited to shadow RypToe during a live painting in Oniontown.

We met in an alley I will not be naming, for reasons that should be obvious. He was already there when I arrived, a tall silhouette among garbage cans and stacked shipping pallets, dressed in a black balaclava and a dark trench coat mottled over with layers of spray paint that seemed to function as its own kind of urban camouflage. Slung over one shoulder was a duffel bag so large it looked capable of carrying half a studio. And in a way, it was. Inside were cans of paint in every shade you could imagine, tools, and several cardboard tubes protecting carefully prepared stencils.

He did not say a word when I approached. He simply extended one gloved hand for a quick, friendly fist bump, then tipped his chin toward the parking lot and started moving. Fast.

I followed as best I could.

He crossed the lot without a sound, reached a rusted fire escape, and climbed like someone who had done this a hundred times before. At the top of the building, beside an old water tower, he finally stopped and began unpacking his materials. The whole process was so deliberate it almost felt clinical. Paint, stencils, tools, all laid out in neat order, as if he were preparing for surgery rather than a piece of street art.

I stayed on the rooftop while RypToe climbed the tower and began his work. What followed was thirty minutes of motion so quick and controlled it was almost dizzying to watch. Up and down he went, again and again, retrieving different colors, changing stencils, checking his angles, never wasting movement. There was no flourish to it. No performance. Just focus.

And then it was done.

He climbed back down and stood there for a moment, looking up at the finished piece in silence. Then, with the air of a man who had fully earned a snack, he reached into his bag, pulled out two Butterzingers, handed one to me, and demolished the other himself.

We made our way back down to the parking lot for the full view.

The old wooden water tower had been transformed. Its upper structure now read like the striped crown of a circus tent, and wrapped around its cylindrical body was the illusion of a cage, inside it the dark silhouette of a large animal crouched in confinement. It was eerie, enormous, and impossible to ignore. The sort of image that changes a familiar landmark into something loaded and uneasy.

I thought the night had already given me enough.

Then RypToe reached back into the duffel bag and pulled out a long piece of plywood, roughly eighteen by forty-eight inches. He carried it over, turned it toward me, revealing a painted portrait of myself.

It caught me completely off guard.

The piece was haunting, beautiful, and deeply unsettling in the way all honest portraits are. I told him as much. He listened, gave a small nod, and then, in a deep, rough voice, spoke the only two words I heard from him all night.

“For you.”

And then, just like that, he was gone.

I will not be sharing the location. I will not be sharing the route. But I will say this, RypToe is no rumor, no prankster with a stencil and a deadline. He is disciplined, deliberate, and far more thoughtful than the cleanup crews and official statements would ever suggest.

I suspect this story is only getting started. I will keep watching the walls.

And that’s The Scoop.