This here swamp is my home. My name don't matter none 'cos I don't care to hear yours either. If ever you should pass this way some things you ought to know. Life here is hard, it's ruthless and it's short. Y'all make a mistake here or put your nose where it don't belong you can easily become a permanent resident. As God is my witness, I speak the truth. Everything that walks, slithers, crawls, flies and swims will try to make you their dinner or even their play thing. There are NO cute cuddly pets here. No pampered dogs done up nice with fancy ribbons and bows. No contented cats purring themselves to sleep. Everything living here has to fight for the right to see another day. Most don't. Friendship? Move on fella lessin' you want an ass full of buckshot! This place is hell and everything it contains hates you. That's just a fact. Hospitality be damned ' trust no one, suspect everyone' that's my creed. If you're crazier than a shit-house rat and you come down here at night you gonna hear sounds and noises and you gonna wonder what's making them. Trust me when I tell you, you don't wanna know what's making them sounds and noises. Cause if you did, you'd end up like that poor conductor fella on that there wrecked train yonder. They said one night he lost his mind and took a fire axe to his fireman and engineer. He then jumped into the swamp water and drowned himself. The officials from the logging company who owned the train came looking for them when they failed to show up at the depot. All they found were a few bones and ragged pieces of bloody clothes. The night critters dined well that night. The logging company is long gone now and the railroad trestle has since rotted out and collapsed into the water, but on some nights, you can still hear the shrill sound of a steam whistle or maybe it's a hoodoo spirit looking for a soul. Suspect it could be both. It's all I got to say on the subject. Now git!