Us
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Finally, I can make out a patch of sun behind the clouds.

As I look out at the gray rain that never stops pitter patting on the window which I hermetically sealed with duct tape two years ago, I am reminded of time’s inescapable march. Though the orderlies can be bribed and the wont of my spirit guide (Richard Dawson) can be sated through action, the passage of time is not so forgiving. It feels like only yesterday the black snow taunted us from outside that window. We are not getting any younger.

But the dark snow turned to gray after the first year. And now that snow has melted and the sun seems a bit brighter each day as the irradiated dust settles back to earth. The rain uncovers what lies beneath. The cars that littered the streets emerge now with rust that recalls cancer on the skin of a lifelong sunbather. New cracks have formed on the sidewalk like the roots of an invasive species in a beautiful garden. In the distance, I can see the skeleton of a long-dead childrens clown splayed in a field.

My heart is warmed as I reflect: Spring has sprung.

With this slowed process of death and rebirth starting again at long last, it seems appropriate that we activate our Experimental Time Hole Opening Setup (or ETHOS for short) and hurl this episode to the early 21st century (space-time continuum be damned). May this web-log post and the episode it is attached to find you as auspiciously as a hurled brick with a note tied to it.

Episode One: Bad Habits is a half hour brain throttle of fever-dream dark comedy that touches on such topics as animal fights, overeating, Pokemon, childrens’ education, and sandpaper condoms.

Sick and goddamn tired.


I’m Steve. This is my blog. My grandchildren told me that’s short for web-log. They told me this shortly before locking my septuagenerian tuchus in this old folks home, where I am currently imprisoned with nothing to entertain me except this MacBook Pro (which is short for Macintosh Book Professional Grade Computing Device), a few mics (short for microphones) and my twisted, feeble imagination.

The beds are cold here and there are rats in the walls. For a time I managed to live heartily on the young left behind while their parents hunted in the night, feasting upon the bodies of recently-deceased residents. I would squeeze in through a crawlspace and snatch up the pink pups to be fried in butter the next morning. One day, there were no more rats.

The hunger caught up with me in a matter of days, and one evening in a restless sleep I was visited by a timeless Richard Dawson. The discussion began jovially. He was as kind as you would imagine. And he had a very firm handshake and a very wide smile.

Dawson w/ Snazzy Hat

His charming exterior soon melted into a genuine and terrifying rage.

Dawson, angered

But why? Dawson was angered by my idle ways. He told me that in the coming days I would meet two like-minded compatriots, imprisoned like myself in this geriatric tower of sorrow. Together, the three of us would create a radio empire.

Above: Radio. Not pictured: empire

Pictured above: Radio. Not pictured: Empire.

But why were the feeder rats disappearing? On my nightly skulkings betwixt the walls I found Adrian. He was collecting the rats. He was hoarding them. In his room. And not even slaughtering them. He was training them. To leave our hellish towering prison. To return and bring us more food. Clearly he was looking at the big picture. A partnership was born.

We had food now. And by sleeping on sacks filled with writhing, living rats, we had warmth in spite of the thin flannel blankets bestowed upon us by the orderlies.

It was then that we began experiencing our first problems with a poutygeist, which is like a poltergeist, only much sadder and more bitter. It mostly keeps to itself.

One evening whilst studying the Dark Arts, Adrian and I accidentally called forth the poutygeist and trapped its bitchy little soul inside the corpse of a nearby recently-dead resident. And that’s how we met Mike.

Steve

Me. Steve. Your humble, tired, angry narrator.

Adrian

Adrian. My compatriot and trainer of all rats, large and small.

Mike, the poutygeist

A corpse.

Hello world!


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