Letter From the Editor

Greetings , Doomed Monkeys! Old Uncle Mort back, yet again, with another Saturday Evening Ghost. This week T.J. Washington is back with the part two of ‘B is for Basement’. Speaking of part two, Ed Danvers is back on the case in ‘Sins of the Father’. We just can’t enough detectives this week as the Crescent City Creeps swing by with an installment that will really grow on you. And the Page Five Ghouls are here to fill you in on an old favorite. All this is brought to you by Books and Balls, a new reading club for men. I mean, after you’ve exhausted all the Tom Clancy and Jack Reacher stuff, what are you guys gonna do? Oh and Hugo submitted something this week. Between you and me, I don’t think the proofreader has read this one. So have fun kids, and don’t worry you can’t break anything. See ya next week, neboken ja neyo.

03 T.J. Washington In “B Is For Basement” Pt. 2

Late to the game? Catch up here.

II. Chicken Soup For The Skull

“Hey Sam,” I said from the sidecar of the motorcycle we had just stolen. “Why don’t we make this motorcycle fly?”

“Oh, that’s right, dream motorcycles do fly.”

“If you want ’em to.”

“Yeah, This dream is so real, I almost forgot they have different rules.”

Sam put out his cigar and started the motorcycle. We zipped down the street and when we reached a good speed Sam yelled, “Hang on, I’m taking it up!” And that’s just what he did.

Dream flying is a little different than regular flying. As a matter of fact, just about everything is a little different in the dreamlands, but anyone who’s been asleep more than once knows this to be a true fact.

In the dream world, time and distance don’t have the same authority that they do in the regular one. Also, things have no obligation to make any kind of sense whatsoever. The regular world has a Newtonian undercoat to it, but not so much the dreamland. Again, this shouldn’t be news to anyone older than seven.

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Straight From The Fridge October 2017

::::::Attention:::::: ::::::Attention::::: :::::::Powerful Announcement About to Take Place. Please grab your cleansing stones and rub your power balls.::::::::::

I, The Rev. Dr. Hugo Holmesnow, Shaman, Monk, Life-Coach, and Ultra-Violet Adult;  am about to shatter your small world with one massive revelation which shall change your life forever. Again.

When I was a child, that’s all I was. I had no title(s) before my name. My parents, for the brief time I was with them, often forsook using my name in order to refer to me as “child”. I do not count that as a title.

Then, when I was 8, I was a Shaman, then after that a monk. After that, I was a Shaman-Monk. The dash was painful and difficult to acquire. But I kept my eye on the prize. After that, more things transpired and I earned the title of Life-Coach. I was soon awarded (in exchange for a small fee) the title of “Reverend Doctor”, which I shorten to “Rev. Dr.” out of modesty. After receiving all those titles, I stopped growing my name for a while in order to focus on the needs of others.

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Page Five Ghoul – October, 14th 2017

Love Like Blood


Byline: Gary Llewellyn

Dateline: October 14th, 2017

Folks, people like to stop me on the street and ask, ‘Gary? How can a column like the Page Five Ghouls go so long without even taking a look at vampires?’ First of all, stop doing that. I got shit to do and I don’t have time to answer the same question fifty times a day. Second, 95% of pop culture has you covered there, from Nosferatu all the way to glitter boys. No need for me to waste my time rehashing the lame antics of Monsterdom’s most punchable emo kids.

However, due to recent events I’ve been forced to rethink my position on nature’s original Bauhaus fans. You see, recently, Malawi has become host to a fairly ornery clot of vampires who seem to have given away their last fuck, forming hunting retinues in broad daylight. Things have gotten so hairy the UN bugged out. And  I know how hairy it must be for the UN not to want to have its nose firmly wedged into the situation. As typically happens, the locals have begun turning on each other, often with lethal outcomes. Statistics show that 93% percent of deaths during vampire wildings are actually caused by bumpkins going ham on each other. What invariably happens is that they start making a laundry list of bullshit signs they pull out of their asses to tell if someone is a vampire. Pretty soon after, wearing plaid on a Tuesday becomes a slayable offense. This is the sorry state of monster awareness in the 21st century. Nobody teaches anybody about this, so they learn a bunch of folksy bullshit from their grandmothers. Vampires often never kill their victims. Why finish it when you can send it back for a refill? Most vampires don’t even go after humans. Too much hassle. Many would rather stand around in a dark room with a strobe light, doing a dumb goth dance where they only move their arms, listening to Siouxsie and the Banshees. Plus, these things reek of patchouli and cloves. If you can’t smell these fucks coming from a block away, you may be one of the weak ones on the edge of the herd. Some have reported faintly hearing a chorus-drenched Simon Gallup bass-line drifting somewhere in distance, preceding a vampire incident. Others claim it was Peter Hook, but that’s losing sight of the key point here. Chorus-drenched and played with a pick is what you want to be listening for. Straight eighths, always on the root. You get the idea.

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Ed Danvers Case Files #2 Pt. 2

Ed Danvers Case Files:

Sins of the Father

Part Two

Who’s Got Your Goat?


The doc sent me home today. He said my hip would be sore and tender for awhile and I should lay off it. He didn’t send me home empty-handed, though. I’m now the proud owner of a fancy aluminum cane, complete with a little rubber foot. So now I’m the old codger with a cane. I guess it sure beats a plastic hand? Not that Vicksy didn’t make short work of that. The little gadget monkey made himself a screwy new hand that makes noises when it moves. So far he only seems to use it to crack walnuts. The hip’s been behaving, mostly. It was a little touch-and-go when Laurel’s kid hopped on my lap to hear another story about her grandma and great grandma back in New Orleans. I can’t be mad at the kid, she’s only four. But damn, that hurt.

Vicksy was slouched behind the bar staring at the television and going to town on a bag of walnuts. The news was the news. Father Nutso was apparently staying low for a couple. It gave me some time to mull the case. There were three families left after the priest cut up the Pattersons and the Bartlebys. He seems to put some time between his appearances. Two or three days. Of the remaining families, I was keeping a close eye on the Babatundes. Mr. and Mrs. Babatunde, along with the Pattersons and Bartlebys, were the most high profile of the lot. These three had a lot more facetime on the news and had chipped in the most to hire me. The Tylers and Fukimuras have kept a low profile. The Tylers did interviews in the beginning, but the Fukimuras have kept their heads down from the get go. Good for them. The media is bunch of blood suckers. I swear to god, if Vicksy cracks one more walnut…

“Vicksy,” I groaned, “When did you decide you loved walnuts so much?”

“When they got easier to open,” he cracked another one with his metal hand and dumped the content in his mouth. “I was excited to try Brazil nuts, but as it turns out they’re pretty disgusting.”

“Get anywhere with the barflies?”

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