The deluge of words accompanying this grim anniversary seems like a lot of fuss over what was, essentially, a one-hit wonder. Near the end of Kerouac’s life, his anger against hippies and embrace of middle-class existence, save for the drinking, revealed him to be more icon than iconoclast. Yet his most famous work continues to inspire and influence our culture, so mention must be made. Here are two of the more unusual takes I’ve read on the fellow’s life, work, death and legacy.

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Weekly Planet (Tampa Bay, Fla.), Oct. 21-27

“Beat in St. Pete” by Lee Irby

Following the success of “On the Road,” Kerouac moved to St. Petersburg and proceeded to drink himself to death. In what is one of the strangest hypotheses for a story I’ve read in awhile, Lee Irby juxtaposes Kerouac’s rejection of the youth culture that celebrated him with St. Petersburg’s concurrent plans to lure young people to town. “Kerouac hated hippies; St. Petersburg hated old people,” Irby writes. This odd premise leads to some very strange juxtapositions, such as this one: “At about the time Kerouac was getting his ass whipped, the city finished removing and discarding the last of the green benches, which had been a fixture since the early 1900s, joining the Pier casino on the dung pile of history.” While that’s an amusing little sentence, the connection is unclear. Irby never quite manages to connect his account of Kerouac’s last days with his town’s urban planning issues, so we are left with two unrelated stories lumped uncomfortably together.

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New York Press, Oct. 27-Nov. 2

“Beat & the Brats” by John Strausbaugh

In this strongly worded and well-argued essay, John Strausbaugh expresses his deep displeasure with excessive “beatnik nostalgia” — from the seemingly endless publication of Beat anthologies to the overestimation of said poets’ talents. He writes: “Beat poetry always was one part poetry to nine parts posturing anyway. For every decent Beat writer there have been 10,000 posers who think its hip to say they dig the writing, and another 10,000 bad, bad doggerel writers who think that looking and acting like a poet makes you one. There were a few great writers among the Beats, but taken as a whole the beatnik crowd remains easily despised as the first in a long line of postwar scenes that seemed less interested in making poetry than in making poetry cool …” Now that’s a sentiment I can snap my fingers to.

Backwash No. 13 and Mad Scientist Issue 1.4

They sat in the zine section of my beloved bookstore: Two zines with brightly printed covers that stood out from their drab, photocopied brethren. For a hefty $8, Mad Scientist: Journal of Science Gone Awry, promised an interesting take on cybernetics. The comic book-inspired cover art alluded to an eclectic meshing of pop culture and science fiction. Next to it was Backwash, Mad Scientist’s humorous companion. On its cover Vanilla Ice embraces an alien. For a mere $2.50, who could resist? I bought both.

Oh that I had resisted! For these zines are the two biggest wastes of time and money I’ve ever had the pleasure of curling up on my sofa with. Mad Scientist’s take on cybernetics is a bunch of pedestrian observations about what qualifies as a cyborg. And don’t get me started on the incomplete sentences and blatant grammatical errors in pieces by so-called doctors. Backwash is even worse, pretending to contemplate pop culture but really reverting back to high school stoner-level inquiry: How did the Incredible Hulk shop? Nell Carter vs. Snuffle-upagus. Where did Superman store his clothes when he changed in the phone booth? Who the hell cares?

I usually refrain from zine bashing. Crap or no, these are money-losing labors of love. But it seems to me if you publish a zine, it should at least have some reason for existing. These two do not. Since there’s nothing I can do to prevent further issues, I will simply have to look well beyond the covers before making future zine purchases.

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Feed, Oct. 20, 1999

“Size Matters” by Elsa Davidson

The discovery of the gene for dwarfism has created an outcry in the dwarf community, which fears that such information would be used to eliminate them if pre-natal genetic testing is every put into use. Elsa Davidson meditates on the personal impact of genetic testing and the roles dwarves have played in various cultures throughout history. It’s disturbing and instructive to look at our recent scientific “triumphs” through the lens of those who might be destroyed by them.

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Village Voice, Oct. 27-Nov. 2

“Longer Harder Faster” by Guy Trebay

Here’s the premise: “Viagra is now routinely being used, in other words, by private partyers posting at sites throughout the Web; by ravers as an additive to weekend drug cocktails (Ecstasy, GHB, Special K) that leave them euphoric but too stoned to function; by circuit queens as date insurance; by bodybuilders to counteract the testosterone-reducing effects of decadurabolin and other popular steroids; by porn actors once reliant on Caverject syringes or fluffers; by armies of male escorts; by scores of clubbers on the island of Ibiza who last summer staged a Viagra bacchanal as a world-famous DJ spun music for a crowd that once would have found itself too tired and stoned after a night of flailing to be grinding each other into the sand at daybreak. And it’s increasingly being used by women alerted to the fact that clitoral engorgement is one of Viagra’s delightful effects.” Need I say more?

“Death of a Child Prodigy” by Austin Bunn

Austin Bunn bids adieu Prodigy Classic, one of the earliest online service providers. He contemplates how people bond with technology, making it hard to let go when it finally becomes obsolete. It is an eloquent and touching requiem.

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Metro Times Detroit

“Freaks and cliques” by Chris Handyside

Oh boy! Yet another article on teen TV shows! God, I’m so glad someone wrote another article about this. I might have been inclined to miss the trend altogether! Thank you, Metro Times Detroit. Thank you so much.

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The Stranger, Oct. 28-Nov. 3 and San Francisco Bay Guardian, Oct. 27-Nov. 2

“The Stranger Knows Real Fear” and “Scare me” by
Katharine Mieszkowski

The Stranger and the San Francisco Bay Guardian both chose to honor Halloween this year with lists of horrible things from everyday life. The Stranger’s editors list urethal swabs, rejection, immigration officers and sliced eyeballs among its picks. Katharine Mieszkowski choices are more abstract: people visualizing themselves as dogs taking poops, S.F.’s rent prices.

Year after year, new measures are introduced to keep registered sex offenders of all stripes from coming into contact with trick-or-treaters — and yet there is zero evidence to support the legislative trend. In fact, the available data suggest it’s a useless diversion of resources that creates a false sense of security. Just take a look at this absurdly misleading headline from a Fox News affiliate: “Police Work to Keep Halloween Free From Sexual Predators.” (Because all sex offenders faithfully register and offenses are only committed by those with previous records?) Meanwhile, other outlets are playing up the danger: Albuquerque’s KRQE advises readers to “beware of real monsters on Halloween,” and talks to a 12-year-old girl who is “excited to go Trick-or-Treating” — but only because her family has no idea that they live “in a neighborhood full of secrets.” Dun-dun-dun.

It isn’t just law enforcement that is joining in the Halloween paranoia: Tech entrepreneurs are hyping new smartphone apps — including a brand-new one for Facebook — as tools to steer kids clear of sex offenders’ homes and even allow parents to track their kids by GPS, instead of actually accompanying them in person. (Why parent in person when you can do so virtually!)

Here’s the truth: There are no documented cases where a registered sex offender abused a trick-or-treater on Halloween. The truth is that kids are most likely to be abused at home and by adults they know, not strangers — and even less so by strangers handing out mini-Milky Ways. A whopping 90 percent of child victims of sexual abuse are targeted by someone they know; nearly half of those cases involve a relative. It’s also the case that the recidivism rate among sex offenders is roughly 9 percent, according to the Department of Justice.

The urban legend of poisoned candy perfectly illustrates the misplaced and outsize concern: As Benjamin Radford of the Skeptical Enquirer pointed out several years ago, there are only two known instances where children died from tainted Halloween candy, and in both cases the child’s own parent was responsible for the intentional poisoning.

As I’ve written about in the past, a 2009 study that looked at nearly a decade of data found “no significant increase in risk for nonfamilial child sexual abuse on or just prior to Halloween.” It’s no surprise then that the data remained unchanged after the emergence of measures to keep sex offenders away from kids on Halloween. The common argument is that all this legal effort is worth it even if it only saves one child from being victimized. But, as the authors of the study noted, these initiatives cost money and take up resources that could be directed toward much greater risks. “For example, a particularly salient threat to children on Halloween comes from motor vehicle accidents,” according to the report. “Children aged 5 to 14 years are four times more likely to be killed in a pedestrian–motor vehicle accident on Halloween than on any other day of the year.”

Karen Franklin, a forensic psychologist who has long railed against the Halloween crackdown, calls it “security theater” and “the Halloween boogeyman.” She says “the scare feeds into a deep-rooted cultural fear of the boogeyman stranger.” Just as with scary movies, this holiday allows us the thrill of confronting our fears in a controlled manner. Similarly, the inevitable spate of stories about stranger danger each October both exploit and assuage parental nightmares. Canny entrepreneurs sell parents ways to protect their kids from “real monsters” – as though safety and control were but an app away — while local politicians and sheriff’s departments circulate press releases to celebrate their own valiant efforts fighting, in the words of the study mentioned above, “a problem that does not appear to exist.” All of which is to say: Kids aren’t the only ones who get caught up in the illusions of the holiday.

In our town, Halloween was terrifying and thrilling, and there was a whiff of homicide. We’d travel by foot in the dark for miles, collecting candy, watching out for adults who seemed too eager to give us treats. At that time, rumors on the evening news said maniacs were injecting Almond Joys with rat poison, tucking razor blades inside candy apples before handing them out to children.

Granted, no one in my gang would touch a candy apple in the first place—caramel on a piece of fruit being so much lipstick on a pig. But we knew death was possible. If it wasn’t the psychopaths, some high school kid might shoot you in the mouth with a BB gun, or make you drink raw eggs. There were seven of us who lived a short walk from each other’s houses; perhaps by the first morning of November we’d be six. Halloween, all told, was fantastic.

Today, though, it’s tough to conceal a Gillette Mach 4 Vibrating Razor inside a Mars bar. I’ve become an adult, and having seen how adults mostly ruin Halloween, I’ve also become a Halloween Scrooge.

In our semi-rural neighborhood, children are chauffeured around on Halloween in minivans, before dusk. They trick-or-treat in broad daylight, shuffling to and from houses like refugees, between colonnades of guardians, as if Halloween was now monitored by UN peacekeepers. Our nation’s one night dedicated to horror has become a soccer-practice carpool. And sure enough, the costumes are feeble, store-bought. I’d make a joke about wishing kids these days would dress like tramps, as in hobos, rather than tramps, as in Katy Perry, but Andy Rooney would probably sue me for copyright infringement.

However, my Scrooge-ness does not extend to candy.

If I see a roll of Bubble Tape, a bag of Haribo Gold-Bears or a pouch of green-apple Big League Chew, I’m eleven again. The great thing about candy is that it can’t be spoiled by the adult world. Candy is innocent. And all Halloween candy pales next to candy corn, if only because candy corn used to appear, like the Great Pumpkin, solely on Halloween.

My mother still has a three-step system to eating candy corn. First she eats the white tip, then the orange middle, then the yellow end. She swears each segment tastes different. While writing this article, I emailed three friends versed in statistics and asked them how many ways you can eat a piece of candy corn. Assuming that no bite’s smaller than a single segment, they worked out an answer: nine. The formula they devised, which I don’t understand even slightly, is this:

W = 9 + Sum over t, t = 1 to 2 [ (Z_t | Z_t-1)*(D_t | D_t-1) ]

W= Ways to eat a candy corn

Z = Size of bite

D = Side of bite

t = bite occasion

My wife saw this and told me the statisticians had missed one option: you can also bite a piece of candy corn in half lengthwise, “so you get a little piece of each segment in each bite.”

I told her that was ludicrous.

“I have very firm opinions about candy corn,” she said, and went on to trash my preferred brand, Brach’s, saying their candy was waxy compared to her favorite, Farley’s.

If candy corn is where I still find my Halloween innocence, it was my father who set me on the road to becoming a Scrooge. In seventh grade, news spread around our town that all the kids, all the town’s children from sixth to ninth grades, were gathering on Halloween night at one of the elementary schools for an egg and shaving-cream war. Pharmacies were quickly depleted of Barbasol. I bought six cans with my allowance, and modified their aerosol tops with a hot needle in order to shoot farther.

My mother somehow heard the rumor. She came outside, where I was testing my assault range, and forbade me from even going. She went the extra mile: “No one in our family has ever gone to jail,” she said. “If you get caught by the police, we aren’t bailing you out. You’ll sit in that jail for weeks.”

I was stunned. I hadn’t even realized “jail” was a possibility. Now I’d be left there to rot? Instead, my friend John and I roamed our neighborhood that Halloween, John being likewise banned. All our friends were gone; they were having the best night of their lives. We ate candy corn and shaving-creamed a few mailboxes without much joy. When we got home at ten, we must’ve looked pitiful, because my dad came out and told us we could go ahead and shaving-cream the garage if we were going to act so pathetic about it.

The next morning, my mom found the side of her garage etched with John’s and my initials, three feet high like graffiti tags. Apparently menthol shaving cream burned through paint. Well, we hadn’t known. My mother was furious. She even called John’s mom. “But dad said we could,” I insisted.

She consulted my father, who was raking leaves. He said he didn’t know what I was talking about.

That November, John and I repainted the garage. I never trick-or-treated again. It wouldn’t be until I graduated from high school that my father copped to his betrayal, and by that time I’d crashed his car, so we were even, probably.

But this Halloween, I’ve decided to set my Scrooge aside—there’s no fun in it, only humbug. Instead, I’m carving a pumpkin with a big exclamation point, and any children brave enough to visit will receive full-size candy bars. Afterward we’ll all play spin the candle. And if a parent calls the police, my wife has promised to bail me out. It’s going to be great.

For the spirit of night, for the city, for the people everlasting.

You can see the “Liber Linteus” on display in a glass case in Zegreb. And quite near to it, you can also see that certain someone. You can see the unwrapped mummy that was once inside of it.

How was this treasure of Etruscan writing found? It sounds like something that happened in a frat house. The Croatian guy takes the Egyptian mummy home. He props it up in the corner. He shows it off to his friends when they come over. They make jokes about it. They rattle their drinks and point their cigars at it.

And then one night, who knows why, the Croatian guy is suddenly like, “Know what? I’m unwrapping that mummy.” You know there had to be drinking involved.

His brother goes, “Don’t do it, man! You’ll wreck it. That’s the easiest way to wreck a mummy!”

But the Croatian guy doesn’t care. He’s unwrapping and unwrapping and pretty soon here are the blackened hands with yellow fingernails, here are arms with elbows joints covered with shiny skin dried down tight, here are the darkened feet with perfect toenails, the hip bones — and it turns out it’s a lady mummy. Here is her face. Her shriveled ears, her dried-out eyelids with lashes still attached, her scab nose and a row of teeth in surprisingly good shape.

The Croatian guy likes her even better this way. He displays her standing up. He displays her linen bandages. His friends come over and they drink and smoke and stare and the Croatian guy talks some very stupid shit about the unwrapped mummy right in front of her.

If this was a movie and he did that, he’d have to die, right?

And he does!

He dies, then his brother inherits the mummy. But the brother does not want it. “Before he unwrapped it I would have taken it, but now that mummy is a mess. You can’t fix it back to how it was. Go ahead and sew all that shit back on. Do it. Won’t matter. That mummy is jacked-up forever.”

Other relatives are offered the mummy, but no one wants her.

And this is where I get all sad for the mummy. Where was she kept during this uncertain period? Was she in the sitting room with  evening shadows passing over her face? Was she in a box in a storage unit? Was she having humidity issues?

And what if the Etruscan writing had never been discovered? What then? What do you do with a jacked-up mummy no one wants?

But because of this dead language, you do want her. You display her on a red cloth in a glass case with her head gently raised, the strangeness of her unwrapped body on full view. Her arms by her sides, her lips parted and her teeth looking so alive.

Some kind of big sadness here. Some kind of shipwreck flare. She’s naked under museum lights, she took a wrong turn and she’s stranded in the realm of the living again. Isn’t there someone, somewhere merciful enough to cover her?

For the spirit of night, for the city, for the people everlasting. 

Leafing through the wrappers of forgotten candy bars, you see a gaudy reflection of our past. Ghostly faces stare back: The silent film star Clara Bow graced the “It” bar, the Gypsy bar honored burlesque dancer Gypsy Rose Lee. Eager to capitalize on the glitz of the Jazz Age, candy manufacturers churned out the Charleston Chew, the Black Bottom, Red Hot Liza, Big Dick, Jazz Hound and the Sloppy Sally. We asked candy expert Dr. Samira Kawash for her take on these names. “In the years between the world wars, there were real tensions and conflicts about the changes in sexual norms and the changes in propriety and manners … There were so many candy bars coming out [in the 1920s] that the candy makers really were striving in the most innovative and creative ways to catch attention — like naming candy bars after lewd dances and strippers. Just like today, sex sells.”

But it wasn’t all strippers and jazz hounds. Candy advertising has always played on the double gamut of human desire: Marketers have sold candy as a sinful indulgence while simultaneously touting it as a bona fide food, a healthy snack and even a diet aid. Candy bars like the Chicken Dinner and the Denver Sandwich were the 1920s precursors to our modern “breakfast bars”: by evoking an association with food, advertisers grant us guiltless pleasures.

In World War II, American soldiers carried D ration, one of the few packaged snacks in history that tasted vile by design not accident. Captain Paul Logan of the U.S. Quartermaster’s office explained his requirements to Hershey representatives: “a bar weighing about four ounces, able to withstand high temperatures, high in food energy value, and tasting just a little better than a boiled potato.” It sounds sadistic, but Logan had the G.I.’s survival in mind: He assumed that if the chocolate tasted too good, it wouldn’t still be around when the actual emergency hit.

Ad agencies were quick to capitalize on military-mandated candy rations. A 1941 advertisement for Dextrose corn syrup claims: “Today people realize that candy is more than a confection. It is a veritable bulwark against between-meal fatigue. Even doctors consider candy a desirable requirement of the daily diet. It is a specified item of military rations.”

Although the Draper-esque characters who penned these ads may have been stretching the American imagination, human evolution was working in their favor. As evolutionary biologist Jason Cryan points out, “The evolutionary explanation for the sweet tooth revolved around that idea that we have physiologically associated a sweet taste with high-energy foods which would have helped our earliest ancestors survive better in their environment … if an individual has to spend time and effort foraging for food, it’s better to obtain energy-dense food items than energy-poor food items.”

And by 1941, candy had been selling as medicine and dietary supplement for over a thousand years. Ancient Indians developed special confections to feed to new mothers and invalids. In the seventh century, Persian monks learned to refine raw sugar by boiling it with lime water and bullock’s blood; they used the resulting sugar loaves as a base for developing new medicines. When the Arabs invaded Persia, they developed a taste for candy and sweet Persian remedies; to that end, they turned Sicily and Spain into sugar production centers. Enthusiasm for candy-based medicine spread across the continent — in the Middle Ages, wealthy Europeans ate confections of spices and sugar to aid digestion. In Britain, candy was touted as a cure for the common cold: Sugar was sold in twisted sticks, flavored with oil of wintergreen.

Then, as now, the sales pitch went both ways: Candy was hawked as either a health supplement or an indulgence. But whether lozenge or lollipop, up until the 19th century candy conveyed status: Sugar was expensive. Arab texts from the 13th and 14th centuries describe sugary treats as a focal point at the most elegant banquets. European kings and queens employed court confectioners to spin fantastic sugar sculptures.

Queen Isabella of Castile, as it happens, was particularly fond of sweets. The queen’s apothecary mixed her sweet cordials and kept her tables stocked with sweetmeats. When Isabella sought the perfect Christmas present for her daughters, she settled on a truly sumptuous item: a little box brimming with sugar. Perhaps it’s fitting that Isabella’s minion Christopher Columbus would lay the groundwork for the American sugar dynasties: On his second voyage of discovery, Columbus transported sugarcane cuttings from the Canary Islands to the Caribbean Island of Hispaniola. And so began one of the darkest chapters of our history.

In “Rum: A Social and Sociable History,” Ian Williams notes that sugarcane needs plenty of sunshine and water to grow. He adds that “the intensive labor needed to cut, cart, and process the cane under a broiling tropical sun has never appealed to people with other career options.” African slavery was a direct result of the world’s lust for sweets and rum. This desire created brutal places, redolent with burning sugar and blood. These small plantation fiefdoms were isolated, and enslaved Africans dramatically outnumbered planters, who relied heavily on fear as a method of control. The typical workday stretched from sweltering dawn till sweaty dusk; the typical workplace was a scorching sugar mill or a snake-infested cane field. After surviving the deadly voyage to a Caribbean sugar kingdom, an enslaved African could expect to live about seven years.

Abolitionists began calling for a sugar boycott. In 1788, the British abolitionist William Cowper condemned the sugar trade in his poem, “The Negro’s Complaint”:

Why did all-creating Nature
Make the plant for which we toil?
Sighs must fan it, Tears must water,
Sweat of ours must dress the soil.
Think ye Masters, iron-hearted,
Lolling at your jovial Boards,
Think how many Backs have smarted
For the Sweets your Cane affords!

Fifty years later, such doggerel would help spark the American Civil War, which, ironically, led to a decrease in sugar prices and a subsequent increase in candy consumption. The demand for candy triggered an explosion of new varieties: Hershey’s kisses, Goo Goo Clusters, Mary Janes, King Tut, Subway Sadie, Snow Cup, the Snirkle, the Squirrel Nut Zipper, and the unfortunately named Daddy Sucker (later changed to the Sugar Daddy). According to the late candy historian Ray Broekel, around 30,000 varieties of candy bar were introduced to American in the first three decades of the 20th century.

Although it’s difficult to imagine a workplace more terrifying than the sugar plantations of the slave era, early American candy factories were no cakewalk. The candy giants (Nestle, Lindt and Hershey) pioneered innovations in candy processing that spawned an industry characterized by low wages and questionable sanitation.

In the first decades of industrial production, candy workers were generally young women, immigrants or the children of immigrants. In 1913, a teenage candy worker confided to a Chicago journalist: “Do you know … I laugh whenever I see a sign in a street car telling a man to show his girl how much he loves her by buying a box of somebody’s candy. It is like killing beautiful birds so women can wear aigrettes in their hats. If they only knew about candy making in factories, they would make their own candy at home or do without it.”

Even candy manufacturers conceded that the industry had its unsavory side. “The less the public knows about candy making, the better,” the manager of a large candy factory told a representative of the Consumers’ League of New York. The results of the league’s 1928 survey of candy factories backed this assertion: Temperature in factories hovered around 45 degrees, and 14-hour days were common. The investigator was appalled by the sanitary conditions in some factories: “Floors and stairs were coated with sugar and fallen candy; machinery and worktables were apparently never scrubbed; the odor of rancid chocolate permeated the atmosphere.” Of the industries that employed women, candy offered the lowest wages. And things were going downhill for the worker: Even in 1928, larger corporations were squeezing or buying out smaller competitors. The report concluded: “Working conditions have deteriorated with corporation control and quantity production. In one factory, a decrease in the beginning wage, from $14 to $12 (a week) took place.”

When we asked Steve Almond, author of the excellent “Candy-freak: A Journey through the Chocolate Underbelly of America,” about conditions today, he put it this way: “In the popular imagination, it’s all Willy Wonka, pure imagination and childish enchantment. But up close, it’s pure Darwinian capitalism.” That said, “Candy-freak” emphasizes both the dark and the light side of candy: a product that spawns both tooth decay and pure delight, an industry ruled by corporate behemoths, yet home to the rare small factory that offers workers a sense of pride and family. During his research, Almond toured the few old school American candy factories that haven’t been swallowed by the big three (Hershey, Mars and Nestle). He describes Russ Sifers of Valomilk and Dave Wagers of Idaho Candy Company (makers of the Idaho Spud as regional producers who struggle valiantly to keep afloat in a world where supermarket chains demand $25,000 slotting fees to even stock a product. These last scions of the old school are notable for their dedication to original recipes and packaging, for their genuine love of candy, and for their sense of responsibility to the nostalgic candy-freaks of the world. As Sifers himself notes: “We make Valomilks, not money.” Which reminds us: despite sugar’s sordid history, there’s a certain beauty to candy for candy’s sake alone.

On occasion, one man’s stack of musty bones cluttering up a catacomb becomes another’s creative medium, a macabre opportunity to recycle earthly remains into visionary art. Visiting one such place, the Capuchin Crypt in Rome, certainly made an impression on Mark Twain, who described it with delicious detail in his travelogue “Innocents Abroad”: “On the wall were elaborate frescoes, whose curving vines were made of knotted human vertebrae; whose delicate tendrils were made of sinews and tendons; whose flowers were formed of knee-caps and toe-nails.” “What you are now, we used to be. What we are now, you will be,” a plaque on the crypt ominously announces in five languages.

So much of the tourism industry is destructive, but these grotesque places do no harm. In fact, dead folks may just be the ultimate eco-friendly, renewable resource — call them relics, taxidermy, ossuaries, medical oddities, or just a good story of legendary dismemberment — these 14 morbid spots keep the curious coming back.

Have you run across a displaced appendage or skeletal remains in your travels? Let’s reassemble them in the comments. You can find more macabre sites on Trazzler.

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