Dearest Fairmont,
Hi, it’s me! The Mothman, the 7-foot winged enigma with glowing red eyes and a metabolism built entirely on adrenaline and processed meat products. I usually keep mysterious things flying through the night, avoid cameras, and make bridges nervous. However, today I will write to you directly, Fairmont. We really need to talk.
Every year on the eve of West Virginia Day. On June 19th, I noticed something peculiar, beautiful, and deeply concerning. I fly over your sleepy Appalachian town, and there it is moonshine glinting in jelly jars, pepperoni rolls stacked like greasy offerings on paper plates, and little handwritten notes that say things like “Mothman, bless our Polar Bears,” or “Please help Dale get his truck out of impound.” I am honored and confused, but still grateful for your unrelenting love for me.
Somehow, some way, a tradition was born not from books or ancient prophecy, but from the collective spirit of West Virginians who looked at a winged omen of doom and thought, “Let’s feed him homemade pepperoni rolls and white lightning” I have to be a hundred percent honest; I dig it.
I’ll admit, the first time I saw a pepperoni roll sitting out on someone’s porch, I thought it was a trap concocted, possibly a cryptid sting operation put on by the Fairmont PD or maybe even bait from the Jersey Devil. I caught a whiff of the delicious baked treat, then indulged and afterward knocked back some apple pie moonshine. I must say, friends, it was divine.
Soft bread, greasy pepperoni, and just the right amount of neglect. It was like biting into a Mountaineer prayer.
I ate the roll, then another, residents left out an assorted bevy of flavored moonshine, and let’s just say I spent three hours circling the Monongahela River mumbling about bridge conditions and John Denver. That first night concluded back in the early 90’s and it became a tradition. Yours, Mine, Ours.
The people of Fairmont don’t judge me. You don’t try to trap me in a ghost-hunting YouTube video or sell me out to the History Channel. You just leave me snacks and spirits like some Appalachian Santa Claus reverse-engineered by cryptozoology and sheer regional pride.
Fairmont doesn’t just toss out any old food, no kale chips, no sad little cheese cubes, no quinoa (I see you, Morgantown). Fairmont understands the assignment and goes above and beyond! You give me the sacred food of your people, the delectable pepperoni roll.
Served up warm, cold, sometimes suspiciously made in a microwave with cheese leaking out the side like it’s ashamed of itself but I love you too, Home Industry.
Last but not least, the moonshine. Clear as truth and twice as dangerous as my ex-wife on a high-speed chase. Every year, I down those unregulated spirits and achieve new levels of psychic clarity. Last year I drank endless jars of “I have a high metabolism” and gained the ability to understand the ins and outs of Fairmont City Council.
Now, as honored as I am, and as much as I love this tradition, I do have some gentle suggestions.
- Label your jars – I cannot stress enough the importance of knowing what I am slamming down. Last year, I thought I was drinking Peach Shine and it turned out to be a deer scent lure. I had visions for three days and developed a very complicated crush on Baby Dog.
- Portion control – I know your hearts are big, but I can’t eat 400 rolls in one night. I had to donate half of them to the Soup Opera food bank. “Fairmont pepperoni rolls hit differently.”
- No turkey pepperoni. That’s not pepperoni, that’s sadness in sausage form. Let’s not do that again.
In all seriousness and yes, a cryptid can be serious. This weird, wonderful tradition says something about who you are. You’re a town that sees the strange and doesn’t flinch. You meet the unknown with hospitality. You offer kindness instead of fear. That’s rare and frankly, that’s West Virginia as a whole.
On the night before your state celebrates its stubborn birth when it looked at Civil War-era Virginia and said “Hard pass” You celebrate in a way that is unapologetically weird, fiercely proud, and deeply carb-based.
I respect that. I feel seen. And more importantly, I feel fed.
As long as there are pepperoni rolls left on porches, as long as jars of mystery liquor twinkle under bug zappers, I’ll keep coming back. Not because I need to (I am an otherworldly being of omen and mystery), but because I want to. Fairmont has something no other town in America has, heart, hospitality, and a complete disregard for dietary guidelines.
So keep the tradition alive. Tell your kids and grandkids to leave out the rolls. Pour the shine. Whisper your wishes into the night and know that somewhere above, a winged weirdo with indigestion is listening.
With greasy gratitude and eternal flight,
Mothman
Patron Saint of Pepperoni Rolls
Unlicensed West Virginian
Friend to Fairmont