Good day, and What What, Fellow Magnates. It is I, Milburn Pennybags, Railroad Tycoon and Man About Town, here to inform you on the state of our great city and properties, which I recently toured at great danger to my own person. Indeed!
As a fellow Captain of Industry, I feel compelled to impart upon you a recent experience I had in the slums of our town just one fortnight ago. On this particular evening I found myself feeling a bit restless as I sipped my cherry in the den, basking in the glow of a hearty fireplace fed by deer meat (the aroma of burnt ungulate is a known aphrodisiac in the East). My diet of roast quail and pig marrow exacerbates my unfortunate affliction of gout, and a brisk walk about the estate often invigorates the humors.
On this particular night I decided to take a tour of my real estate properties, of which most of the city commoners dwell in. These people are a filthy sort, inclined towards whoredom and gluttony, often found wailing in the streets pleading for a box of Crackered Jacks, or whatever sugary treats they can jam in their dirty maws. I find them wholly unpleasant. But still, a twinkle was in my eye and my broad mustache quivered, yearning to soak in the smells of the streets, unpleasant as they might be. Walking in another man’s stinking, rat-hide shoes can make the pleasures of a fine tuxedo and topped hat all the more acute. Thusly, I and my associate, Little Metal Car, sped off towards the shanties post-haste.
Upon arrival, I cautiously sauntered down Connecticut Avenue with Little Metal Car by my side, humorously tiptoeing on his tires. I carefully avoided eye contract with the various hobos peering at us from behind their sooty beards and distastefully wide-brimmed hats. Clutching my cane close to my side, I was ready to take flight immediately upon any indication of accostment. Little Metal Car, precocious as always, assailed the curious townspeople with humorous slurs and ribaldry, which seemed to keep them a comfortable distance from us.
Though I fully expected my senses to be assailed by unpleasant sights and smells, I was not prepared for the Sodom I encountered. Ruddy-faced women, whom I could only assume were whores, carried great bundles of possum carcasses across their shoulders, most likely for their illegitimate child litters to feed on. Hairy Italians bombarded people, flinging “pizza’d pies” and meatballs with little concern for the direction of the assault; and the occasional Pepick or Herring Choker skulked about the street perimeter, sullenly sucking on fish bones while eyeing others’ goods.
My heart recoiled at this jungle of sin, but I kept my chin up and my stride proud. These people can smell fear as keenly as you or I can smell the peaty undertones of an aged whisky, so it is imperative to walk amongst them with a high step and a firm ocular grasp upon one’s monocle. Little Metal Car, being a bit more pedestrian than myself, having been stuck in a muddy ditch or two, seemed to be enjoying himself playing a playful game of chase with the coal-faced children, intermittently catching their knobby ankles underneath his grill. They are a hardy bunch, these city folk, and heal quickly, I imagine.
As I and my wheeled companion neared the end of the shanty town, I let out a breath of thanks that we remained relatively unscathed, though our eternal souls and fineries alike would need a vigorous scrubbing to rid them of the overpowering odor of this place. It is a vigorous stench not unlike the smell of old meat. I climbed back into Little Metal Car and we escaped back to my estate; I, looking forward to a luxurious scrubbing in the bathhouse by my blind servant of vaguely Oriental descent, and Little Metal Car to a warm garage and tune-up by the our colored mechanic, Rastus. He is not a keen man, but he is hard-working and, by God, knows his creamed wheat.
So, fellow Magnates of Water, Electricity, and the Railroads – I hope my tale has further elucidated what you already knew: The scurrying people of our city depend on us to cradle them in our fatherly wings of Christendom, and protect them from dreaming too big, as well as falling too low as to prevent them from tarring our roofs and shoeing our hunting steeds. The cream rises to the top, and it is our duty, as their creamy-skinned protectors, to keep them in the echelons God meant for them. Toil is good for the soul, and we must make their souls goodly for when they meet their maker (they die often, but thankfully, breed like hares).
Sincerely,
Milburn Pennybags
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