James F. Willoshire contracted a rare form of post-traumatic stress in which he developed symptoms of being a musket. First went the hair, and then he looked like a musket. Trying to recover some sense of normalcy in his life he now serves the town of Lexington as a subsitute teacher.

Child: My mom says that when I grow up, I can be whatever I want to be.

Musket: In what profession does your Mother labor?

Child: She's a doctor.

Musket: So you mean she gives death to old people?

Child: I don't think so.

Musket: She gives death to old people.

Child: You're mean.

Musket: Maybe so, but until Tuesday, I'm not just mean...I'm your teacher.

. . .

Musket: Time to go to the recess grounds, children.

Child: I have to use the restroom school.

Musket: You are hampering your own education.

. . .

Child: Here's an apple for you, Sir.

Musket: What a kind and thoughtful philanthropy. To you, Jimmy, my gratitude has been endowed.

Child: Really, it's nothing, my mom made me bring it.

Musket: In that case, I shall have nary a bite.

. . .

Child: When is our real teacher coming back to the schoolhouse?

Musket: Whenever you apologize for making him leave.

Child: But I thought he had the pox!

. . .

Musket: Such a valiant attempt at a snowman, Sally.

Child: It's my cat, her name is Snowball because she looks like snow.

Musket: Such witchcraft will not be tolerated. I must shoot it all with my head.