Page Five Ghouls – December 16th, 2017

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.

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Page Five Ghouls December 9, 2017

Time In a Bottle

Byline: Gary the Infinite
Dateline: Everywhen

Oh hai, y’all. It is Gary. And when I say ‘is’ I mean ‘is’. Cuz I is as ‘is’ as one can be. This place is tits! Tomorrow? Yesterday? Who cares? It’s all right here. Or over there. I can see off in the distance me chewing out Mort for making me work with Morgan’s granddaughter. I didn’t trust her. Didn’t? Don’t? Doesn’t matter. Because if I move over here, we make quite the team. There’s Alwyn. There’s a hack life coach over there who just got 700 bot followers on Twitter. I wonder if he knows they’re all Russians. Well over there by that big old fuck off rock, he figures it out. Heh heh, jerk. Holy shit! Merwin? Merwin comes here. He’s talking to a lost dog and a disgruntled cockatoo. Stay out of my crisper drawer, you little shit. I don’t think he heard me. Too far away. Wait, Alwyn? Looks like he’s crying. Haha, pussy. Is that past of future? See, now it matters. If over there is me and Steph in Oberon’s cage, then this must be the future? The present? He’s looking at a picture of Stephanie as a little girl, big grin as she sits beside the Christmas tree proudly holding up a gift from her favorite grandfather. It’s a book. The Necronomicon? And not the Cthulhu mythos goof one. The real deal. Once a sick bastard, Alwyn, always a sick bastard. What does a four-year-old need with the Necronomicon? Unless he wanted her to continue the ‘family business’? Did she actually read the damned thing? Maybe she should. Read the fucking book, Steph.

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Page Five Ghouls – December 2nd, 2017

All I Have To Do Is Dream


Byline: Gary Llewellyn

Dateline: December 2nd, 2017

Did you ever see that Twilight Zone where these people wake up two hours ahead of their timeline and all these blue dudes are putting together reality and getting things ready for two hours from now? Or maybe the Langoliers, except the opposite, where the chainsaw monsters are building the future instead of eating the past. Actually, thinking of this as a past/future thing is all wrong. How about comic books? You like comic books. Put these things together and you have The Dreamtime. The Dreamtime is what a bunch of white people decided the call the aboriginal Australian concept of the ‘everywhen’, a place outside of time where ancestors who sounded like superheroes assembled reality itself. To even have conjugated the verb ‘assemble’ in the past tense is already cocking up the idea. There is no past or present, there is everywhen. Where everything that is known or will be known is thrown together at once. A westerner is going have a hard time with the concept of everywhen. Our language demands verbs conform to time frames like past, present, and future. Certain aboriginal groups in Australia and perhaps elsewhere don’t screw around with past and future. Some don’t even have words for yesterday and tomorrow. Language affects the way you think and process the world around you.

To truly understand Dreamtime, I’m going to have to poke my head in it for a bit. To do that I’m going to inhale copious amounts of combusted DMT. Usually, what happens when you smoke DMT, is you take a drag or two and then drift off onto the factory floor of the self-replicating machine elves. You’re physically incapacitated, so those one or two drags are all you’re going to be able to get off. To get around this I’ve modified a hyperbaric chamber to constantly pump in DMT smoke. I’m not sure how I wound up with a hyperbaric chamber, I just woke up inside it after blacking out for three days. Stephanie thinks the idea is idiotic and refuses to help. She has a point, but I think idiotic is where we’re at, right now. Since Steph has checked out on this idea, I recruited three of her kobolds to assist me in this procedure. It wasn’t difficult to convince them. I think they would like to see me dead or, at least, incapacitated.

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Page Five Ghouls – November 25th, 2017

The Isle of Wights

Byline: Gary Llewellyn

Dateline: November 25th, 2017

Mind-blowing time. There’s no character named Igor in Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. Nor did Dr. Frank have an assistant. The hunchbacked assistant from the Karloff film was named Fritz. Igor is a what is known as a stock character, a fungible twisted lab assistant trope they give to villains in Gothic horror because some unfortunate twit has to do the dirty work, kidnapping the local damsel that the heroes can trip over themselves for the chance to bang after the harrowing event is over, because nothing gets the ladies hotter than experimental surgery or a close shave with death, right?

Somebody has to dig up the bodies. Somebody has to be hero fodder. Gothic villains are typically depicted as rich assholes who never get their hands dirty, so someone has to carry out the evil schemes. Why not the local gimp? You can make him do fucked up stuff and treat him like shit. No chance he’ll sympathize and team up with whatever bizarre creation you yank into this world screaming and also treat like absolute shit. And the name is sometimes written as Ygor, for those of you that enjoy the use of unnecessary ‘Y’s.

For Alwyn, this person is, Skippy. We have no idea what his real ID is, but we’re leaning toward Kevin Merchant, a grad student in biological sciences at Kent State. He hails from a suburb of Cleveland where Alwyn used to live and disappeared about a year ago without an even hair left behind. We’re thinking  Alwyn killed and resurrected him as a thrall or, like Doctor Frankenstein to Fritz, got him hopelessly addicted to heroin. Thanks to our shiny, new raven spy network, we’ve cracked a pattern in Alwyn’s movements. Skippy always arrives about a day before to prime the local pumps, scouting out primo corpses and pre-corpses (as Alwyn has been heard referring to the living), finding the angriest graveyards, full of the most vengeful corpses. Do you have zombies, or the like, in your local folklore? Skippy will sniff them out. Did your pissy, racist grandfather just kick it? Keep an eye out for Skippy casing the funeral. Your cat that bit everybody? Alwyn isn’t proud. He’ll raise a cat if it’s enough of an asshole. Alwyn’s got an army of little Pet Cemetery motherfuckers following him around.

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Page Five Ghouls – November 18th, 2017

Tonight We Undine in Germany


Byline: Gary Llewellyn

Dateline: November 18th, 2017

The trail of Alwyn has led us to Germany. Germany has lots of crazy stuff because Germans are crazy and crazy attracts crazy. When monsters move into a region, it’s usually because they are attracted to the people. Or more specifically, attracted to the collective psychology of an area. An industrious, work-driven people attract industrious, work driven monsters. So you’ll find things like kobolds in Germany. This is a symbiosis, however. Creatures who move into a region attracted to one specific feature of the region’s psychology can often pick up new traits as a result of constant exposure. Take, for instance, the Undine, not to be confused with their racial subset, the mermaid. Undines were here frolicking in the waters of Germany long before the monkey folk migrated out of Olduvai and started shitting on everything. Some of these monkeys settled in western Europe and never saw the sun again. After millennia of sunless gloom, they began to lose pigment and began clapping on 1 and 3. Winters can get pretty long and rough here. The whole hunter-gatherer gig wasn’t panning out, so they had to turn to agriculture and animal husbandry.

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