On April 11, 1932, Colonel Ardavus Mistel lay dying. The respected former Union officer had experienced 96 years in constant torment. He harbored a dark secret known only to him that would consume his every thought.

Convinced that he would find no respite in death until his conscience was cleansed, the dying Col. Mistel called for his only son, Wallingford County Record editor Hundge Mistel. Barely able to speak, the Colonel croaked for a pen and paper and recorded the following:

To Whom It May Concern:

I have been decorated numerous times for my valor in battle. During the Spanish-American War, I was commended for leading the attack on Havana. In the Great War, I served as advisor to General Habadunnum Elf. But I have been complimented the most by far for my actions during the Civil War which plagued this country seventy years ago. However, I deserve no credit. I was cowardly and manipulative, and I am now ashamed.

What follows is the true story of the Burgerface Picnic Fiasco.

I commanded the 18th Oranganium Battalion, which was tasked with protecting the orange groves of Galveston, TX. It might sound like an easy job, but the Rebs were goddamn proud of their citrus production and constantly launched attacks at dear old Heffsterrian Farm. We lost a lot of good men in 1861.

By 1862, however, a sort of peaceful detente had arisen. Engineered by my martial attaché, Dougary Daggery, we convinced the Confederate General Sleptz Starzen to lessen the number of attacks he made each week in exchange for all the orange juice he could drink. It might have gone against regulations, but it certainly saved a lot of lives.

General Starzen and I became close friends. At first, it was through the bawdy jokes we told to each other in courier correspondence. Eventually, we would cut out the middle man and meet each other face to face in No-Man’s Land. Soon, he was joining me in my tent for dinner, smuggled in during the cover of night. This platonic love eventually spread to the officers on both sides, and we soon began to forget that our governments were at war with one another.

All that changed when Corporal Burgerface was assigned to General Starzen’s unit.

God help me, I can’t remember Burgerface’s real name. That was simply what all us officers, Union and Confederate alike, called the young man. It was cruel, but with such a pock-marked and flabby visage, what would one expect? The ribbing that all soldiers seem able to endure sank deep into the heart of Burgerface. He began to resent the dinners, brunches and soirees the officers on both sides engaged in. It appeared that he might reveal our casual arrangement to Union and Confederate commanders.

Eventually, General Starzen put the social events on hiatus. It was rough for the lieutenants and captains under my command, who had become accustomed to their new Southern friends. Eventually, I received a message from the General. He told us that we could continue the cross-cultural experiment that we had begun if my officers and I swore to never call the young man Burgerface again. We quickly agreed.

The next gathering scheduled was to be a picnic in the orange groves, where the enlisted men would not be able see the acts of sedition we were committing. My officers and I were quite excited, and more than a few spent the entire day rehearsing jokes and recalling anecdotes that they wished to tell their Confederate friends.

At dusk, we gave some pretense to the top ranking enlisted man in charge. The officers and I traveled to the groves with a spring in our steps. Hugs and kisses were exchanged all around. The food and drink flowed freely, as well as the blue humor and tales from home.

All was going well until I made the mistake that haunted me for the rest of my life. Having downed quite a few Long Island Ice Teas, I was feeling the effects of alcohol quite acutely. I don’t remember exactly how, but General Starzen and I ended up leaning against an orange tree, joking about the trouble that Burgerface had caused. Just then, who should walk by but Burgerface himself. Sulking and lonely, but pleased that his tantrum had produced visible social effects, he waved to the two of us.

In a fit of misguided benevolence, I rose and gave Burgerface a loving embrace. As we stood there, he awkwardly accepting my overeager hug and I with my arms wrapped around his body, I roared, “You know, you really are all right, Burgerface! I love you, buddy!” As these words escaped my lips, I felt his body tense. “Noooooooooo!” He screamed. “You can’t call me that!” With that, he reached into his uniform and pulled out a pistol. Before I had time to react he had put one in my left shoulder and narrowly missed inserting another in my brain.

Suddenly, panic erupted. The fragility of our social intermingling was immediately made clear. Instinctively, my men (who all had their guns, per Union regulations) shot at the poor defenseless Rebs. Having been conditioned to kill any gray-clad individual on the battlefield, the Confederate officers were quickly slaughter.

I myself shot General Starzen. Fourteen times. I had to reload twice.

Without a second thought, my men and I returned to camp. Pale and trembling, I ordered the enlisted men awoken and readied for battle. We were marching on the Confederate camp a half-mile away. They would be defenseless without any commanders.

So you see, I am not a hero but a drunken fool. And I murdered the only man I ever loved. Platonic love though it might have been, I was never capable of deep, meaningful, heterosexual friendship after that night. Now I may die in peace.