The Lankville Daily News

More vile space whoppers by a liar of the highest water

The light here on Freebis is disappearing, marking the end of another strange day. Further expeditions into the outlands have revealed no new information. Just more barren, cracked wasteland. I take a tonic (comprised primarily of various candies run through a blender) and finally sit down to read Gustav’s account of the great Wandl Attack of 1995.

In the beginning, there are observations and scientific readings that would only be of interest to astronauts* and so I shall not reproduce them here. On page three, Gustav is joined by Commander Blectum, who arrives in a reconnaissance ship several months later; this I had not known and I resolve to probe Gustav about this once he recovers from his mysterious illness. The narrative paints Blectum as an enigmatic, perhaps even insane figure and may explain the preponderance of transportation models on the planet– Gustav writes, He orders things constantly from space-mail ships. I don’t know what these things are but ships land once or twice a week in the interior and Blectum disappears for long periods of time and does his very best to keep me away from certain areas on the planet.

Something happened in late 1994 and space-mail contact with Freebis was terminated. In early 1995, the planet lost complete and total contact with Earth and all reconnaissance and rescue missions were aborted. We have been left to die here, Gustav writes. For several days Blectum has sat sulking on the front slab, spitting into the dust. When I awoke this morning he left a note.

Dear Gustav,

I’m going into the Barrens. Do not follow me there. I have attached a list of coordinates. If you approach within 100 metres of any of these coordinates, you will be shot dead. The candy sheds in the outlands are safehouses. I shall not deprive you of sustenance.

Blectum

Gustav writes, I have grown afraid. I have worn a path from the candy shed to the bunker– I am tentative about wandering too far for fear of being killed. I hear strange noises in the night– there is often a most eldritch howl. It is otherworldly. Occasionally, upon waking, I glance out the window and see a brief, hallucinatory vision in the early morning light. It is that of a pink pancake moving silently on spindly legs. It cannot be. When I look again, there is nothing there. Once, my feverish, candy-soaked brain convinced me of a whole army of pink pancakes, crouched grotesquely in the dust. Blectum, dressed in sleeveless fatigues, was their leader.

It must not be real.

I close the book. I can read no more tonight.

The story will unfortunately continue in further issues.

* Editor’s note: liars.

An ongoing series of vicious lies for trashy individuals.

The days on Freebis pass slowly. The weather has remained hot and dry with only an occasional dust storm to break the monotony. I have quit sniffing model glue and am now building models in a dark shed located during one of my expeditions. There are hundreds of boxes here– cars, airplanes, spaceships, moveable towel carts of every stripe and vintage. I have built and painted hundreds and, once completed, pile them senselessly on wood palettes.

Gustav has grown ill; it is a seemingly mysterious affliction and he takes various tonics and disappears for long periods into his bedroom. He eats no hard candy but, instead, crushes specific sweetmeats with a mortar and pestle and mixes the powder with water. He has lost weight.

My expeditions have yielded no sign of the spacecraft. Gustav, in one of his rare lucid moments, opined that the craft was dragged off by a Wandl.

“What’s a Wandl?” I asked.
“It’s a large, soft, pink creature, a sort of insect. It has numerous tentacles.”
I was shocked by this and expressed so.
“They are everywhere in the Barrens. But they do not come this far.”
“What do they want?” I asked. I realized quickly the foolishness of the question.
“Freebis belonged to them. We are visitors. But they stay away. There has not been an attack since 1995.”
I grew uncomfortable.
“You are welcome to read my account of the incident,” Gustav offered. Then he fell off his chair and I was forced to drag his limp body to bed.

Days later, Gustav submitted to me the account. It was written in a tiny, cramped hand with red ink and filled 40 pages of a marble notebook. There were blurry photographs, taken with an instant camera, and I examined these first.

They showed a distant aggregation of Wandls. Their bodies appeared pancake-flat but as large as a fireman’s net. The tentacles were as Gustav had described. They had sharp pincers. The photograph was labeled, “some Wandls from Area 16.”

I pushed the notebook aside, still trying to process the information. Out of habit, I began constructing a model of a spaceship. The box was labeled, “FAKE SPACESHIP: FOR IMAGINATIVE PURPOSES ONLY”. I cast it aside.

I am determined to begin the account this evening.

A shit serial by a shit spaceman.

The takeoff nearly does not happen.

For a moment, the engine sputters and the craft suddenly lurches forward, perilously close to the butte’s edge. I attempt to reverse direction back to center but receive another obscure error message on the dash. I have no time to consult the manual.

And now, port side, I see that Dr. Ernwhitts and the Being have reached the surface. Sweat is now dripping into my eyes and my spaces-helmet is fogging up. And just at the moment that Dr. Ernwhitts has knelt to fire his annihilating ray, the craft suddenly blasts forward. For a moment, I lose altitude and tear through one of the mysterious trees with the low-hanging branch balls but then, just as suddenly, I begin to climb. My meter readings are surprisingly excellent. The Thorpe-Tube Pressure Flowmeter* reads a perfect 8.2.

Before long, I have left the orbit of my orange planet. I look back one final time and then concentrate on the gorgeous cosmic tableau before me. This strange new galaxy should be of keen interest back home if I am fortunate to reach Earth. I try the spaces-radio and telescreen. Nothing.

And then suddenly the craft is thrown forward by a colossal blast. Orange gases and unidentifiable matter fly past me. And looking back, I see that the orange planet has imploded. I am mesmerized as I watch it collapse upon itself. But only for a moment.

For if I am to dodge the debris of this violent compression, it will take all of my skill and concentration.

* Editor’s note: completely made-up donkey shit.

Further subterfuge by a space anus.

I land the little craft on the surface of a large, brown butte not far from camp. From here, I can look down on the strange orange planet whose hue has grown increasingly lighter with the coming winter months. I have been given only one container of fuel– shoved carelessly in cargo– someone has written “ASSHOLE” in demented, jagged letters on the side. It will not be enough for earth, I know, but it could be enough to land at one of the space stations that dot the troposphere.

I examine the controls. There is a space radio but a click of the switch reveals only the quietest of space feedback. Someone has hung a little green pine tree air freshener to one of the ceiling buttons– I touch it and it falls to pieces.

This tiny spacecraft could be my salvation or it could be my coffin.

I take one last look over the orange planet. And, to my shock and horror, I find that Dr. Ernwhitts and the Being are making their way up the north side of the butte. Dr. Ernwhitts has a “ray”.

I hurry into the craft and begin preparations. It will take at least five minutes before I am ready to even attempt a takeoff and nothing is guaranteed. I had always refused to carry a “ray”– I recognize the folly in that now.

The engine sputters and the interior lights suddenly fail. A message pops up on the dash– “Green, 26, X256”– I tear open the guidebook and search for the mysterious code. After what seems like minutes of nigh-frantic scanning, I locate it deep in the text– “Green, 26, X256– denotes improper launching pad. Craft will shut down.”
I can scarcely believe it– the absurdity of this craft is beyond me.

I hit eject and the cockpit opens slowly. Racing to the northern edge, I see that Ernwhitts and the Being have made significant progress up the steep ledge. A green ray suddenly is upon me– I can hear it menacingly pass my ear.

I search the surface of the butte for weapons and finally I locate some stones hidden in sagebrush. I begin raining them down on my tormentors. Another ray passes by. It is no use.

I climb back into the craft and attempt another takeoff.

This time the engine turns over.

The excrement will continue in further issues.

The Lankville Small Messenger of Selected News Items is depressed to present a new series of dispatches from Pumpkin Tits GM and maligned “astronaut” “Nick”. The Messenger would like to note that we have been throwing these dispatches in the garbage for several weeks but are now bound legally to publish them. We hate them.

The last four months have been a cosmic ordeal. Many a night, as I have huddled in some lonely, mysterious culvert on the dark side of the orange planet, I have wondered why I ever became interested in space travel. I have thought back to my days as an exuberant youth at the Lankville Famous Astronaut House, under the tutelage of the great Dr. Ernwhitts, now my tormentor. Who would have thought that this firm but generous man would succumb to such evil?

Karl Saffran is dead. At least, I believe him to be dead. Our attack on Dr. Ernwhitts and the Being failed miserably and Karl was, at last sight, being whisked away in a space balloon. I have not seen him since nor have I ventured to the camp of Ernwhitts but instead, have made my way far to the other side of the orange planet– I believe myself to me hundreds of miles from my original landing spot but I cannot be sure.

Three months ago, a spacecraft began orbiting our planet. I kept watch on it by night using one of the few surviving tools from my original mission– an excellent pair of Peeper binoculars with extraordinary magnification powers. Finally, for reasons unknown, the spacecraft fell out of orbit and crashed into an orange hill several miles from my temporary camp. I hustled towards it, found it to be in relatively decent condition (though tiny and poorly-equipped) and began the long process of repairs. I hid the craft at night behind a perplexing copse of orange berry trees whose fruit hung low in the summer and bounced lewdly on their limbs despite a total lack of wind. The fruit proved to be edible and it sustained me through the long, lonely months.

Though I expected an ambush from Ernwhitts and the Being, I saw no one.

In September (or what I believe to be September– it is now hard to tell), I deemed the spacecraft ready. I slid into the control seat– it was like lying in a tight coffin– and started the space engines. They purred softly and for this I was grateful. I knew that any takeoff would be noted by Dr. Ernwhitts and the Being and that I would likely be killed before long. The mad Doctor wanted no part of anyone sharing his discovery and it was only his misnomer that I had been previously killed that had kept me alive. I kept the craft low for several hundred feet to test its efficacy. It appeared spaceworthy.

Then, I prepared for takeoff.

The lies will continue in further editions.