You will need:
Deer urine
A pack of wolves

Apply deer urine to yourself. Outrun (or don’t) the pack of wolves.

Instant “Urine Trouble” pun-based costume. (You may have to explain the joke to others.)

Ah, October! The falling of leaves! The chilly breezes! The one month of the year you remember that your childhood home had a basement and why can’t you remember that fact year round? How could you have forgotten the basement and its low, steady calling? The mushroom fug? The whispers?

OCTOBER!

I squirt a bit of dish soap into a bowl, and as it fills with water an old friend appears.

The Imp of the Perverse (an internal voice attuned to the inappropriate): “Aww yeah… get that water reaaaal slippery.”

A 2nd internal voice: “Don’t do that.”

The Imp (escalating): “Daddy likes his water real… /slippery/.”

2nd: “Ugh.”

A 3rd internal voice: “I could post this.”

2nd: “No! You’re giving it what it wants!”

The Imp: “Drink the soap water.”

[it don’t] END

There’s no money to be made in stitching together parts from purloined bodies and using a tower-based lightning system to imbue them with life. The real money is in catering to the hobbyists who want to make their own monsters and selling them starter kits, supplies and how to guides.

More than half will never even make a single monster. They’ll spend money just so they can imagine themselves as the sort of person who stitches together and animates monsters.

[artist credit: @rapidpunches]

[img 1 – A picture of a fancy pistolero in sequined finery]

THEM: kin shoot wings off bugs at 100 paces, each shot a timed Morse code compliment to a passin’ fancy lad or lass or both

[img 2 – A picture of a soaking wet gunslinger with drooping hat]

ME: bullets squeeze out mah pistol like toothpaste to the ground like phbhphbphb

Oh great. Now, on top of all my other problems, I find out the Pharaoh has ordered my name and likeness removed from the whole city, so every statue of me has had its face chiseled off overnight and the guy I get my coffee from in the morning is pretending like he doesn’t know who I am.

—

Oh great. Now, on top of all my other problems, the ship I was hoping to take to The Isle of Night has been boarded by pirates and they say that I’ll only be set free once I’ve grown a beard on behalf of their cutlass-wielding monkey mascot who has thus far been unable to grow his own… and I just shaved before boarding so that Neptune would take me for a humble man!

I trained a robot to watch 10,000 hours of sitcoms so it could write one of its own, and at the end of the 10,000 hours, I had some results: the robot was collapsed and covered with fruit flies.

I don’t know anything about making robots. I made this one from a banana. I don’t think it’s going to do anything funny based on those 10,000 hours of sitcoms either. It hasn’t typed anything.

Keyboard’s sticky.

It’s Saturday night and we all know what that means! Time to gather in the village pub, drink intoxicants, and hold a lottery to determine who we’re going to feed to the basement thing, the teeth in the darkness, the community’s secret and shame.

This week, the lottery is a trivia contest, so if anyone knows a sequel that won Best Picture at the Oscars– apparently there’s two of them– it’ll get me out of last place and I’ll live to keep our secrets for at least one more week. Please. Please.

---

Spirite Hell Desert Belle: I know one of them is The Godfather Part II

---

oh thank you thank you thank you

I was so scared for a second there ’cause Gary buzzed in first and said “Godfather Part II” but it turns out it was a trick question because the Elders had decreed that all films are forbidden here– duh– and so Gary’s already been tumbled down the smooth steps into the growling dark.

The jukebox has been turned up and we’re all drinking to the sounds of Loretta Lynn and pretending that’s all we can hear.

I guess the rest of the trivia rounds are just for “funsies” now.