Apr. 23rd, 2020

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April is here and the shops are full of cut-price chocolate eggs. Traditionally a time for bunnies, in Eerie they probably have the Easter Jackalope bringing their chocolate eggs. To celebrate, I'll be posting a different Jackalope-themed bit of merch every day in April.

Here's a jackalope made from an altered beanie baby by yours truly:

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It's Thursday, the day we dedicate to Simon's absolute best boy, Sparky the Hellhound.

This week, meet Blan Fleming, the latest of my beanie baby creations:

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So, following this comment thread, I was wondering... what cocktails do you think they serve in Eerie? What's on the specials board at the Loyal Order of Corn? What's the Mayor throwing back after a hard day, or raising a glass of in celebration when he successfully feeds a teenage boy to a slavering wolfman? And in the alternate reality where Eerie was a juggernaut fandom with it's very own annual convention and a hotel bar decked out in yellows and greens and giant inter-dimensional TV sets, what's on the menu for thirsty fans looking for a pleasantly alcoholic beverage?
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Simon stared in horror at the saliva-smeared human head clutched in one set of his pet Hellhound's massive jaws.

"Sparky," he said, his voice halfway between a whisper and a scream. "What did you do?"

"He's pulled me away from a nice quiet evening of haunting the covered bridge," said the head, still dapper beneath the layer of drool. "Those Ouija-wielding teens won't get the scare they deserve, and will likely come to a bad end when they keep pushing their luck the spirit world."

Simon, who suspected he knew at least one of the teens in question, secretly agreed.

Ongoing Verse: Microwave

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The chain binding a water-stained copy of the Eerie Yellow Pages to the payphone was glowing red-hot. The heavy sound-muffling door also kept in most of the heat, but curls of smoke still found oozed around the sealed edges of the booth.

Already Marshall could smell the burning plastic as the receiver softened into black slag that oozed down the melting metal of the cradle.

"Looks like calling Mom for a ride is off the table," he said, his tone aiming for light-hearted and falling far short.

The sidewalk began to bubble and churn, and he stepped into the road.

Ongoing Verse: Microwave

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The mackerel soldiers were on parade, a vast silvery army that marched and turned and shouted battle cries in perfect, deadly unison. From his throne of sea glass and drowned sailors the King Crab watched the display, his black eyes bobbing approvingly atop long stalks.

The smallest of the seacreeps approached him shyly, his face half-hidden behind the too-large limpet shell that he'd made his home.

"Your Majesty," he piped, a tiny stream of bubbles emerging from a mouth ringed with sucker-tipped feelers. "The seahorses report that the enemy is approaching our borders."

The King Crab's great claws snapped angrily.


Ongoing Verse: Holmes Brothers

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Simon looked at the cone of shame, still neatly packaged in it's hermetically-sealed plastic wrapper, then looked at the patient in front of him.

"I don't know if this is going to work," he said. "This is the smallest cone we've got, and it's at once too big and not nearly big enough."

The Darkness from Inside the Closet glared at him without any eyes. It wriggled a thousand horrible, segmented, crawling limbs at him threateningly. It clicked mandibles that changed size and shape and sliminess moment by moment.

Simon turned to his brother.

"See right there? That's the issue."


Ongoing Verse: Holmes Brothers

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There was a man fishing off the edge of the car park. Marshall had been watching him for days, ever since the old lady with the greyhound who walked past their building each morning had turned out to be nothing more than an old lady with a greyhound and a regular walking route.

The fishing man wore a fluorescent yellow safety vest and an off-white bucket hat decorated with brightly coloured lures. He'd shown up three days ago and as far as Marshall could tell, he hadn't left. He was fishing in empty air, and worse, he was catching things.

Ongoing Verse: Microwave

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The wind coming off the lake had raised a tiny, localised sandstorm along the northern shore. The holiday makers who hadn't been quick enough to escape it had screamed for far longer than should have been possible through scoured lungs and clogged throats, but they were quiet now.

The seagulls hovered above the swirling clouds, yellow eyes watchful as they waited for the dust to settle, revealing the torn flesh and bloody bones the storm had left.

Syndi Teller crouched behind a rusted dumpster bearing the logo for a long-abandoned restaurant, covered her mouth, and tried not to be sick.

Ongoing Verse: Weather

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The power had gone out overnight and all the ice-cream had melted.

That was the story Mister Radford had given to his insurance company, to the Dairy clerk that took his order for a replacement shipment, and to a teary-eyed Officer Derek, who had come in for two scoops of vanilla and found himself in the middle of a crime scene.

"Summer berry sorbet," Radford offered by way of explanation, scraping congealed lumps of bloody offal into a dustpan. "Raspberry ripple. Strawberry. You know how it is."

He scrubbed at the sticky smears already staining the floorboards.

"Definitely not murder."

Ongoing Verse: The Powers That Be

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Janet was not entirely sure about the new menu options.

She turned it this way and that, taking in the bun (made from pressed glutinous rice), the lettuce (formed from shaped wasabi and almost certain to be an issue when it came time for taste testing), the tomato slice (layers of pickled ginger artfully cut and curled in the biggest demonstration of skill over sense she'd ever seen) and the patty (meat from the chum bucket, which was fine if the customer didn't mind a little light cannibalism).

"Why?" she said, finally.

Baron von Burger, aka Fred Suggs, looked hurt.

Ongoing Verse: Janet

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"This isn't fair!" whined the headless ghost, which should have been impossible for a couple of reasons.

It pointed one spectral finger at Sparky, who continued to pant in happy ignorance of the conflict transpiring around him.

"He's got three heads!" the ghost said. "I don't even have one! He can spare me a single measly skull."

Phantom blood continued to pump gorily from the ragged stump of the ghost's neck as it spoke.

"You're being really selfish!"

"That's..." Simon searched for words and found them wanting.

"The last decapitation victim was a lot nicer than you," he said instead.

Ongoing Verse: Microwave

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