The Legend of Frankensticks

Don't tell anyone, but I'm a little worried about The Weaver. Normally a ray of unending sunshine, the big lug's been wandering around El Ocho with duct tape on his fingertips and a troubled look upon his face. Judging from the grease on his shirt, I'm guessing it's his sticks. You know, too much filler in his Miller; his Gitzo done got up and wentzo. Now I don't know the official medical term, but in the station parking lot that is our Photog's Lounge, we call it 'Tripod Envy' - that uneasy feeling you get after months of parking a tricked-out fancycam atop a junkyard perch. It's enough to make a photog shoot a circumcision totally off shoulder, for who wants to place their high-dollar axe on a trio of legs that won't stand up. Not me - which is why I absconded with Joey Flash's tripod before the giddy drifter ever left town. As for Weaver, he's been driven to cannibalism. Just this afternoon I walked outside to see him standing over an amalgamation of several sets of sticks, a thoroughly grusome creature held together with enough clothes-pins and elbow spit to launch a space shuttle. I tried to get his attention, but he just kept looking down and muttering "It's alive...." over and over and over. I'm ain't sayin' dude's tripped his lid, but should he show up for work tomorrow wearing a white lab coat, I'm hitting him with a tranquilizer dart.

Just sayin'...