Local Bear admits, "I'm the Bastard."

It's late, you've tossed back one, two, or maybe twelve. Who can keep track. All you know is you really have to light a smoke, welding torch, brush fire, what have you. But for the life of you, you can't find that godamn lighter.

Oh it was me all right. Don't be so shocked, I wasn't always the suave, debonair, fellow you see before you. No, it started innocently enough back in 19-some odd-2. You know the drill, going out with friends for beers and fueled fun. In the morning it was always the same. No recollection of the nights debauchery, but a dresser of lighters.

It was after 12-day butane and bourbon binge that I realized, I not only had a wicked hangover, I also had a knack for stealing lighters.

Well long story short: My international lighter cartel now surrounds the globe. It's actually quite scary how easy it was once I had infiltrated Santa's delivery infrastructure. Those elves have quite the knack for lifting one's spirits* (*elven for lighter).

So next time your bloodshot eyes search high and low for that "damn lighter" save your energy.
Chances are my men were already there.

Thank's eh'
bob