The name is Stamps. Not mine, his. Steven Stamps to be exact is the name, but folks around here, which is Tucson, A-Z, prefer calling him as Bluto on account of what he keeps in his shoe, on account of the story goes along with it. His story, not mine. My story is quite a bit different.
What’s in the shoe, and has been there coming on thirty years, so you have some idea what it likely smells like by now, is a black and white picture. In his shoe. And this picture, in case you ain’t seen it yet, which case you must’ve just got in town two-three minutes ago, while he was asleep there with his head on the wall out there and didn’t see you, dreaming about your-guess-is-as-good-as-mine; well, anyways, this here picture is a old photograph, circa 1961, of Bluto’s ex-wife, the late and extremely wonderful, beautiful, honorable, good singer and generally good-natured Mary Ann Stamps. The only photograph of its kind, I might add, meaning the only one Bluto or me or anyone we know about has got with her in it, her being the late and so on Mary Ann Stamps.