Misc BONE LONESOME

There are those who say civility is a thin veneer, a glossy pretty coating that hides the true nature of any town. In the case on Bone Lonesome, this veneer was like the veneer of a cheap table left out in the rain for years. It was a grey peeling layer barely clinging to sagging, rotting pressboard beneath. You could see it in the eyes of the people who lived there, you could see that it took extreme effort on their part not to lose it. Not to run screaming down the street cutting the throats of their neighbors and collecting their blood in whiskey bottles for no other reason then just to have it. It was not a friendly town, not on the surface and certainly not in the rotting truth that lay beneath. But Bone Lonesome was were Mr. Peabody was heading, where he had been “relocated” to, and in this economy even living in Bone Lonesome seemed better than no job at all.

Misc PARTIAL DIARY FOUND IN AN OLD HOUSE

Day 6

Ok, it’s dead I get that but Jesus! Why the hell won’t it stop banging on the wall?! Does it think it’s going to knock a hole through or maybe I’ll just open the door and let it in? It reminds me of this old refrigerator I used to have that made the most irritating noise. This morning I actually broke out my guitar and played along with the beat of it’s hammering but that only made it hammer harder and the whole song was ruined. I even find myself tapping my foot in time with the rhythm. I think it’s going to drive me insane.

I suppose I could just go out and kill it, or whatever happens to make them stop moving. But then I will be alone. Truly alone.


Day 7

I found some old boxing gloves in the cellar today while looking for something besides besides peach preserves to eat. I’m going to go out and try and put them on the son of a bitch. Oh yeah, I’m going to tase it first. Wish me luck.


Day 8

Yeah that plan didn’t work out so well. I got bit. But I did get one glove on. So that’s something.I’m pretty tired. I think I’ll go back to bed. God I wish it would stop pounding.

Misc THE FAMILY

They were a mongoloid family to whom the idea of contact with water
outside of being caught in the rain, was a foreign one. They reeked
of sour milk and willful ignorance. Their slack jawed progeny destroyed
any family line they became entangled with, which fortunately or unfortunately
were few, for they were an inbred lot.
Those who knew them, and no one outside their clan knew them well, placed their
intelligence and ingenuity at the level of the lesser tool using primates. Being
unsophisticated and lacking any form of discretion, their faces were a panoply of
lust, fear and rage in various degrees and combination.
They did not worship the god of their neighbors but instead prayed to a jar they
claimed contained the “Tiny Boy”. And through an extension of this reverence, they
followed the wishes of the “Tiny Boy’s” mother, now bent and aged but far from frail.