Monthly Archives: March 2013

Incident in Ogilvy*

*hamlet est. 1795 in modern-day British Colombia. Pop. at time of most recent census to the incident: 48.

January 24th, 1845: Abigail Wentworth(14) complains of abdominal cramps. Her mother, Helen Wentworth, believes it to be the onset of menarche. Wilbur Marks (21) is taken as a temporary hand to aid in the sorghum harvest of nearby Mollet farm.

January 26th, 1845: When Abigail complains of worsening pain, her mother takes her to a doctor in  local Fort Huntley. The doctor finds Abigail to be sixteen weeks pregnant. The Reverend Harold Brown claims to his congregation to have found a tooth in his stool, blaming nearby secret witchcraft ceremonies. The Mollet family, French immigrants from the Limousin region, find an entire head of sheep skinned in their pasture.

January 29th, 1845: Helen, against the advice of her husband, takes Abigail to be faith-healed by the reverend. Rev. Brown finds that the girl’s virginity is seemingly intact, proclaiming an immaculate conception. Wilbur Marks is questioned in the recent massacre of sheep, the village’s only constable fractures his tibia in the process.

February 5th, 1845: James Wentworth becomes concerned with his wife’s increasing reliance on faith healers, questioning for her mental condition. Abigail is reported at this point to have been suffering from vaginal bleeding for an undetermined amount of time following a treatment at the hands of a local herbalist. The local pub owner, Edmund Tawles, has what is most likely an epileptic seizure in his bar’s cellar, claiming to have seen a devil figure. Wilbur Marks is found by two local trappers slowly torturing a silver fox from one of their traps. Upon discovery he flees, wearing the fox’s intestines like a necklace.

February 6th, 1845: The Wentworth’s elder son James Jr. (19) is woken in the early morning by a noise. He discovers a man in their parlor but cannot make out his features in the dark. Wentworth calls out, believing it to be his father, only be become alarmed when the figure appears to bend “the wrong way” to look at him. Wentworth turns to fetch the fire poker and is attacked from behind. The ensuing struggle wakes the entire household, evidently frightening the figure away as James Jr. is alone when his father finds his unconscious body. Everyone in the household is present at the scene except Abigail, who is bedridden.

February 7th, 1845: When the elder James takes his son to Ft. Huntley for treatment, the Reverend Brown is seen making a call to the Wentworth home not too long after his departure. Brown moves into the house later that day, praising Mrs. Wentworth and announcing she would prosper with a “real” man in their household.

February 10th, 1845: James Jr. is in critical condition and must be taken to the larger town of Hilborough for surgery. Wentworth sends a note to his cousin, Norman Erles, asking him to “look after Helen and Abbie while I’m gon[sic].” Several local farmers begin construction on an unknown structure at the bequest of the reverend, in a field isolated from the township by a small wooded area.

February 15th, 1845: Rev. Brown gives an unusual sermon to his congregation, the diary of one John Baldwin describes him as using strange, un-biblical imagery, making reference “the thousand-faced sphinx,” and “the great eye of the desert.” He closes the sermon by summoning Abigail Wentworth to the pulpit and stripping her, encouraging villagers to shame her an her swelling belly, calling her “a glass Salome.” Mrs. Wentworth is absent for the service.

February 16th, 1845: Several concerned neighbors make a trip to the Wentworth’s home. Helen Wentworth is described as “ill-humoured” and not acting like herself. She vehemently refuses to hear a word against the reverend, insisting that he was the only one who knew how to treat what she now referred to  as her daughter’s “apostasy.” when inquired about her husband she seems confused, and does not remember his name.

February 19th, 1845: Wilbur Marks found naked in the Mollet’s haystack. He shows signs of recent sexual intercourse, and there is blood on his genitalia. When confronted by Mollet and the senior farmhand, Marks flees towards the structure. Norman Earles wires his cousin, advising Wentworth to return as soon as possible.

February 21st, 1845: Various sightings of Marks occur throughout the village on this day, along with witnesses of various phenomena. Cisterns appear to bleed, fires burn poorly and their smoke stings the eye. Rev. Brown gives a sermon to an empty church.

February 25th, 1845: Norman Earles found dead in his bed. His wife, Leona, is found asleep at the table, snoring with a strange, upsetting volume. When woken, she appears to have suffered brain damage. Gas lamps in the house burn with a green corona when lit. Abigail Wentworth knocks on a neighboring farmhouse, imploring the woman inside to “please save her.” Mrs. Wentworth arrives soon afterward to collect her daughter, laughing off concerns and assuring the neighbor that Abigail was fine, her grandfather had been looking after her. Helen Wentworth’s father had been dead 15 years by this time.

February 29th, 1845: Several houses of the township catch fire. Rev. Brown blames nearby First Nations tribe and offers the use of a temporary lodge erected at the nearby construction site as a shelter. Villagers are suspicious of this explanation, as they have always enjoyed good trade relations with them, but accept his offer. Villagers who sleep in the lodge complain of an acrid smell and nosebleeds.

March 3rd, 1845: James Wentworth arrives at Ft. Huntley, leaving his son to rehabilitate at the hospital. He gathers up a contingency of local farmers and army officers and marches on to Ogilvy. They find the town nearly deserted and many buildings charred ruins. Upon knocking on his front door, Wentworth is greeted by his younger son Peter(7) who is unresponsive and shows signs of mental deterioration. No other family members evident. Marks is discovered in a crude lean-to constructed in the Wentworth’s woodpile, nude save for a loincloth later determined to be human skin. The group detain Marks, who strikes them as behaving oddly, and look for the townsfolk. They stumble upon the construction, along with the lodge, both empty. Suddenly a deputy spies what he describes as a gnat cloud coming from the mouth of the structure. Details of the next few minutes are scarce as the group suffered a mass fainting spell. Some claim violent hallucinations. A third of their party expires, including Wentworth and his young son. The surviving members flee to Ft. Huntley.

March 10th, 1845: Marks is in solitary confinement after unsuccessful questioning regarding the town’s fate. A medical examination finds him to have a mental age of ten. Ft. Huntley inhabitants complain of “ghost fires” over in the direction of the village.

March 13th, 1845: Superior Officer of Ft. Huntley, Major Alfred Newcomb, mounts another expedition to Ogilvy. The officers who were on the first expedition display signs of PTSD and erratic behavior, but are not replaced. 1.5 kilometers outside of town, they find Abigail Wentworth tied to a black walnut tree in a ritualistic fashion, her stomach appearing deflated as if a large mass had recently been removed from it. Attempts to free her from the tree only end up removing portions of her skin as she is covered with an unknown substance that shellacks her to the tree. Abigail appears incoherent, alternately vocalizing and asking for her mother . The party finally abandons its attempts to save her, promising to return once they have dealt with the township, Abigail remains unresponsive. Upon entry into the village, they find a small number of completely housebound residents and the bodies of the Mollet family erected in the village square, Leonard Mollet(17)  missing his skin. The officers warn the remaining residents to leave town, but are overcome by a foetid smell 3 km away from the structure. The return journey makes a detour to Abigail’s tree, where she is still unresponsive. The Major sets up a watch duty for her. Population est. 30.

March 15th, 1845: Several unsuccessful attempts to remove Abigail from the tree. Watch is abandoned after Private Nyby goes missing in the night. Three Ogilvy families, suffering from scurvy and malnourishment, arrive at Ft. Huntley. Medical exams find inexplicable wounds on the soles of their feet. Several women are treated for severe bleeding.

March 19th, 1845: Marks alludes to knowing Abigail Wentworth and is interrogated for six hours. Marks offers up a confession, and Major Newcomb leaves Sargent James Berry in charge of Marks while he gets the necessary papers. When Newcomb returns, he finds Marks hung in a brutal, ritualistic fashion. Upon questioning, Sgt. Berry insists that Newcomb ordered the execution of Marks before leaving the room, becoming belligerent at continued questioning and finally assaulting Newcomb. Berry is detained by two other officers. Mark’s body is sent to Hilborough for examination.

March 25th, 1845: Abigail Wentworth dies. Her body gains an empty, sock-like appearance.

March 27th, 1845: Coronary results arrive. Mark’s internal organs are hardened from some unknown chemical, his body appearing to “self-mummify” in the air. Five more families arrive from Ogilvy, population est. 25. All are deeply malnourished. A few show signs of knife wounds, they describe a struggle to stave off cannibalistic neighbors.

April 1st, 1845: The biggest “ghost fire” sighting yet erupts over the skies of Ogilvy. The Amos, Jacobs, and Gardner family attempt escape from the township, most sustain third-degree burns. Three adults and one child survive. Est. population unknown. The fire burns for five days.

June 15th, 1845: A group of Québécois fur trappers come across a man calling himself “Harry Thompson” traveling on a country road. He alludes to being a priest, but his odd mannerisms and feral state of dress alarm the trappers. He offers to pay them in gold for a ride and a meal, but pulls out slags of a ferrous metal that smell rancid to them, and they politely refuse. He offers to travel beside them, to which they agree. His erratic behavior continues to alarm them, until they sit down for supper and the traveler pulles out a bag of human teeth. The trapper’s alarm frightens him and he flees, leaving his leather traveling sack behind. The sack is found to contain several crude surgical tools made from bone and a finger belonging to a young girl. Descriptions of the man match Rev. Brown almost exactly.

September 21st, 1845: Wilbur Mark’s body is exhumed and found to be in a preserved state. His body is cremated and his ashes scattered in the hills.

August 9th, 1856: A trapper stumbles into the cleared ruins of Ogilvy. There is no sign of human or animal habitation. The trapper leaves to gather a contingency of Ft. Huntley residents to explore the ruins, but they are overcome by an acrid odor 500 feet from the clearing. Any further contact with Ogilvy is officially discouraged by Ft. Huntley government. Ogilvy population est. 0.

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With Apologies to Mr. Lovecraft

…and another thing, Fatima. If that cat shits in my shoes one more time I’m boiling him alive. I don’t care that he was a gift from your brother, I’m…what? No, don’t write this down!

–Abdul Alhazred
Pages excised from the Al Azif

Beyond a veil whose rifting would rend us asunder lies an abyssal plane of every atavistic nightmare known to man. I’m talking about really sick shit. It’s so vast and horrible I can’t really give a physical description, which kinda saves on nouns. From this ethereal horror, we turn to Simon Danford, just your average WASP-y Brown undergraduate. Danford had no idea what he was in for when he checked out that book of Arcane Magicks…which, I mean, come on. Arcane Magicks? Walked right into that one.

Simon Danford climbed the long, vista-laden path to his Gothic architectural home, tiptoeing past the scary brown people who had the nerve to rub their non-Anglophonic languages and cultures in his face, up to his student apartment. There, he kicked aside the hot plate and plunged into the tome. Long did he shudder at all the vaguely-described horror, icy were the chills going up his spine, full was his bladder. Each successive page filled him with a building terror until he reached the most accursed page.

There, after the grocery list someone had left in as a bookmark, he saw the most unholy of creatures in a hideous woodcut probably made from pine. The crude arrangement of limbs and eyes looked like God had reached into the reject box of evolution to decorate his hangover cupcakes. Simon vomited neatly in a nearby mug and kept reading for some reason. He read that this unholy terror, whose name had more consonants than a Russian stripper, could only be summoned by a complex mathematical equation, with imaginary numbers and all that jazz. Luckily he had never made it past Algebra 2, and thought himself safe. The fool! The foolish fool!

That night as he slept he dreamt that he wept and crept along a seaside ruint that seethed like an egg in a microwave, but there was no Brillo pad big enough to contain the baked-in horror of the rocks! For there, crouched in the ruins, was that monster oh too hideous to describe, but let’s try it anyway.

Simon took one look at that hideous, loathsome, rugose, tumescent, fermented, squamous, incandescent, ferrous, begrimed, venomous, feculent, diseased, boorish, uncouth, malodorous, rakish, eldritch, slatternly, salacious, titillating, unctuous, repellant, millipedal, hydroponic, suggestive, heinous creature and screamed himself awake.

Lo, did he sigh to see the sea from his apartment window, but O! The horror when he found his hands stained with chalk and, upon the cheap fiberboard they’d installed under the Berber he found those selfsame marking from his dream! The poor lad screamed so hard he fell into a faint, and, recovering from that faint, he fell into another faint, for who was before him but that selfsame creature from his dream, not the one with the dog wearing lipstick but the crazy evil one! And he passed out and peed himself and when he came to the monster was gone and we as a reader aren’t sure whether the monster was real or if it was just a product of his malaise. And that’s good writing, right there. It’s like that one Roman Polanski movie, the one before the one with Jack Nicholson. R-something. Revenge? No, damnit, this is going to bug me.

I tell you all of this, for I AM THAT BOY!

…wait, crap, did I tell you he had an illegitimate child? And the curse, did I get to that? Aw, hell, I don’t have time to rewrite this, I’m being stalked by a being of unimaginable horror and—yes, yes I’m getting to that—he keeps reading over my shoulder and making a general nuisance of himself. What? No, that juice is for Travis. No we don’t have any bacon, would you just sit down and stop getting into stuff? I’m trying to fulfill my writerly compunction to put down every possible word until you drag me off to some unknown horror. No, we don’t have cable…I don’t care that Wings is on, we can’t afford…well, you can just pay the hundred-dollar hookup fee then, I have to eat…no, we can’t ask Travis, technically I’m not even on the lease, you’re gonna get me in—wait, don’t shake that

______________

These papers were found buried under the sediment of cat dander and coffee stains in the writer’s student apartment. The floor was all chalky and the police found a red substance on these papers, forensic testing proved it to be jam.

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Help

Please keep reading.

This isn’t a joke. This isn’t a prank.

Don’t be afraid. Just look. Listen.

I was born not too far from here, the middle child of a well-to-do family.

I had a nondescript childhood for a few years before my younger sister was born and sucked all the air out of the house. She would need constant supervision for the rest of her life, her existence gave my parent’s lives meaning. My brother’s achievements gave them pride. I could offer them nothing except mediocrity, and so was left to my own devices much of the time. The tragedy and the glory of it was that I never would have made my most important discovery if I did not have long stretches of facetless time to myself.

It happened gradually, perhaps over a period of months even more faceless than me. Most children are permitted the luxury of nyctophobia, I was never allowed a nightlight or any sort of bedtime fuss. I coped by letting my eyes adjust to the dark until I could pick out the shapes of furniture in my room. It was just a way to occupy my mind until sleep took me, I didn’t think it remarkable or odd that some of the shapes I could make out disappeared in the daylight.

It wasn’t until the night I got up to use the bathroom and had to move a heavy oblong object that was blocking my door that I noticed something off. It felt completely unlike anything I had in my room just then, a stony, smooth texture that was cool to the touch. It was in my quest to ask my parents what it was that I found that it wasn’t just that objects appeared to me in the dark. When the door to their room creaked open, I saw their bed—empty. The same with my sister’s, her harness straps still buckled.

Perhaps a normal child would have felt a panic unlike any other, but after a lifetime of being alone I did not have the strongest sense of reality.  I thought that returning to bed and sleeping might bring about the return of my family—and it did. The morning light revealed my doorway empty of any obstruction, my family all bustling about their daily activities.

I asked them once—just once—about the night things. My mother seemed about to embark upon some condescending monologue of childhood imagination, but my sister began choking on her applesauce and her thoughts scattered like birds before a tractor.

Suffice to say, once I discovered a world empty of anyone but me, I attempted to explore it. One of the first things I discovered was that the dark world had no concept of “outside”—my front door led to a vast hall, and from that, cubicle offshoots. My second was that there were no sources of light within this world, there were shapes of the lamps in our house, but these were merely composed of solid structures and served no functional purpose.

It seems logical that I began to grow into myself after this. I was already a nonentity in school, now I began to recede from even my casual acquaintances.  I did not suffer from lack of sleep, though that was the reason the principle used, but lack of interest. Once you discover a world unique to you, everyone else’s reality falls by the wayside.

I did not complete the tenth grade. My father halfheartedly threatened to send me to a psychologist, but my sister’s pancreas had been going through complications and the tide of attention turned yet again. My brother had left the house ages ago, working on a medical degree halfway across the country. I decided to make my exit as well, getting a low-paid security job at a department store. Night watchman.

Even the most strict teetotaler will tell you, once temptation has been bowed to, it gets increasingly difficult to ignore.  It was all too easy to turn off my flashlight and wander through new spaces. Only once was I close to being caught: when I turned my flashlight on again I was in a space I could not possibly have accessed. I did not have a key for the door, which was locked from the outside anyway. The district manager gave me an odd look, but since my entrance did not register on the hall camera they were forced to vindicate me.

I was so swamped with the joy of freedom that I did not notice the problem until, perhaps, the point of no return.

Daylight began to dim. I blamed the changing seasons, until the day I missed a traffic light due to my fading vision. The company sent me to an eye doctor, who found nothing especially odd about my vision. I hadn’t the heart to tell him that I could see the numbers perfectly in the half-dark, only that I could not detect the change when he switched the lights back on.

I feared the worst. Was my lifestyle giving me some strange new disease? If it were discovered, and ultimately linked to my little world, would it be torn open for discovery? The fear of losing my reality was greater than losing my sight, so I tried to hide it. Navigation in daylight was nearly impossible, so I did what errands I could under cover of darkness.

Then the last, and worst, problem presented itself.

I was walking along the bedding department when I noticed the path above me narrowed into a hallway. The bedding department was open on all sides, in fact the only hallway in the store led to the manager’s office. Fearing the worst, I tried to turn back and found myself on a plain that very nearly resembled the hardware section.

For the very first time in my life I panicked. I ran, calling, switching on my flashlight, to no avail. I could find only spaces from the dark world, nothing familiar from my daily life.

You may have read the headline: “STORE NIGHT WATCHMAN DISSAPEARS, LEAVES NO TRACE.” I had left plenty of evidence of my arrival at work, nothing of my leaving. The store’s manager attested to my work ethic, but puzzled at my erratic behavior. I’ll be forever thankful that he didn’t imply drugs were involved. I had not taken anything. I was just simply not there.

You may wonder what happened after that. Well, I thought I had found my way back to the usual rooms. But I could no longer return. Switching my flashlight on and off did nothing, and eventually I left it somewhere. I found not only the department store, but the rooms of my childhood home and school. All empty. And that’s where I’ve been until now.

You’ll forgive my errors, I’m not used to keyboards. That was a very long time ago, though I have nothing to measure time against. I have simply had time to ponder if the two spaces can’t somehow connect in another way, if the one can’t affect the other. Which led me here.

I don’t know you, I can’t see you and you can’t see me.  I simply picked a room at random and started typing. The machine isn’t even connected on my end, and I can’t read the screen. I just keep typing in the hope that you’ll read this and somehow know what to do.

Because I’ve been in here alone for so long.

But now I think there’s something in here with me

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The Bug

He never knew why the newspapers gave him a cape.

He was often depicted as an exaggerated Adonis with a goofy mask-cowl that did not serve to hide the squareness of his jaw, or the blue of his matinee-idol eyes. The capes were yet another facet of a society whose subtleties continually escaped him. Even after a little over eighteen months of practice, he had no way of truly garnering “right” from “wrong” in their nebulous system of value. He fell back on the method of attacking the aggressor in the conflict though he knew that, yes, “little guys” got angry too, shopkeepers were as victim to sudden rages as burglars were, and policemen did not always wear a uniform. His success rate was still relatively high, though, and for that the police were willing to look the other way for him.

Everyone loved him. They loved a—but he was not a man, was he? They loved an icon they had never seen in person, though that did not stop the idealized depictions from catching fire in the reading public’s hearts. Some wag for the Daily Mail had even started a comic series about him, giving him a catch-phrase(“By Heavens Above!”) and an ex-army buddy. The origin they cooked up had something to do with radiation, that miracle unknown that could do almost everything  in comic books except cause cancer. His actual origin was much more boring, if biologically sounder.

He had a half-shell over useless, crumpled wings that was a by-product of his  first molt, perhaps that was enough foundation for newspaper artists. Presumably they had never gotten a good look at what was most convenient to call his face, which would have prompted less heroic artists to flee for advertising. His faceted eyes were trained to pick up infra-red, among other things, making him an excellent hunter. In this moment he was hanging upside-down over an exchange taking place in one of the city’s endless waterfront warehouses. Today was fortunate, in that he knew with almost complete certainty that anyone conducting business at gunpoint was probably a criminal. The fact that the other party was bound seemed to support that conclusion.

Well, Solly, you done it in,” the slightly taller business man spoke, smug pheromones radiating off of him. “They tol’ me you was green, an’ I says ‘no, not my Solly. He’s a stand-up guy.’ Which you is, Solly, through an’ through.” He exhaled CO2 with a slight hint of syn-Propanethial S-oxide in the bound businessman’s face, and there was a sudden outpouring of organic methane as he shat himself.

One of the lesser businessmen gagged. “Jeezus!”

The lager businessman smiled, showing a mouthful of gold. He had yet to determine why businessmen felt the need to augment their palpi with metal, enamel alone was the hardest thing in the body. After a series of fraught digestions, he could attest to that.

With a hand signal, the two lesser businessmen grabbed hold of the chained man and dragged him towards a metal barrel.

His sympathetic nervous system flared into action, pumping a series of adrenaline derivatives into his dorsal tube to prepare. In his excitement, he let a glob of saliva drip from his mouth, and it landed on the shoulder of a lesser businessman. He looked up.

Jeezus,” he breathed.

The fight was short and pointless. The two lesser businessmen panicked, threw the chain-man to the floor, and fumbled for their waistband revolvers. He sprayed them with his antiseptic saliva, which clumped in their facial cavities. They fell writhing to the floor, attempting to scream.

He feared the most fight from the largest businessman, but after he confiscated the man’s external metal stinger and dissolved part of it the man fell to the floor, weeping. The only real fight came from the driver, who had been waiting silently with a repeater-gun that left hot trails of pain down his exoskeleton.  The man was thrown, however, when none of the bullets seemed to penetrate his thick chitinous outer layer. He had admirable strength and so was chosen for the feeding.

The bug stood and surveyed his victory. The three-color ink Bug would say “by—” something and stand legs akimbo, perhaps with a light shining from the gold aether behind him. In the real world, he fell to the driver’s side, liquifying his left kidney and sucking it back up through the rostrum underneath his prothorax.

A sudden cry drew his attention. A female businessman, in slightly better shape than her partner, sat staring wide-eyed from a heretofore unseen niche between barrels. Her external covering was torn in several places, and distress pheromones oozed from her pores. Feeling generous and slightly fully, he retracted his feeding tube and went to attend her wounds.

She was squirming too hard to receive his coagulant saliva, so he assume she wished to communicate what she needed. Instead, the moment he removed her gag she began a sonic assault on his tympanic membranes. He attempted a comforting churring noise by passing air through his outer spiracles, but it had no apparent effect. Now in agony, he removed her other restraints to let her minister to herself. She uncoiled with sudden force and knocked him flat. She ran away, still sounding like a drill.

This was the beginning of the end.

Inflammatory headlines dominated the newspapers: “Bug Some Kind Of Mad Man!!” “City Hero Turned Villain!” “Bug Bugs Out On Lady Fair!”  The hot sheets added an inch to her bust line and a beauty mark more reminiscent of an up-an-coming starlet, the artful rips of her clothes seemed to travel mysteriously from paper to paper, always just covering up the good stuff. In the race to get the next big headline first, the papers fell back on the national standard of just making it up. “HAUSFRAU HONEY TO BUG: IT’S YOUR BABY!” was one of the last headlines he saw before he retreated to the sewers. Surface hunting was harder now,  too much effort expelled for too little reward. He  ran across the occasional intrepid reporter, but altering the ph of his saliva seemed to stop that.

Then, somewhere, a biological clock wound down in the first phase of some unknown process. He cemented himself to the ceiling of a flood chamber with a heretofore-unused mucus gland, and waited.

~`~`~

The mayor squinted, smiling as he shook the stranger’s hand. He had gotten elected on the ticket of looking slightly like Teddy Roosevelt, which he played fully to the hilt.

Mighty fine to meet you sir,” he boomed in his second-brassiest public voice, “mighty fine, indeed.”

When the handshake ended he subtly wrung his hand with the other. Helluva grip. Fine thing in a man.

We haven’t had a city hero, and it’s nigh time we got one,” he said, more to the radio mic than his gathered citizens. It went unspoken that there was to be no mention of that  dark period when they’d had a monster protecting their city. In fact, the comic artist of the local paper had already set up the Bug as a returning antagonist to their new hero.

And there he stood, broad-shouldered, bronzed, and magnificent. The fact that he bore more than a passing resemblance to the artistic depictions of the Bug was taken as a sign of providence.

He took the podium, smiled evenly to the cameras, and addressed the citizens in a plummy baritone.

Folks asked me whether this city deserved to have a hero…” he paused just long enough to gain dramatic tension. “I replied that I could only hope to be the hero it deserved.”

The crowd dissolved into applause. He smiled at them, his people, with a solid white wall of teeth. His skin looked fresh and new. His amazingly green eyes, if examined under a microscope, were formed of perfect hexagons.

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Notes Found on the Bulletin Board at Spoke County Community Center

Lost dog: call XXX-9678

Elocution lessons: learn how to speak good.

Slightly used Edsel:
Good condition
Hasn’t been driven since it ate my cat
Slight urine smell
Seats 3 comfortably

Dog missing: call XXX-9678

Is your religion the right one for you?
folloW thE brothers of the WhIte faLL
EArly TuesdaY OUtdoor meet ‘n greet!
Get a free hotdog and some soul counseling!

Found: toolbox
Some spanners, new hammer with suspicious stain on head
O-T-I-S painted on inside

Lose weight now, ask me how!

im reading this over your shoulder
……you dont scare me josh
………….yes i do
………………..stop leaving your bullshit on this board, I need to find my dog.

Free park concert:
Ichthys(a Phish coverband)
your favorite jam grooves, with a minty Christ flavor!
Phish sucks

Found dog: call XXX-9678

Lose wait not, ask me why!

AA meeting has been relocated from the dayroom
for Baseball card stop ‘n swap. Meeting will
take place at First Community Christchurch
one block down.

Estate sale: the late Jeremiah Melton
Hoarder house open to public!
“Whatever you don’t cart away, I’m gonna
burn.” –Steve Melton, grandnephew.

Self-defense classes now available
Rodney McManus, former Police Chief
and (accused and exonerated) sex offender will
give you the basics of how to deal with an attacker!

Loze wit new, axe me out

Twice as Nice adult novelties sidewalk sale!
Gently used personal massagers, kegel weights, and more!
Ask to see if you qualify for our “frequent flier” discount!

Call me: XXX-9678

Frank, I think I have your keys. Which begs the
question of how you got in last night.
I bought a gun, just fyi.

Come eat pizza with me: XXX-5540
I won’t feel you up or nothing
why you gotta be like that?

I don’t know who took my dog but the sumbitch won’t stop humming

Lot er fryt, ię tukk ph’r nkbütah

Stop taking my messages down, you dicks!

Found: Edsel
Please call XXX-1138
it ate my cat

 

Sandy I know you can read this: XXX-9678

I SEE YOU

Deus absconditus
Deus nisi deus
Deus nullus deus

Iä iä y’g nwy chtulu vad’en

CALL ME CALL ME CALL ME
CALL ME CALL ME CALL ME
CALL ME CALL ME CALL ME
CALL ME CALL ME CALL ME
CALL ME CALL ME CALL ME
CALL ME

Needed: exorcist.
Must be classically trained, take chest wounds well
NO EPISCOPALIANS!!

Lose weight. Now ask me how.

Found: ax
slight stain
O-T-I-S carved into handle
Call XXX-9678

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