They say Ralph Rumpelton was born in the back of a thrift store behind a rack of Hawaiian shirts and broken fans. No birth certificate, just a receipt for a half-priced lava lamp and a whispered rumor.
He walked out of childhood wearing a trench coat full of cassette tapes and a fake mustache he never took off. Claimed he invented air guitar before it caught on. Said he once beat a jukebox in a staring contest. You don’t believe it—but you kind of want to.
No one knows where he gets his paints. Some say he grinds down old 45s and mixes them with the dust from defunct theme parks. His canvas? Whatever isn’t nailed down. Garage doors, pizza boxes, even the side of a moving bus once.
Ralph’s art shows up in places you don’t expect—behind mirrors, under park benches, inside cereal boxes. Sometimes you’ll see a crudely drawn figure with block hands and a sideways halo, and someone will whisper, “That’s a Rumpelton.” Then they’ll nod like that explains everything.
He’s got a blog that only appears at midnight. You don’t find it—it finds you.
One time, a reporter tried to track him down. All they found was a napkin taped to a streetlight. On it, in paint that shimmered like soda pop, it read:
“I’m a self-made myth. Don’t try to fact-check poetry.”
And just like that, Ralph was gone again.
Only thing left was a faint smell of burnt popcorn, and somewhere in the distance… a kazoo solo echoing into the stars.
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