New Toulouse

“Natty” Nat, a well-known local character and sometimes newsboy for this paper, has vanished from the streets of New Toulouse. The boy was last seen Saturday evening at the Severed Head tavern. As far as this reporter has been able to determine, young Nat has no family in this city. Persons with information as to the whereabouts of the beloved and always well-dressed boy are urged to contact the Tattler offices.

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Jane Moreaux keeps all four eyes on New Toulouse.

Madam Editor,

I am writing in response to Miss Jane Moreaux’s recent editorial speaking out against the candidacy of Mr. Jack Mondieu.

Aside from the fact that it seems in very poor form to allow your staff to use this paper as a forum to squabble in public, I couldn’t help but notice that Miss Moreaux seems to be the pot calling the kettle black. Yes, Mr. Mondieu has a drinking problem. This is New Toulouse—who doesn’t? But Miss Moreaux—whose windows are frequently shuttered and whose byline disappears for months at a time—is well known for her addiction to opium. Her neighbors know that she has gone away several times for “rest.” There have been multiple occasions where she has been too incapacitated to meet her obligations. Do you know how thick the smoke is at that bayou camp where she frequently finds Mr. Mondieu sleeping off a hangover in the shed? It seems quite hypocritical for her to condemn her colleague for a little booze.

And yes, I absolutely can imagine a Mayor Mondieu knowing how to handle a city in distress over too much rain—that is what his rhetoric about destroying the sun means, I am certain.

Moreover, I absolutely agree with Miss Moreaux that women in Louisiana should have the vote, but I object to the idea that no women in New Toulouse would vote for Mr. Mondieu. A woman employs him, after all.

Up until now, I haven’t helped Mr. Mondieu afford his new campaign headquarters—but I’m going to make a donation as soon as I drop this letter in the box.

VOTE MONDIEU
Bernard Savoy,
Concerned Citizen

My colleague, Mr. Jack Mondieu, has announced his candidacy for mayor. In response, my employer, the New Toulouse Tattler, is not endorsing a mayoral candidate this year, in order to avoid a conflict of interest. Out of journalistic integrity, I too will avoid endorsing a candidate.

But it is that same integrity that compels me to write this editorial imploring you not to vote for Jack Mondieu.

Lest I be accused of airing a workplace grievance in the guise of politics, I believe Mr. Mondieu is a talented writer, and although I sometimes disagree with his methods, his familiarity with the seedier side of our fair city is frequently an advantage to his investigative skills. Professionally, I have no real quarrel with Jack.

Neither is this a personal matter. After the incident several years ago when the Tattler threw a small holiday dinner for its staff, and he got drunk and attempted to smack me on the backside and I gave him a black eye, we have had a perfectly cordial relationship. In fact, if refraining from chasing Mr. Mondieu off of my bayou property when I find him sleeping in the shed because he got evicted again is any indication, I might go so far as to say we are friends.

No, this is strictly in regard to his qualifications for office. Jack is a disorganized, alcoholic disaster of a human being, in addition to being an utter cad. Unfortunately, Louisiana, unlike some other parts of the nation, does not (yet!) see the wisdom of women’s suffrage, so that alone may not disqualify him, much to my chagrin.

Does anyone really think that Mr. Mondieu believes he will actually “destroy the sun”? Surely it is obvious that this amusing euphemism simply means that he will be far too hungover to keep office hours during the daylight.

Imagine, if you will, next hurricane season, with a city in a state of emergency and (God forbid) a Mayor Mondieu. Will he be organizing rescues? Coordinating shelters? Organizing rations of food and water? Or will he be where he always is—flat on his back and three sheets to the wind?

Ordinarily, I would assume that Jack’s candidacy was a lark conceived over a few too many at Lafitte’s, but I have not found Jack sleeping in my shed in several weeks. This is because he is staying at his new campaign headquarters. Knowing what I know about Mr. Mondieu’s finances, I can only come to the alarming conclusion that his candidacy has supporters.

I understand that Jack has a blunt, crass charm, and the idea of him as mayor is amusing. But the joke will no longer be funny if the punchline is his election.

For the love of the city, for the love of all that’s holy, vote for someone else.

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Jane Moreaux keeps all four eyes on New Toulouse.

With bleary eyes and wobbling gaits, hungover residents of New Toulouse filed into Our Lady of Bourbon Street to celebrate Ash Wednesday.

A Mr. Charles Trudeau, last seen cheering and hanging off the back of a boat in the Krewe du Canard parade with a bottle of bourbon in each hand and someone else’s longjohns tied around his neck like an ascot, stumbled into the historic church wearing clothes that were rather rumpled but at least right-side out and on the correct parts of his body. “I’m giving up alcohol for Lent,” he insisted before taking his place in the pew next to his neighbors.

“The way we do Mardi Gras around here, I’m always relieved when it’s time for fasting and abstinence,” another local chimed in, asking not to be quoted by name as she shielded her bloodshot eyes from the light streaming in through the beautiful stained-glass windows.

The traditional service included the distribution of ashes and the solemn reminder, “Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”

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Jane Moreaux keeps all four eyes on New Toulouse.

The House of the Spirits community has Christmas trees for sale* at Bayou Lot #34. The tree shack is open to the public. Free hot chocolate and eggnog will be available during business hours from now until Christmas. (Photo credit: Jane Moreaux.)

*L$0

In recent days, our fair city has seen an influx of foreign visitors, in response to the Beacon Spiritualist Institute’s call for ghost hunters. The society is cataloging ghost sightings and legends from all over the state. As reported by my colleague Jack Mondieu, several New Toulouse business and community leaders have volunteered to offer rewards as an incentive to ensure that our local ghosts are well represented. Intrigued by some of the stories I was hearing from the hunt headquarters, I set out to get more information about these rewards.

Jack was out of the office, but even the most intrepid of reporters is not foolish enough to hunt ghosts alone, so I enlisted the aid of my neighbor, Ms. Kristine Jinx-Kristan. Armed with lanterns and notepads, we followed the trail of the ghost hunters and learned quite a bit about our local haunts. For those who may still be in the process of hunting, I won’t spoil those stories here.

Suffice it to say, we made it back to headquarters minus our shoes, plus a few gray hairs and a case of the creeps. But that’s when things got weird.

After we returned to headquarters with sufficient proof that we had visited plenty of haunted sites in town, we were given an armload of boxes and vouchers for various services, and instructed very mysteriously not to open anything at headquarters.

Some of the prizes were what you would expect from local businesses sponsoring an event—clothing with logos, beautiful handcrafted curios, useful items to have around the house. We unpacked some of those in the Tattler office.

Many of the prizes were definitely geared toward the interests of the type of tourists who might come to town specifically to chase ghosts: spooky decor, eerie illustrations, and furniture and artifacts associated with haunted sites. The prize from the French Market Apothecary included a voucher for free fortune-telling, so we stopped in to see what was in store for us.

The seers told me, “Many will travel to hear you speak.” To Ms. Jinx-Kristan, they said, “Your mind is your greatest asset.” I was a little sad that I hadn’t brought Jack, because I imagine his fortune would be fascinating. We thanked the seers and went to open our last prize, which awaited us on the dock near the French Market.

It was at this point that we realized we’d forgotten the time-honored New Toulouse tradition of hazing the tourists. Really, being locals, we should have known better, but we pried open the crate anyway … and that is the story of how my neighbor and I ended up running for our lives through the market, in our socks, to get away from a gator so hungry that he’d brought his own condiments.

In summary, there were some wonderful treasures awaiting us after finishing the ghost hunt, although the best prizes were the local ghost stories themselves. If you haven’t started the tour yet, it runs until Nov. 23, and it’s definitely worth your time. Just make sure you bring a light source, an extra pair of shoes, and maybe a big stick.

Trust us.

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Jane Moreaux keeps all four eyes on New Toulouse. Kristine Jinx-Kristan owns Look What the Cat Dragged In, a secondhand store on the ground floor of Spiegel Hall.

Dressed in a nice suit and a dapper hat, with an attractive woman at his elbow, entrepreneur Blake Palmer is almost unrecognizable compared to the barefoot man who used to lumber around in dirty overalls, making me nervous as he drank God-knows-what and cleaned his shotguns in the apartment directly above mine in the old Tarantula Arms boarding house. But despite his change of attire—and change of fortune—Mr. Palmer is, at heart, still the same man.

At the time of our first interview, Mr. Palmer owned three businesses. We met in one of them, a club called the Havana Rose, where a sultry woman in a fancy dress was singing her heart out on the stage. At the time of our second interview, the club was no more, and his other businesses had moved locations, with a third in the works. As of press time, that’s changed again—and not all of that can be attributed to the slow writing pace of a certain Tattler reporter. Mr. Palmer is a man with ambition, dreams, and an almost manic energy. New ventures open and move and close and reopen almost overnight, and the reasons for this are tough to get a handle on. After agreeing to meet me for a drink to talk about his many and varied business ventures, Mr. Palmer spent nearly half an hour deflecting my questions with winks, changes of subject, and exaggerated declarations of ignorance. Eventually, I lit a cigarette and started at the beginning.

When Mr. Palmer lived upstairs in the Tarantula Arms, there was a run-in one night with the police—it seems he was bootlegging out of his apartment. The particulars are somewhat muffled by the fact that I got under my bed as soon as I heard the cocking of a shotgun, but the officer left alone, smiling, swaying slightly down the steps, and hiding what looked like a mason jar behind his back as he waved me off and assured me, “Everyshinsss fine.”

After Mrs. Varnish unceremoniously evicted her remaining tenants so the building could be torn down, Mr. Palmer opened a useful and well-stocked general store and filling station on Carricre Street. He could frequently be seen tooling around town in his pickup (sober, we hope), delivering groceries to customers. Then suddenly one day, the shop was boarded up and Mr. Palmer had left town.

He says he went down to South Florida to take advantage of “opportunities” and did odd jobs like driving boats.

When I asked why he came back, he gave me a grin and said, “Let’s just say heavy storms were rolling in and the work became too dangerous.”

I reminded him that he rolled back into New Toulouse just in time for a major storm with devastating flooding, and he shook his head, telling me the storms in Florida weren’t raining water.

“Bullets,” he whispered. “But don’t quote me on that.”

The grocery store is back, in a different location but with what appears to be similar quality and service. Business is good, he acknowledged, before slyly telling me that business at the grocery store could dry up tomorrow and he’d still be in good shape. He got up from the table and gestured to the door, offering to take me to the “nucleus of the operation.”

The Still House Saloon is exactly what it sounds like. The still towers over the space, where Mr. Palmer says he offers “barbecue ribs, cornbread, moonshine, and poker.” When I asked if he had a permit, or if there would be any trouble for printing this in the paper, he shrugged. “Trouble from who? Wouldn’t worry about the police.” Remembering the Tarantula Arms, I nodded.

“So this is how you pay for everything?” I asked.

“I’ll just say that copper and corn have made me a very happy man.”

After that, he got vague again, refusing to give me a straight answer about his clients or his employees—”I can’t tell you offhand how many are on my payroll, but I have several close partners,” was the most he would give me, clearing his throat and looking pointedly in the direction of the hospital.

I haven’t seen Mr. Palmer since, but on my way to the Tattler to turn in my photos and have a possibly terrifying conversation with my boss, I saw a new restaurant sign downstairs at the Red Drum. Being curious (and prone to procrastination), I took a detour to the land office to see who had registered the space.

As I suspected, the name on the ledger read “Palmer, Blake.”

Blake Palmer owns the Old Town General Store, the Still House Saloon, and Begue’s Restaurant.

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Jane Moreaux keeps half an eye on New Toulouse.

Lawrence James has had many different jobs in his life, but he always wanted to be an artist.

“There’s that hope in the back of your mind that you’re going to get to make a living doing something you love,” he acknowledged. “But in the meantime there’s a ‘Help Wanted’ sign at a restaurant, or a guy offering to pay you to load freight, and so you take the work that you can get.”

Mr. James got his break when he overheard a city official lamenting the need for a sign advertising an upcoming event.

“I was new in town, renting this sad little room at the old Tarantula Arms,” he explained. “I thought, ‘I can do that,’ so I offered. One sign led to another, eventually word got around, and now I have fairly steady work.”

Mr. James runs James Ads & Signs out of his apartment at Red Drum Place, where he does custom work for businesses and events. His work has appeared in the Tattler, around town, and in places he’s never been.
“I had a client who wanted a poster for a party she said she was having on another planet,” he laughed. “Really nice lady, great client—I didn’t ask too many questions, and she was happy with the poster, so it all worked out.”

To his surprise, doing commercial art has improved his skills more than he anticipated.

“When you start out, you think, ‘Oh, when I’m a real artist, I’ll have the luxury to do whatever inspires me, and people will buy it because they like it,'” he said. “But when somebody else is paying me to represent their business, and they have a vision I’d never come up with myself, that challenges me to think a different way and learn something new.”

Having a regular income has also given him the freedom to pursue his own ideas, and he’s been overwhelmed by how supportive New Toulouse has been. To illustrate, he told a story about a project where he put himself in danger to take photos in a zombie-infested area of the bayou. “I’m not crazy enough to go out there by myself—I can’t hold a camera and a shotgun at the same time. I put out a notice asking for backup. The next thing I know, a doctor and the chief of police are knocking on my door, offering me an armed escort so I can get my photos. You wouldn’t see that in very many communities.”

His business has been so successful that he was able to invest in a printing press—and a place to put it.

“Small-batch printing I could do myself, but people were wanting large runs, campaign posters and stuff. I had to hire it out, and it was cutting into my profits. Eventually I saved up to get some better equipment, but I couldn’t put it at my place. It’s noisy as hell—the neighbors would riot.” He rented a corner of an imposing-looking warehouse a considerable distance from New Toulouse. Traveling back and forth is inconvenient, as is sleeping in a drafty warehouse on the weekends, but neither is as inconvenient as a flood or hurricane.

“At the time, I couldn’t afford insurance, and I thought if I put my life savings in an investment and it ends up underwater, I’m ruined,” he said. Because of his forward thinking, the Tattler was able to print an edition on his equipment after the recent storm put the newspaper’s print room out of commission. “I was happy to help,” he said. “I was just so, so glad that I wasn’t in the same predicament.”

While waiting out the storm, Mr. James packed up most of his art supplies, but he couldn’t resist a little mischief. Residents will have noticed boarded-up windows around town bearing a stenciled image of a kraken and the ominous words “I BELIEVE.”

But does he?

“Believe in sea monsters?” Mr. James snorted. “Nah. But I can’t resist giving the mayor a hard time. Did you see his face?”

James Ads & Signs is at #4 Red Drum Place (phone NT-237). He can also be reached at James Printing or by mail at .

More photos from the interview can be viewed in this Flickr set.

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Jane Moreaux has been traveling recently, but she still manages to keep one eye on New Toulouse.

New Toulouse got a very strange visit on Monday that has left residents scratching their heads (and possibly anything else they can reach). Ms. Sister Butta, a cousin of private investigator Trolley Trollop, was doing some housekeeping at the TNT Detective Agency when an individual showed up and claimed to be the infamous Tunnel Man, who Ms. Trollop says is responsible for the fates of several missing young women.

The visitor says he’s one of the good guys. “He claims he was sent by Scotland Yard to teach Trolley a lesson,” Ms. Butta said. “He was very curt with me.”

The individual claiming to be Tunnel Man then stormed out of the detective agency and headed down the street. A startled Ms. Butta managed to get this photo of him with a zoom lens.

His progress down the street attracted a small crowd—most of whom watched from their windows and called their neighbors on the phone. The individual went on to say that he was not a murderer and that Ms. Trollop’s confidential informant “Deep Tonsils” had framed him. “Have you found any bodies?” he asked. “No. And you won’t.” He maintained that he was in town on official business for Scotland Yard, but he refused to say more on that topic. He did, however, have quite a bit to say about Ms. Trollop’s suitability as a private investigator.

“It is impossible for a woman to be a detective,” he asserted. “They should stay home and have babies.”

He was interrupted in this rant by Ms. Liza Veliz, who (being a ghost already) wasn’t afraid of him, regardless of whom he claimed to be. She gave the so-called Tunnel Man a banana. He gratefully finished it before telling anyone within earshot that women should “stick to their knitting” and leave the detecting to men.

He said he was going to go retrieve his mining equipment because Ms. Trollop was “too stupid” to find it. Still not sure if this was a prankster or a murderer, or just a mouthy monkey, a couple of residents attempted to phone the police but got no immediate answer. Someone helpfully suggested that this so-called Tunnel Man should look for Ms. Trollop in the bayou, near Swamp Manor, but left out the part about it being an area infested with zombies. The visitor took off in that direction.

Witnesses to the incident are still debating its significance; for one thing, a misogynistic monkey bears little resemblance to the tale told by Ms. Trollop of a suave British gentleman who smelled of lavender and lured away attractive young girls to be his brides. Some residents of the city and bayou don’t believe there is such a person, and they say there are more mundane explanations for missing young ladies.

“I can’t believe they have all just run off. It’s not logical,” said Ms. Butta, citing heartbroken relatives who hope for their daughters and nieces to return. “But I guess anything is possible here.”

In the meantime, Ms. Trollop told a neighbor that she’d received a letter that smelled of lavender but she hadn’t opened it yet. Some residents have taken up a search—whether for an actual Tunnel Man or a depraved attention-seeker capitalizing on the infamy of a local legend, no one is quite sure. Even Ms. Maggie Hawksby’s goat, Trollbait, went wading through the bayou, looking for clues.

So far, the searches have turned up nothing—no Tunnel Man, no mysterious visitor, and no bodies of missing women or zombie victims. 

If a zombie ate a monkey brain, I asked police chief Pazzo Pestana, would it get a hairball? He answered, “Only if the zombie were a cat while it was alive.”

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Photos courtesy of Ms. Sister Butta, Ms. Liza Veliz, and Ms. Maggie Hawksby.

Jane Moreaux keeps all four eyes on New Toulouse.

Krewe Bayou took the Mama Cree on a trip around the world Saturday without leaving the Missedabracket. The krewe rented the riverboat for a Gumbo Society fundraiser with music, dancing, trivia, prizes, and more.

DJ Carter Denja kept the crowd on its feet with a set composed of international covers of well-known tunes—the more obscure, the better. Miss Nikita Weymann presided over a spring-themed trivia contest that covered topics from fine art to animal anatomy (really), with cash prizes awarded to everyone who correctly answered a question.

Mama herself got dressed up for the party—members of the krewe decorated the boat with flowers, lanterns, lights, and banners. There was a full bar on the top deck, and a buffet table with delicious shrimp gumbo in honor of the Gumbo Society. 

The night ended with a spectacular fireworks display provided by Miss Karima Hoisan, and the last revelers were seen shooting flares off the deck long after the party had ended.

The final tally raised for the Gumbo Society is not complete—the riverboat decorations and the donation kiosk on the middle deck will be up all week for residents who missed the festivities and would like to contribute. Gumbo Society donations benefit the RL Second Harvest Food Bank of New Orleans. For more information, visit the Second Harvest website.

Krewe Bayou will be hosting more events between now and next year’s Mardi Gras parade. Other krewes interested in renting the Mama Cree for parties, fundraisers, recruiting drives, or other shenanigans can contact Yvonne Follet at .

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Photos courtesy of Miss Maggie Hawksby.

Jane Moreaux keeps all four eyes on New Toulouse.