Because you are probably reading this on a cell phone or laptop, it's likely quite difficult to imagine what it was like living in the days of the traveling salesman. Some weirdo rolls into town, sets up shop for a bit, tells you what you want to hear, and rolls away laughing while you're holding some bizarre, sardine-flavored tonic that certainly didn't heal your butt warts. Even modern nomadic circus acts have been dumbed down. Are we doomed never to witness the mysteries of snake-oil salesmen? But then one-man band, The Slow Poisoner, emerges from the mists of San Francisco, defying obsolescence with the most macabre tunes this side of The Twilight Zone.