Admiral Baldwin finished his early morning tea and toast before pacing the deck of the S.S. Lean Coffee collecting his thoughts. He did this most days, often before sunrise. Today his thoughts leapt to the land mass looming on the horizon known to most as Falafel Island.

All was quiet in the Musick household save for a mechanical hum emanating from the attic. A keen observer watching from the across street might have noticed jet black clumps of material gently tumbling out of the chimney onto fresh, powdery snow.

Cookie duster, dirt squirrel, lip luggage, nose neighbor, face lace, mouth brow, or simply the prosaic stache. While they go by many names, not all mustaches are created equal. This is the tale of a particular soup strainer that changed the world—and the man it rode in on.

Sit back in your coziest chair, in front of your warmest hearth, and prepare yourself for this most ghoulish tale of one feline's harrowing journey from chonk to fine boi—cause oh lawd it's comin'.

Fall had come early to Belleville. Julian swept the leaves from his stoop and flipped the sign adorning his bodega from CLOSED to OPEN. He hadn't made it to the deli counter by the time a shadowy figure burst through the door. "How fresh is your chicken salad?" she asked gravely.