Lost: One empty Mountain Dew bottle.

Caution: Not completely empty. DO NOT OPEN!

Substantial reward offered.

Contact: THE WHISTLER

Sigh. My song has never been never been so dark and lonely. Yes, that's right, when you here those mournful Leonard Cohen songs whispering on the wind - that is my whistle now. Or if I'm feeling REALLY masochistic, then it's "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald."

I've misplaced @flepurtum. I don't know how I could have let such a thing happen. Did the bottle fall out of my track suit pocket as I washed my face in a drinking fountain? Did I absentmindedly remove it from my pocket and set it somewhere? I've looked everywhere I can think of - twice. My bed is completely torn up.

So now I put out this request to all students: A magnificent reward will be offered to the student who finds my lost Mountain Dew bottle with my little friend inside.

Whatever you do, DO NOT OPEN THE BOTTLE! If you find an empty Mountain Dew bottle with a cap on it, please bring it to me immediately and I will examine it.

How do you find me? You know how to whistle, don't you? You just put your lips together and blow.

My dismal song drifts through the air. Do you hear it? That sorrowful refrain, weaving between the trees, between the buildings, between the trains? The bitter tune that oozes through the smell of the creosote and diesel, penetrating the olfactory glands of your very soul...

It is I, THE WHISTLER! And my audition for "America's Got Whistlin'" was a disaster.

First, of course, a big Thank You to everyone who contributed to my Psy-a-go-go campaign. We reached our stretch-goals, and I was able to afford a new track suit on top of the application fee for the "America's Got Whistlin'" tryouts.

But as I began the opening strains of Bobby McFerrin's "Don't Worry Be Happy," on the stage, in the spotlight, before the judges - I froze. I began to mumble, incoherently, and attempted to start my song again, and found I could not! Instinctively, I went to my pockets, where I had stored handfuls of dried crickets and spiders, and began to stuff them into my mouth, chomping and chewing and hoping their restorative powers would bring back my whistle and dispel my living nightmare! But to no avail. I was led off stage, ranting, and deposited in the alley behind the Red Lion.

Perhaps it was my choice in song. It was a little out of my comfort zone.

In the time since that horrible day, my whistled tunes have become more and more dark. Mostly, I've been concentrating on the early Cure albums, and my whistle is as dark and tangled as Robert Smith's hair.

It was "All Cats are Grey" I was whistling tonight, down at the train yard, its wistful refrain filling the evening, when I discovered other sounds. One, a fleeting human cry for help, but another as well - a flittering vibration on the edges of hearing. I did not find the source of the human wail, but was able to pinpoint its partner - a disembodied spirit, agitated, and in distress. No doubt it had found the source of the human sound and was attempting to call for help.

Instead, it attracted me.

Quickly, I changed my tune. To capture disembodied spirits of the air, they must be mesmerized by powerful tonal magic. In this case, "The Girl from Ipanema." As my whistle floated through the air, the creature was confused, entranced, and ultimately trapped in the warped dimensions of that Brazilian elevator-music puzzle. I held it in the song until finding an empty Mountain Dew bottle on the ground, into which I deftly whistled the creature.

I now keep the bottle in the inside pocket of my track suit. It is a rare kind of creature, and calls itself @flepurtum. It buzzes like a wasp in a jar, until I whistle it to sleep.

It will know my song.

Do you hear my wistful tune in the distance? Drifting like a ghost across the wastes, echoing off metal sheds? Is it your fate coming to call? Is it Otis Redding's "(Sittin' On) The Dock Of The Bay?"

Because I have been practicing that, far away, by myself, at the train yard. It is only thing that can fill the void in my heart... until I am selected as a contestant on "America's Got Whistlin'." And then of course, be crowned winner.

But first I must pass the audition, which is coming to the Red Lion next week. I will wear a track suit - a disguise to hide my true form from the masses.

I will whistle my tune among them and they will know I am... THE WHISTLER!

I just need $125 dollars for the entry fee. Yet THE WHISTLER holds no job! No such motral coil can restrain me! The whistle whistles where it wants! You could sooner contain the wind!

So, I have begun a Psy-a-go-go campaign. Please donate to my America's Got Whistlin' Audition Fund by reciting the Psy-a-go-go mantra and following the helpful instructions.

In the meantime, continue to shiver when you hear my eerie tune - freeze in your tracks when my melody floats by.... You will know my song.

You have been beckoned by the siren's song of... THE WHISTLER!

I whistle my tune, @Yireesha, near the rail road tracks, the tunnels, the abandoned industrial wastes, razor wire and rusty drums... People hear my call, and cannot turn away.

What's my tune? Is it Pumpin Blood by NONONO? Young Folks by Peter Bjorn and John? Pumped Up Kicks by Foster the People? Is it THE ANDY GRIFFITH SHOW THEME?

It is all of these - and none of them.

One day, all will know my song. Because I will use my powers to take first place on "America's Got Whistlin'," and then I will move on to the World Finals, and finally be chosen as the official Whistler of the World by the Psychic UN.

Such is the power of... THE WHISTLER!

That eerie, melancholy tune you hear? Whispering at the edge of hearing, down dark alleys and up from dank, dripping cellars? That melody you know but can't quite name, beckoning you from the edge of memory, enticing you to take just one more, final step into the abyss?

Is it I - THE WHISTLER!

You will know my song.