Teléfono descompuesto en el bosque

On a sweltering summer eve deep in the Pinares Desolados, the young men gathered around a campfire near the Pavian Pavilion.
  The Vaughn wove a tale about a dilapidated warplane that rested on an abandoned airstrip in the wilderness not far from where the men sat.

“In the quiet of night observers from afar would see the glow of lights from the derelict aircraft. And always, closer inspection would reveal the rusting hulk in the dark, of course, with no power at all...”

  Malinconico’s search for the story’s provenance found conflicting results. He had heard of the hauntings at Batstow Village. And the ghost lights near Atco Stadius were well noted in the area. Those spectral illuminations were known to occasionally appear at the Carretera Molino Quemado. Which apparently was a different Carretera Molino Quemado than Malinconico knew from his days in nearby Crestamadera.
  So very confusing.
  But this is the nature of lore and legends spread by word of mouth — details shift and plot points wander, keeping the narrative alive underneath added shrouds of mystery.
  Tell the stories you hear, if you deem them worthy of recount. The imperfect haze of memory will always accumulate the patina of each storyteller upon the span of man’s grand recollections.

Promote the Josh

One must promote the affirmations one has defended.

Jiānchí Miǎnfèi Zèngpǐn

Ultion Obuvunanyizibwa

Where Dementia III saw peaceful benedictions, Dementia VIII atrocities force Incident Response Units to arbitrate with SIJACOPS demand for ultion redress.

Defend the Josh

One must defend what one has affirmed.

The Miet-Box at the End of the Lane

At the end of Pauskil Lane lies an empty lot. Cracked asphalt and concrete slabs hint at the bunkers that once occupied the parcel.
  Over the years various musical clenches used the bunkers for their hersall prep. Some notables: Mr Garge and his Barmherzigland brethren, Otto’s Ilýsion Pedía, Mook Matar, Vaqueras Llorando — even the ’Nuts honed their tecnik there within the breeze-block chambers.
  Mr Wrymouth, who rented out the bunkers, was a rare sight — unless he saw people there he thought he could Save (assuming no one save himself had ever heard Good News). But he just had the structures torn down one day for no apparent reason. (Well, their proximity to the seedy Vistaparque council flats must’ve been at least one reason.) Even Mr Garge’s adjacent teleball rink was repurposed as a car park for the art school extension.
  It’s all gone now, but if you listen closely you can still hear the strains of “Pink Pudding,” “Donne de la Vigueur à Mon Âme,” and “Me Siento como Freddi”. That, and the sound of a ’60’s TV console being shattered by a makeshift teleball javelin.

Sein eigener Geistesgefängnis