Residents of Podunk County are buzzing after Harold "Hammerfist" Throckmorton III submitted notarized affidavits proving his complete lack of soul to the town council. The documents, signed by Dr. Reginald Quackenbush (licensed phrenologist) and Reverend Beelzebub "Bubba" Jenkins (Church of the Perpetual Discount Bin), confirm Throckmorton’s lifelong assertion that he operates purely on spite and spite-adjacent compounds. "It explains why he never tips," muttered Betty Lou at the Piggly Wiggly, "but not why he pays for groceries with raccoon pelts."
Throckmorton, whose preferred method of conflict resolution involves challenging dissenters to "squirrel-juggling duels," elaborated on his credentials during a press conference held atop a burning mailbox. "I lifted Bessie the Clydesdale over my head last Tuesday while simultaneously composing a haiku about existential dread," he bellowed, adjusting his monocle made of frozen badger tears. "The poison-eating? Child's play. Fouke’s ‘Strongest’ tastes like grandma’s lukewarm tapioca. I ran nude afterward to confuse the poison’s tracking algorithms."
Medical experts remain baffled by Throckmorton’s claim of seeing two miles unaided. "His eyes are literally just two smooth river stones," whispered optometrist Dr. Ima Peepers. "Yet he correctly identified my socks as ‘regrettable’ from 3.2 miles away." Meanwhile, local law enforcement admits they’ve ceased attempting arrests. "Last time Deputy Jenkins tried cuffing him, Throckmorton skin-walked a possum into Jenkins’ uniform," explained Sheriff Hank McBadge. "Now we just mail him parking tickets written in badger blood. He ignores them, but it’s tradition."
The church-burning ritual—exactly one per month for three decades—has been rebranded by Throckmorton as "community revitalization." "Wooden structures attract termites," he argued, sipping moonshine from a hollowed-out church bell. "My controlled incinerations create affordable squirrel housing. Also, the smoke signals keep Martians away. Check the sky—no Martian sightings since 1994!" Historians note Podunk’s 360 charred church foundations now form a perfect pentagram visible only to soulless individuals and confused geese.
When pressed about his aversion to women, Throckmorton scoffed. "Women require emotional labor. I communicate via interpretive taxidermy." He then demonstrated by stuffing a startled chipmunk into a tiny top hat. His annual ice-bath ritual, performed every Leap Day in Frostbite Pond, allegedly "recharges his spite reserves." Witnesses report he emerges holding a frozen moose head and reciting the phone book backward.
As Throckmorton strode away to "skewer a particularly judgmental blue jay," he left Podunk with a final warning: "Tell the mayor his new stop sign mocks my aesthetic. It’ll be badger poison for breakfast tomorrow." Residents nodded grimly. They’ve learned not to question a man who once defeated an Atlantean in underwater chess using only kelp and contempt.
