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The burned out minivan crouched in the parking lot outside WERD-TV. A ram skull topped with ornate curled horns stared balefully out over the rows of parked cars, empty eye sockets glittering darkly beneath the heavy folds of a midnight-black cowl.

“Free Beer!” proclaimed the hand-lettered sign above the glowering mascot for Eerie’s most recently opened micro-brewery. “Hand-crafted in Eerie! Brewed with soul!”

A pair of rangy figures in blood-stained denim, their faces obscured behind rubber sheep-skull masks, handed out plastic cups of rich brown brew to the gaggle of eager station employees that had formed around the van.

“You have got to be kidding me,” said Dash.

“No!” said Marshall. “I’m telling you, Hooded Ram Breweries is a front for the forces of evil to harvest the unwitting souls of Eerie!”

“Yes,” said Dash. “An idiot could see that. They’re not even being subtle about it. What I mean is, do you really want to go to the effort of saving the people who couldn’t see through it, even though this has got to be the most transparent Deal with the Devil since the guy who literally had people sign in blood?”

“He’s got a point there,” said Simon.


Read the rest of the Microwave-verse here )
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The Eerie Waste Processing Plant and Pizzeria was on fire. Hissing globs of molten cheese leapt skyward, landing with a greasy sizzle on the street outside or congealing on the flat roofs of neighbouring businesses. The air was fragrant with the scent of baking dough and rank with the sweet-sour stink of reclaimed animal by-products.

Within the flames a vast shape moved, many-appendaged, bubble-skinned. It brought one popcorn-encrusted tentacle down on the red and white awning above the store front, sending a shower of candy-striped matchsticks over the assembled onlookers.

“Told you,” said Marshall. “Pineapple on pizza offends even the gods.”

Read the rest of the Microwave-verse here )
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The junction box on Sixth Street thrummed with life, the utilitarian grey metal casing vibrating with the force of the current coursing beneath it. A hand-written note, held in place with the liberal application of sellotape, fluttered on the front of it.

"To the person who found my glasses on the street last Wednesday and left them here for me to find: thank you."

The Unkind Ones' newest prospects, the fraternal triplets Findo, Fetcho and Recovero, knelt on the sticky and scorching asphalt as they carefully cut the raggedy-edged page free of it's bindings. Around them, the fully-patched members of Eerie's most notorious biker gang waited in reverend silence.

With a last staticky ripping noise, the letter was free. The prospects folded it once, twice, then turned in a well-choreographed semi-circle and handed it to Billy Millions.

"It is found," said Fetcho.

"It is found," intoned the rest of the Brotherhood.

Billy Millions blushed to the roots of his magnificent beard as he accepted the offering. The Unkind Ones cheered and clapped, and several competing dad-rock ballads began blaring from half a dozen portable radios.

Unseen amidst the celebration, Mister Lodgepoole misappropriated several skull-and-crossbone decals from various motorcycles, scowling furiously.

Read the rest of the Microwave-verse here )

Read the rest of the Pay Attention verse here )

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Eerie Indiana

July 2017

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