Greetings, Doomed Monkeys! Uncle Mort here, back with another issue of the Saturday Evening Ghost as we draw closer to end of our first full year in business. This week the gang takes their lumps in a new installment of Psamurai. Vincent Harris visits a third world country (Philadelphia) in ‘All Things Considered Pt. 3’. A. Wizard stops by with a double shot of Wizard on Whizzin. And the Page Five Ghouls fall victim to a scheduling snafu. All this is brought to you by Kenbro, bringing you a new friend for the holidays. Only one more issue before Christmas, kids. Have fun and megszentségteleníthetetlenségeskedéseitekért!
Due to a catastrophic error in the calibration of the narrative pacing, SEG is forced to present an archival holiday edition of Page Five Ghoul from the controversial, never published, secret ‘first issue’ of SEG, which would have went live on Dec 24th, 2016. However, the launch was delayed two weeks following the eleventh hour ouster of Chip Globus, original EIC of SEG.
Fuckin’ dude is making me work on Christmas Eve. Technically, I had all week to write this shit, but Gary Llewellyn doesn’t start work until a few hours before the deadline and the deadline is on Christmas Eve. Ergo, I have to work on Christmas Eve.
I see those holes in your drawers
Speaking of Christmas, it’s the time of year when our thoughts turn to the children. Particularly what kind of batshit crazy lies we can tell them to make them behave. When they’re young and dumb as a bricks, you start with a wondrous, magical reward system. ‘Don’t start shit and you’ll get good shit’ or as we dress it up here in the corpulent west, Santa Claus. As children get older, hopefully, they start to smart up a bit. And when they smart up, the Santa schtick loses its effectiveness. You have to escalate to ‘Don’t start shit and there won’t be no shit.’ Enter Krampus, Hans Trapp, Gryla etc. Now at this point, if you’re a real dick, you turn up the knob to ‘You better do this shit, or there will be some shit.’ That’s where this week’s monster comes in: Jólakötturinn, The Yule Cat.
Demiurge Overkill Pt. 1
“Sophie,” Now Ray said. “When you try to use your power on Yalda, is the problem that you aren’t able to get in?”
“His mind is surprisingly easy to get in,” she replied. “It’s just that there’s nothing there. No fear, no guilt, no remorse, no joy, there isn’t even boredom. Just a constant parade of thoughts.”
“You can see what he’s thinking?”
“No, I’m not a psychic. I go by feel. Conscious thoughts just feel a certain way. Like paperwork. I feel out emotions, then I swim down to their roots in the subconscious. And his subconscious is empty.”
“There’s nothing there. There’s always something, like a psychic mass that is planted by early trauma or suffering that was never properly taken care of and grows, like a tumor into a beast. These beasts can unconsciously affect your behavior and everybody has a handful. Sometimes they manifest as a replica of a person who might have caused or is strongly connected to a traumatic event or suffering. But for Yalda, there’s nothing and no one…” Sophie paused and stared askance.
“What is it, Sophie?” Now Ray asked.
“Something Simon Vyx said to me before he died.”
“I wouldn’t take advice from Yalda’s prime stooge.”
“Well, he said Yalda is afraid of nothing and no one.”
“That sounds like some stupid shit he says to sound intimidating,” Wolf said, sipping a beer and reading a magazine.
“But, that’s exactly what I found in his subconscious. Nothing, and no one.”
“Sounds like Vyx was right about that,” Cheryl said.
“We’ll have to take another tack,” Now Ray said.
“Wait a second,” Sophie said. “I couldn’t find anything because I wasn’t looking for nothing or no one.”
“You want to try and manifest nothing and no one?”
III. Amateur Spy, Professional Jerk
Philly traffic isn’t as bad as New York traffic, but that’s no consolation when you’re stuck on a bridge due to the brutal one-two punch of road work and a six-car pile up caused by some idiot who couldn’t put their phone down. The cacophony of honking horns, screaming drivers, and sirens had most of the motorists in a full-fledged rage. Not the Ruiner, at the moment he was enjoying being a spy so much that nothing short of a phone call from work could blow his mood.
The bridge was situated near a sewage processing plant and the air always smelled like shit. Even with the windows rolled up. The putrid stench was no match for Harris’ enthusiasm but didn’t it seem to be improving the overall mood of the other stalled commuters. Eventually, after nearly an hour of limping along, traffic returned to its normal pace.
Harris wondered if he should call his “handler” back at the hotel and let him know about the traffic delay. He also just realized that he forgot to get a code name. This almost upset him until he realized that forgetting to get a code name was exactly something that an amateur spy would do.