Have you heard of the abominable Swiss Army Man?

With sharp needle eyes and scissors for hands?

His right foot is a hammer, and the left is a saw,

and a sharp butchers knife can be pulled from his jaw

I don’t remember who first mentioned the Swiss Army Man. Could’ve been Patty Bracesmouth (that’s not her real name; she wore braces – in her mouth), or maybe Henry with an H (he was French). Freddy Five-Toes also had a vivid imagination, proven by the fact that he had like seven different stories circulating about his missing toes.

Doesn’t matter who was first. The true legend of the Swiss Army Man was born of the Thompson twins; Samantha and Samuel.

The Thompson twins were weird, even by Weird Small Town™-standards. Sam (that’s Samantha, not to be confused with the other Sam (Samuel), or SAM (the Swiss Army Man)) was a head or so taller than her brother, who appeared unnaturally frail in comparison. They’d stick together like glue on a melted cheese sandwich, and would rarely fraternize with the rest of us.

“I captured the Swiss Army Man,” Samantha stated matter-of-factly, and completely out of the blue, having snuck up behind us.

“SHIT ON A SQUIRREL!” Freddy yelled, his crudeness only surpassed by his lack of toes. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that!”

The rest of us took a step back, knowing full well you didn’t mess with the tall twin. Sam had a history of violence, like the time she broke Paula the Maulers arm (as retaliation for bullying her brother), and she was pretty much always covered in bruises.

“Uh,” Freddy stammered. “I mean, no way you’ve captured him.”

“Have too. Got him in my basement.”

“Oh yeah? Show us then.”

Sam nodded, beckoning for us to follow her, tugging her ever-silent brother along.

We slinked after the twins to their house, a ramshackle dump at the end of Fletcher Road, rumored to be haunted by no less than four distinct ghosts (and one giant alligator).

The door creaked open like doors are supposed to creak open in haunted houses, and we tippy-toed nervously behind Sam down to the basement.

“There,” Sam said, pointing to the far-end of the room.

We edged closer to get a better look, the eerie silence suddenly broken by Freddy’s high-pitched scream.

“BARF ON A BULLFROG!”

The man was tied to a chair – blood and vomit dribbling down his chin in mucusy streams. Filthy syringes were jabbed into his eyes, and scissors stuck out of the mangled mess of either hand. His right foot had been smashed into a pulp, bones protruding from tattered flesh, while the left was severed completely – rough, serrated edges encircling the haphazardly bandaged wound.

“That’s not the Swiss Army Man,” Patty muttered. “That’s your fathe-”

It all sort of dawned on us then, Sam and her bruises. We spent minutes in somber silence, before Freddy blurted out;

“Can I pull the knife from his jaw?”