The Final Recourse: Hansana!

Courage in a Clutch: The Inner Hatchling

Whate kind of straunge seed has’t thou planted?

Sergeant Major Skell cracked the door and slid silently into the darkened nursery.
  He strode over to a portable stereo, drew a cassette from his pocket and inserted it into the tape deck. He picked up the attached headphones and walked over to the cot. For a few seconds he looked down at Baby Kelvin sleeping quietly in the semi-darkness.
  Skell reached down and snugly placed the headphones over his son’s head. He went back to the stereo, pressed the ‘play’ button and left the room, closing the door behind him.

Kelvin was an academic whiz. After a mere two years of secondary school, he went off to uni for two years. He then briefly came back to secondary school to wrap up a few required courses.
  It was here that his musical project Tonos de Gris came to the fore. Kelvin was an outstanding musician, able to perfectly play back any song after a single listen. His prowess extended into the recording sphere as well, evinced by his helming of the ‘Guitarra Solitaria’ sessions at Cat Piss Studios.
  As affable a fellow as Kelvin was, friends who came by the house were often unnerved by the sharp glare of the Sergeant Major. Anyone who fell under the officer’s disdainful gaze could only help but wonder why.
“Yeah, we’re furley teenagers who play that loud rock music with your son. Are we a ‘bad influence’?”

In time, Kelvin’s friends all went their separate ways off to uni. Kelvin himself was a 19-year-old already finishing grad school.
  He went off to see the world, and for many years followed his guru around the Subcontinent — to his father’s dismay, no doubt.
  Today, Kelvin is a successful engineer, polyglot, humanist, and international problem solver.

O what kind of monster hath the Sergeant Major wrought?

Un baño al amanecer en la isla Maleia

Stoddard awoke before anyone else in the quiet beach house.
  It was his habit, whether the night before was silent and solitary, or a festive evening of wine, women, and song — in this case, the latter. He padded through to a glass door he slid aside to take in the sea breeze and breaking dawn.
  Through the sedge grass of the dunes Stoddard trod down to the deserted beach. The gentle surf lapped at his toes as he gazed at the horizon. A tangerine sun peeked through a smear of clouds amber, scarlet, and mauve. The redolent tang of brine and driftwood rode the breeze along with cries of unseen gulls.
  Into the breakers Stoddard strode, relishing the bath-like temperatures. Soon the swells were up to his midriff and he stopped to scan the horizon again. The colours had thinned to gold, peach, and lavender, reminiscent of the rainbow sherbet of Barone Biskin.
  To his left, Stoddard suddenly heard a disturbance in the water.
  Not far, the surface rippled and burbled with dozens of fish skipping through the tide, schooling in his direction. Following the restless fish were two dorsal fins flanking each other.
  It only took a second for Stoddard to recognise the undulating fins as bottlenose dolphins chasing their breakfast.
  The school of fish swam directly through him, tickling his sides as he raised his arms overhead. The two dolphins raced past him on each side as he spun around to watch the hunt carry on down the shoreline.
  Stoddard took a deep breath and made his way ashore with a slight smile.

¿Una amable bendición de Santa Petronila y Neptuno, tal vez?

Omuyingirira Squatters Ruin UAP Bungaloid

Squatters recently broke into one of the Ugandoid Autonomous Prefecture’s sacred bungaloids affiliated with Kanisa Fuju Temple, according to an Allied Pungeoning Front report.
  Mzungu parishioners who were out of town doing missionary work returned to discover the bungaloid festooned with atrocious neon colours and refurbished into a junk store called The Culture Vulture. Display Idol Assemblies and sacramentals had been defiled and slapped with price tags — an anathema in the eyes of many.
  The APF had called in PATU units to successfully secure the premises. None of the omuyingirira squatters were present at the time of investigation.
  In a press conference Tiki Prime spokesman Madoobe Oumee claimed, “The squatting interlopers from overseas are what we call ‘ababbi b’oku nnyanja ab’obuwangwa.’ They cause many zibbs. They have no culture, thus they plunder from all they consider exotic in an attempt to appear worldly, when they’re more parochial than anyone with their high omulokozi complex. This much we have gleaned from their social media blatherings.”
  UAP Grand Gouvernor M’bwe’bwe signed a bill that puts penalties on alleged squatters. The law, which has already gone into effect, gives the APF, PATU and other sanctioned UAP bodies the right to immediately commit squatters to local pungeonaries.
  Parishioners and citizens have spearheaded a “Restore the Bungaloid” movement to help revivify the temple extension and reinstate Idol Access. Soon enough people of the Ugandoid Autonomous Prefecture will again be able to commune together in a Kind Sesh.

The GTFO of Dodge Restorative

“Hit the road to clear those cobwebs,” Johnny Gutts once advised some surly furlies to shake off their lingering funk.
  “An effective remedium,” they learned first-hand.

Stratum XV: Vers l’ouest, maintenant!

Noach, Brojoe and Stoddard headed westward into the sunset.
  A night in the Alibamons was spent at The Fo’ screening Pénitencier Trois amidst the congregation’s raucous engagement.
  The next day the trio made it to the edgewaters of the Atchafalaya Basin by noon. A lone houseboat quietly creaked as Uncle Crowley stepped out onto the deck welcoming the guests aboard. The quarters inside were a time capsule: dingy wood paneling, yellowed contents of picture frames, and dusty tchotchkes.
  Uncle Crowley led the men to a small skiff with a trolling motor and they pushed off into the bayou. They silently glided through the cypress maze as the afternoon sun streamed through the leafy canopy. Visuals became chrono-enhanced upon shroomage eventuation. Lutetian flashbacks evinced the timelessness of the quags that were ever thus. Here and there mudbug fishermen were stationed in this impossible map of the dank morass.
  Hours later found the group back at the houseboat where they again hit the road.
  In La Faieta, Mémé Arcegno treated the fellows to écrevisse and live music at the Belisarius. A boudin p’tit dej fortified them for the day’s jaunt to the Vieux Carré.
  Arriving in the thick of Carnival, the clamouring crowds were a notable contrast from yesterday’s soundless swamps. The urge to mope at the nearest dive was soon quashed by icy ouragons and protoxyde d’azote.
  The cobwebs had finally been removed.

Other itinerant correctives of note:
• Pipo Spanno’s Stratum XXIII journey to Lago Plateado.
• Stoddard’s Stratum XXIII power tubing at 65 kph on Lac Ste. Clare certainly cleared some cobwebs.

“GTFO while you can,” Johnny Gutts well reminds us.

‘3-Year-Old with a Sharpee’: Heritageville’s Newest Tattoo Parlour

Heritageville’s newest tattoo studio has recently opened its doors to ink-savvy types looking to make an impression.
  “3-Year-Old with a Sharpee” Tattoo Parlour is located at 1300 Barney Scholls Rd. and aims to serve stigmatophiles and scene-clingers alike.
  The shop is the brainchild of Jared Gutts, who was inspired by a relative’s budding artistic sense.
  “Baby Eddie was scribbling on the rec room wall with a permanent marker. He was showing us his Art — nay, his Truth. I was very impressed with that.”
  Gutts charges by the hour and accepts both appointments and walk-ins.
  People with no imagination nor originality can browse the ‘flash gallery’ of popular images, or simply bring their own design scrawled on a napkin.
  “I usually just use black ink, but I have a full spectrum of coloured inks I can use if a customer really wants to get crazy,” Gutts said.
  “3-Year-Old with a Sharpee” Tattoo Parlour is open daily from noon to 5 p.m. and Mr Gutts has promised a big presence on social media “real soon.”

Cuori e fiocchi di neve di vetro

“I desperately need people to see that I’m ignoring them...”

Join us for a unique event where select members of the community can congregate in a safe space for calm and idle indolence!
  The Orville Corporation presents the Emotive Response System’s Asocial Hour — an event for local asocial folx and allies!
  The ERS Asocial Hour is a regular group outing for asocial people to dissociate, ignore social etiquette, and be seen without reciprocal engagement. It’s a way to herd like-minded individuals together to vegetate in a judgemental, deprecatory way. This is a gathering not for introverts, but passive-aggressive extroverts!
  Whether you’re looking to impress people without having to meet them, give complete strangers the stink-eye, or just listlessly take up space and oxygen, we hope you’ll stop by...

Date: Wednesday, July 24, 5:00-7:00pm
Location: APF Car-Vue/Q-Mast, Mezzanine 9, 6700 Barney Scholls Rd., Heritageville
Refreshments provided by Tauntini’s. ERS Digital Lifestyle Toolz™ and Hello Planaria™ phone apps are available to help ward off uncomfortable social interactions. ConGaijin-20 protocols including safe shunning distances will be observed.