pinhead filson

Pinhead Filson reads his Meatpaper in the morning while seated on his tiny porcelain throne in his miniature recreation of his own mind's eye while restlessly squeezing every ounce out of the day before. It's come to this then he not so silently reasons, as the discarded carp toss in the turmoil below. "I'll be lost to my own degraded wit, a plumb bob to the wallpaper festering with decay in my tiny wool-bedecked pinhead."
It wasn't always this way for Pinhead Filson. At one time he sailed the roiling, cold waters of San Francisco Bay in a tiny skiff, hunting sharks with a sharpened lance and abalone deep below while holding his breath for minutes at a time. He'd scowl at the oyster pirates and later set-up his fellows for rounds at China Bill's on the wharf chewing seal blubber with pickled egg, all the while tickling the giggling Chinese with horsefeathers and broomsticks. But Pinhead took a turn for the worse and egged on by John Barleycorn,  took up residence in an opium den.
He lost his money, then he lost his mind. He's never been the same. He fled into the mountains pursued on all sides by his imaginary demons while his once swollen brain-case shrunk to the size of a pinhead. He took to wearing tight fitting skull-caps which only exacerbated the problem until his head resembled his name. He looked around for his fellows but none had met the same fate. He was all alone.
Today even, as Pinhead Filson mounts his throne in his tiny water-closet clutching his Meatpaper,  one can hear the wind gusting melodically, calling Pinhead home. He won't get there because it no longer exists.