Menko 24: Vulgara Reganto

Cryptic Transmissions on Mystery Hill

Atop the far plateaus of Mystery Hill and east of the chambot fairways, the thick woods were slowly being carved away for the growing Wicewudu settlement.
  Malinconico, Bancroft, and Gass-Boy trudged through the future Court of Glen examining the fresh red clay underfoot. Around them was the natural — rough white quartz chunks Bancroft held up for inspection — as well as the unnatural: domestic detritus churls had seen fit to discard before even a groundbreaking had yet to commence.
  Dirty cardboard, shattered plastic — even an old chequebook from the local khan was amongst the litter in the once-quiet woodlands.
  ‘This is as bad as the Shakamaxon slobs trashing Town Bank on their holiday weekends,’ lamented Malinconico to himself.
  An electronic chirp interrupted the dull silence. Bancroft drew the kōmori-otoko transceiver from his rucksack and flipped a switch. A blurt of static hissed for a second before a voice came forth: “Hello, Daffodil!”
  The young men looked at each other quizzically.
  “Did someone activate the komatsugumi handset?” asked Malinconico.
  “No, the transceiver counterpart is drained — it’s back in the garage in Nottingham,” Bancroft explained with a shrug.
  “But whoever that is has our frequency,” said Gass-Boy.
  “Hello, Daffodil,” the transceiver squawked again.
  “It’s shimin band radio — everyone’s on those frequencies, you dorf!” Bancroft snapped. “Who is this?” he barked into the device.
  “Hello, Daffodil,” the voice repeated.
  “What if it’s the Farmer?” Gass-Boy worried.
  “No, he’s on the other side of the fairway near Horseshoe Canyon,” Malinconico explained somewhat unconvincingly. “Plus, he wouldn’t be sounding so friendly.”
  Gass-Boy, always one to stir things up, leaned over the transceiver.
  “Hey, Farmer! Blebby bleh! Inda gritz! Tee eff gur’eyemz!”
  What the heck was he channeling?
  “Cut it out!” Bancroft snatched the instrument away. “You’re gonna make him madder than Weasel’s pop!”
  “I find these shenanigans to be quite taxing,” sighed Malinconico. “Let’s get outta here.”
  The young men left the clearing and disappeared into the woods.
  From behind some nearby yew bushes a pair of eyes watched the boys depart. A weathered hand quietly deactivated a transceiver.

Kigyō no Sumakkudaun

From the backstage to the boardroom...

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Menko 24: Trógon Métallo

Congeries Mnesic

Menko 24: Görmek ve Görmemek

La Soltera: La belleza necesitada de la Dementia III

“Sniff It, Officer”

El Soltero: Mujeriego de la Dementia V

Marquis of Methyl Anthranilate

Crescenti dell’Eclipse ’24

Le rime e i ritmi della natura

The Colpomancy Monologues: A Philippic of Bitter Solipsism

Snobble Grflxx of the Xarnaq Praetorium was recently incognito on Earth performing a Covert Cultural Audit when he decided to sample some beverages whilst people-watching at the Bogle Alehaus in Classic City.
  As he sipped a pint of Bettwanzen Half Stout he silently watched a wide panoply of human exemplars socialising — uni students, professors, trads, bohemians, and the lot.
  What next caught his eye was quite the odd specimen: Waddling into the pub was an epicene, corpulent mass clad in ill-fitting dungarees sporting a buzz cut and grimace.
  “To each, their own,” Swobble reminded himself of the earthers’ popular saying.
  But what surprised the alien observer was another specimen that entered mere seconds later: a similar phenotype dressed identically to the first. Both humans had climbed the staircase to the performance space upstairs, so apparently some shindig was about to commence.
  Even more astounding was a third, and then a fourth human entering with the same garb and physical attributes.
  And then a sixth, and a seventh. All displayed variations on a theme: Dirty denim overalls, unflattering coiffures, and scowls at anyone who glanced their way.
  “The bibbed trousers suggest this may be a convention of ranchers or other agricultural professionals, but I see no calloused hands nor epidermal bronzing from outdoor labour,” Snobble mused.
  “The earthling Jared Gutts has remarked on the captivation many humans have for the beauty of what they call ‘sideboob.’ But I see nothing but languid adiposis resembling the pendulous pannus of the gordotherium, a foul beast native to Xarnaq IV.”
  Then came the epiphany.
  “On Xarnaq IV, we don’t have navels but we are familiar with the Earth practice of navel-gazing. On Xarnaq IV, the neurotic and unproductive castes obsess over their body parts as oracle as well as defensive proxy for their supposed lack of agency in a world that doesn’t cater to their every whim and need. We call it ‘cloacamancy’ — I wonder if this is the same thing?”

Nunca digas de esta agua no echo deseos

The trio walked along the crumbling path wending through the old camposanto at Coney Hill. Buds the colour of green apples had appeared in the trees, heralding a new spring under the sun’s mild balm.
  Ian strolled a few paces behind Srta. Melén and her amiga boricua Lucía as he eyed the young croci sprouting amongst the granite lápidas.
  As they neared the old through-truss bridge, Srta. Melén pulled three oranges from the sack she carried. Lucía revealed a small jar of honey.
  The three stopped on the bridge to overlook the burbling murk of the river passing underneath. The women handed Ian one of the oranges.
  “Por buenos pensamientos,” Melén spoke as they drizzled the honey over the unpeeled fruit.
  ‘What sort of heathen rite is this? Offerings to Oshun? ¿Hechizos de suerte?’ Ian thought, going along with the curious custom.
  “Good thoughts. Good fortune,” Lucía softly said as a warm breeze drifted between them.
  With nothing particular in mind, Ian just wished for something positive to happen.
  They tossed the oranges into the river and quietly watched as they slowly bobbed downstream.

Siete días después...

At Casa Megis there was a knock at the door. Ian opened it to see a nondescript man in tie and jacket.
  “I’m Lt. Sabueso. Are you Ian Stoddard? Did you report a tololoche stolen three years ago?”
  Ian collected himself.
  “Yes... and yes.”
  “Well, some choir boy left it at the prendería on Baxter Street. Probably changed hands ’couple times since the thief stole it. You can come and pick it up whenever you wish. Buenas tardes.”

¿Habra sido coincidencia?

“Because We Think Our Customers Are Idiots,” Part II

“Honey, look at that colourful fellow advertising vacancies at that housing complex!
  “The compelling way he waves his signage at passing traffic creates a sense of urgency, which establishes both credibility and an emotional connection, prompting consumer action on our part.”
  “But dear, that’s a clown.”
  “True, though his conspicuous deportment does demand regard to his rhetoric. His sincerity and earnestness beseeches us to not so hastily disregard his overtures based upon mere appearances.
  “After all, the buffoon is an age-old archetype known for ‘jester’s privilege’ wherein he can convey harsh truths without fear of sanction — a vital resource we need today to navigate a media environment awash in infotoxins and Irritati bloviation.
  “I find his entreaties to be both cogent and credible, and if we don’t act now, we may forgo an opportunity that is certain to be beneficial to us.
  “Plus: Free hot dogs!”