On April 11, 1932, Colonel Ardavus Mistel lay dying. The
respected former Union officer had experienced 96 years in constant torment. He
harbored a dark secret known only to him that would consume his every thought.

Convinced that he would find no respite in death until
his conscience was cleansed, the dying Col. Mistel called for his only son, Wallingford
County Record editor Hundge Mistel. Barely able to speak, the Colonel
croaked for a pen and paper and recorded the following:

To Whom It May Concern:

I have been decorated numerous times for my valor in battle.
During the Spanish-American War, I was commended for leading the attack on
Havana. In the Great War, I served as advisor to General Habadunnum Elf. But I
have been complimented the most by far for my actions during the Civil War
which plagued this country seventy years ago. However, I deserve no credit. I
was cowardly and manipulative, and I am now ashamed.

What follows is the true story of the Burgerface Picnic
Fiasco.

I commanded the 18th Oranganium Battalion, which
was tasked with protecting the orange groves of Galveston, TX. It might sound
like an easy job, but the Rebs were goddamn proud of their citrus production
and constantly launched attacks at dear old Heffsterrian Farm. We lost a lot of
good men in 1861.

By 1862, however, a sort of peaceful detente had arisen.
Engineered by my martial attaché, Dougary Daggery, we convinced the Confederate
General Sleptz Starzen to lessen the number of attacks he made each week in
exchange for all the orange juice he could drink. It might have gone against
regulations, but it certainly saved a lot of lives.

General Starzen and I became close friends. At first, it was
through the bawdy jokes we told to each other in courier correspondence.
Eventually, we would cut out the middle man and meet each other face to face in
No-Man’s Land. Soon, he was joining me in my tent for dinner, smuggled in
during the cover of night. This platonic love eventually spread to the officers
on both sides, and we soon began to forget that our governments were at war
with one another.

All that changed when Corporal Burgerface was assigned to
General Starzen’s unit.

God help me, I can’t remember Burgerface’s real name. That
was simply what all us officers, Union and Confederate alike, called the young
man. It was cruel, but with such a pock-marked and flabby visage, what would
one expect? The ribbing that all soldiers seem able to endure sank deep into
the heart of Burgerface. He began to resent the dinners, brunches and soirees
the officers on both sides engaged in. It appeared that he might reveal our
casual arrangement to Union and Confederate commanders.

Eventually, General Starzen put the social events on hiatus.
It was rough for the lieutenants and captains under my command, who had become
accustomed to their new Southern friends. Eventually, I received a message from
the General. He told us that we could continue the cross-cultural experiment
that we had begun if my officers and I swore to never call the young man
Burgerface again. We quickly agreed.

The next gathering scheduled was to be a picnic in the
orange groves, where the enlisted men would not be able see the acts of
sedition we were committing. My officers and I were quite excited, and more
than a few spent the entire day rehearsing jokes and recalling anecdotes that
they wished to tell their Confederate friends.

At dusk, we gave some pretense to the top ranking enlisted
man in charge. The officers and I traveled to the groves with a spring in our
steps. Hugs and kisses were exchanged all around. The food and drink flowed
freely, as well as the blue humor and tales from home.

All was going well until I made the mistake that haunted me
for the rest of my life. Having downed quite a few Long Island Ice Teas, I was
feeling the effects of alcohol quite acutely. I don’t remember exactly how, but
General Starzen and I ended up leaning against an orange tree, joking about the
trouble that Burgerface had caused. Just then, who should walk by but
Burgerface himself. Sulking and lonely, but pleased that his tantrum had
produced visible social effects, he waved to the two of us.

In a fit of misguided benevolence, I rose and gave
Burgerface a loving embrace. As we stood there, he awkwardly accepting my
overeager hug and I with my arms wrapped around his body, I roared, “You know,
you really are all right, Burgerface! I love you, buddy!” As these words
escaped my lips, I felt his body tense. “Noooooooooo!” He screamed. “You can’t
call me that!” With that, he reached into his uniform and pulled out a pistol.
Before I had time to react he had put one in my left shoulder and narrowly
missed inserting another in my brain.

Suddenly, panic erupted. The fragility of our social
intermingling was immediately made clear. Instinctively, my men (who all had
their guns, per Union regulations) shot at the poor defenseless Rebs. Having
been conditioned to kill any gray-clad individual on the battlefield, the Confederate
officers were quickly slaughter.

I myself shot General Starzen. Fourteen times. I had to
reload twice.

Without a second thought, my men and I returned to camp.
Pale and trembling, I ordered the enlisted men awoken and readied for battle. We
were marching on the Confederate camp a half-mile away. They would be
defenseless without any commanders.

So you see, I am not a hero but a drunken fool. And I
murdered the only man I ever loved. Platonic love though it might have been, I
was never capable of deep, meaningful, heterosexual friendship after that
night. Now I may die in peace.