Archive
Royer on Animals
By Ida Rumpus
Ida Rumpus recently had a chance to sit down with Lankville business mogul Frater-Xerxes (Ric Royer).
IR: Tell me about your childhood growing up with animals.
RR: I had a bunny for a time.
IR: What happened to him?
RR: He blew away.
IR: It’s well-known that you once ate a panda. How have you worked to change your image?
RR: Most people who manage malls have cooked up a hell-broth of self-induced obstacles or else shoot forth as if from a deranged jenny into some sort of romantic imagination and fool themselves for the rest of their lives.
IR: I assume you’re talking about Scott Kites, who has been trying to evict you from your mall home?
RR(clearly confused): Who?
IR: I want to ask you about the upcoming Lankville Panda Benefit. You are spearheading this initiative, I understand?
RR: Every panda has a course, depending partly on the panda’s self and partly on the panda’s environment which is natural, luscious and necessary for each. Any panda who is forced from its self, or through external opposition from another panda, comes into conflict with the order of our Universe and suffers accordingly.
IR: And that’s where you step in? To try to help the panda stay on its course?
RR(clearly confused): Who?
IR: How much do you hope to raise for pandas?
RR(clearly confused): Who?
IR: Anything else?
RR: You can transform heat into light and power to illuminate an entire porcelain Christmas village.
IR: Thanks.
RR: Why?
Royer’s Madcap Experiences: I, River Dick
By Ric Royer
It was a muddy, debris-choked tributary of a much greater but unseen river. Several greying, dilapidated highway overpasses blotted out the sun. The trees along the banks were dead and gangly. But someone wanted it protected. They decided I was the man.
I, River Dick.
My interview took place in a forlorn trailer, littered with trash. The foreman was decidedly obese– his fat rolls could not be contained by his undersized, cheese-stained sweatshirt. He sat behind an overflowing clothes hamper. I sat on a stool. I suspected he lived here.
“You ever do any river dicking before?”
Typical muddy debris-choked tributary. There’s a guy and a dog on the banks.
“Nope.”
“You ever done any carnival work?”
“Once”.
“OK. It’s like that.”
I was hired on the spot and issued a bright yellow pantsuit and a revolver. The first day passed without incident.
On the second day, some droids attempted to fill their pails under the overpass. I confronted them.
“You can’t fill those pails here.”
A long series of computational beeps ensued. One of the droids issued a small, printed-out index card. It read, “CHEESE OFF, HUMAN.”
I didn’t think twice about it. I blew them all away and buried them beneath some rocks.
On the third day, the foreman called me in.
“Did you kill some droids?”
“Yep. You know what– I don’t even feel bad about it.”
“Well, some guys at the lab feel bad about it. And they’re making me feel pretty damn bad about it too.”
“They egged me on. They were asking for it,” I added. “You know it, I know it, they know it.”
“That’s fine,” he said, after a long silence. “We’ll cover it up. Just go back along the banks and make sure the parts are pretty well-hidden.”
I did as I was told. But the parts were gone. The rest of the day passed without incident.
On the fourth day, the foreman called me in again. As I was approaching the trailer, I noticed something odd. There were tracks there, made by rolling droids. They led off towards the woods. There was an overhang there, covered by odd brush that didn’t belong. It was a setup. I was being sacrificed.
I hotwired the foreman’s pickup and headed for Lankville Beach.
I, River Dick.
Royer’s Madcap Experiences: The Cannibal of Orion
By Ric Royer
I sat in the Jew’s cluttered second-floor office above a furniture store. He threw a plane ticket at me.
“Go down to this place, Orion,” he said, as he sipped loudly from a desk-sized barrel of soda. “They got a lot of these big bovine girls down there. These big, dumb, cow-eyed girls that’ll do anything for a buck. Take a camera.”
I spit on his floor upon leaving. I knew the Jew hated that.
Orion International “Friends” Airport was a dot on the map. There was a little restaurant that served me an absolutely deplorable meal of boiled chicken, toast and a plate of mysterious peanuts. It was all they had.
I left no tip.
I drove on out to Dr. Coombs’ house where I’d be staying for a few weeks. He had a dilapidated mansion on the outskirts of town, encircled by a dense grove of dying fruit trees. There was an office on the first floor and a small waiting room. There was a secretary at a desk filling out forms.
I waited awhile. There were a couple of old magazines, a paperback called Demon Experiences of Many Lands and an asinine little book of proverbs. Finally, the frosted glass office door opened up and a man wearing a giant orthopedic shoe walked out. I laughed loudly, suddenly. The man sauntered off.
Dr. Coombs invited me into the office. It was paneled in ersatz wood.
Orion is known for its lovely park. But they also had a cannibal there.
“Would you like an examination for free?” he asked, strangely.
“Skip it.”
“What will you be doing here in our little town?” he asked, after offering me a chair.
“Just checking out the local talent. Maybe do a few spreads for a magazine up north.”
He leaned back reflectively. “We value our women here, Mr. Pantwheat (that was the fake name I had given him). I should warn you that there will be many an angry father, many an angry sensuous lover after you if you try to perpetrate such a scheme.”
“I’ll take my chances.” I almost added “asshole” at the end but decided against it.
“Alright. You’ve been warned.”
We were nearly to the office door (indeed, the doctor had turned the knob and cracked it slightly) when he suddenly closed it and led me over to the window. He looked about surreptitiously.
“I should tell you that there is a cannibal on the loose in Orion.”
“What?”
“There’s a cannibal loose. It’s kind of being kept a secret, however, so don’t say anything.”
And with that, I was ushered up to my room.
It was on the second floor and towards the back, overlooking part of the dying grove and part of an enclosed patio that appeared to have been sans rumpus for quite some time. The wood benches were shockingly grey with age and the small charcoal grill had been overturned and left to rust in a small chasm filled with impure rainwater.
I had only a moment then to take stock of the room. There was an unassuming bureau topped with a lace throw and a bed a little on the smallish side for my liking, particularly if I planned (as I did) on rumpling some local heinie. Then, suddenly, I had little time for such thoughts.
There was a disturbance below, then another. Then a deep concussion seemed to wallop the entire structure. I heard two distinct screams– one from Dr. Coombs and another, a female, possibly the secretary. Then there was the sound of something being splattered about followed by an ungodly howl. There was a brief moment of silence as I knelt beside the bed and then, the sound of a chainsaw started up.
I moved to the window but could not budge the ancient sash. The other window was stuck fast too. There were no other options. I tossed a small chair through one and the sound of shattering glass came at the exact moment of a lull in the noise of the chainsaw. I stepped out onto the roof to the sound of heavy footfall.
I dropped down the metal gutter, chocked with debris and took off towards the grove. I looked back once and it was then that I saw that eldritch presence looking through the broken window, the chainsaw by its side.
I knew then that if I didn’t make it out of Orion, I too would be eaten.
Royer’s Madcap Experiences: The Weird O’It
By Ric Royer
There was a water fountain adjacent to the women’s lavatory– I liked to hang out there. I would take a gigantic water bottle and pretend to fill it but really I’d be waiting for someone to go in there so I could peep. There wasn’t much to see really, just a tiled wall and occasionally the sound of the paper towel dispenser, but I’d get wood anyway. And I would leer at the women as they came out.
One day, a redhead with swinging hips and a round gorgeous rump, waltzed in there and I just about followed her in. I could hear the sound of water running just as the door swung shut. And then, for the longest time, there was nothing.
A half-hour passed. I began to wonder what had happened to this redhead. I gently pushed open the door.
And I was face to face with the Weird O’It.
He was a gigantic green lumpen creature whose enormous height carried him all the way to the ceiling. He had a gaping, stretched mouth with one sharp brown tooth exposed– drool fell to the floor from this abominable orifice. His eyes were rolling, almost spinning in his slimy head and the smell was ungodly.
“Your peeping is very obvious to all those concerned,” he said suddenly in a clear, crisp, intelligent voice. Two arms appeared from the lump and wiped the drool clear to the wall.
“What happened to the redhead?” was all I could manage in response.
“We spoke for awhile– I explained my worldview, my take on things and she explained hers. There was a long moment of awkwardness and then she agreed that my opinion was within reason.”
“And then what?”
“She bared her ass for me.” The Weird O’It’s eyes suddenly stopped spinning and then began again. “It was great, man. Really great. Then, unfortunately, she expired. Everyone who views the Weird O’It dies. I am not from your dimension.”
That night, sleep would not come. I had no idea when or how I would die but the Weird O’It had convinced me of my ultimate demise. If only I had not peeped, had not lurked outside that lavatory, I thought. I would have survived. I would sleep a peaceful sleep.
But weeks passed and I felt no different. And then I saw the Weird O’It again.
I was crossing the street and he pulled up in a small rusted Island pickup. The cab could barely contain him– indeed, parts of his body spilled out the sides and oozed downwards towards the road. He waved and I walked over and leaned on the hood. He had the radio turned up real loud. The song Pirates Money was playing. It was a big hit.
“I’m not dead!” I announced gleefully. “What do you think of that?”
“Oh that,” he said, after a moment of confusion. He hadn’t remembered. “That was all horseshit. I just wanted you to stop peeping, that’s all. Nah, you can look at me all you want.”
The light turned green and he sped off.
And that was the last I heard of the Weird O’It.
Royer’s Madcap Experiences: The Political Scientist
By Ric Royer
The first time I spotted the political scientist was at a conference on Immigrant Identity in Outer Lankville that I snuck into for the free meats. She gave a short speech and I was immediately transfixed by her huge, cat-like eyes, her supple, slightly bronzed skin, and her ever-so-slightly aged but still voluptuous figure hidden only by a mere chemise of the finest fabrics.
Later, I approached her. She was surrounded by a gaggle of fading academics and I slowly but meticulously shoved each one out of the way until it was just us.
She parted her lips and looked at me over her glass as she took a slow drink of soda. She was wearing a pin in her lapel that depicted a bear playing with balloons.
“Do you like my pin?” she said, noticing.
“I don’t understand it,” I said, truthfully. “I didn’t understand your speech either. But, then again, I wasn’t listening.”
“Oh? Why not?” There was something slightly scholastic about the question.
“Because I don’t give a shit about Immigrant Identity in Outer Lankville. What I care about is pressing up against your back as I slowly unbutton that chemise, cupping your breasts as the shirt falls away, kissing the bra straps off your shoulders and then finding your secret crevice and…”
“And…then what?” she asked. She was practically melting against the wall.
“Well, then I would bang you, you little squirrel.”
She dropped her glass of soda and it stained the orange carpet.
We got a hotel room near a Burger Duke. I found the nearness of the two structures a miracle but the political scientist didn’t seem impressed. “Why don’t you take me to a nice country inn?” she suggested. I ignored her.
And then moments later I had her.
Afterwards, I cracked a window.
“You’re not like my husband,” she commented. “He has a Ph.D in Economics.”
“Fuck that shit.”
“You’re so…so coarse,” she said.
“The only economics you need to worry about is how much it’s gonna’ cost to dry clean that suit of yours.”
“That doesn’t really make any sense,” she said, a flummoxed look crossing her face.
“Skip it.”
Later, we had burgers. I got us a booth in the back.
Royer’s Madcap Experiences: The Mountain Beacons
By Ric Royer
Ric Royer has elected to add the nickname “Tabs” to this story. The meaning is unclear
For several months, I lived alone on the summit of a desolate, treacherous mountain chain in the deepest wilds of Roi Hardy. It was a three-day hike and climb from civilization and my only contact with the outside world was via a series of log beacons set up on various far away summits and set ablaze to impart emergency information. It was unlikely that I would ever need these beacons but I was careful to organize such a system anyway and I paid a small aggregation of Roi Hardy hill people to monitor the news with the instructions that the beacons be lit only under the more urgent of circumstances.
I sat alone in my cabin for these many months, going out only in the morning to gaze off at the nearest summit in search of the fire. I cooked rabbits, built wooden boats on a table and wrote terrible sonnets to my lost checkers grandmaster, who had abandoned me after a week-long session of stringent motel coitus.
I became bored. The cabin had a second floor with two small bedrooms, one of which was locked– an overstuffed pink chair had been placed before it. I became curious about this locked room and went about the business of pushing the overstuffed pink chair out of the way and kicking in the door, an ordeal that took two full days.
The windows of the room were covered in heavy green drapes– very little light penetrated. It was empty, save for a large pile of dark items that had been placed in one corner and reached near to the ceiling. It was hard to discern the nature of this pile at first but once I pushed aside the drapes (an ordeal that took another full day), I was able to recognize the heap for what it was– a series of factory-boxed video game systems of vintage age.
It was the “Cucumbrix 2000”– I remembered it well. Introduced with much fanfare, it ended a terrible failure– the creator had shot himself in the face after losing millions. I removed a console– it was sleek and white, had two streamlined controllers and an ashtray built into its face. There was an enormous insensate instruction guide and a pile of pink forms that flaked away in my hands.
In another corner, I suddenly noticed an older model television set and I decided to hook up the Cucumbrix and give it a spin. It blinked and sputtered but then flashed on and I removed the complimentary cartridge from its plastic casing. It was called Turtles! and it too came with an instruction booklet with screen shots, tips from the creator and a series of patches for the Turtles! club.
I began then, as the sky faded into twilight, to play Turtles! with an interest that became an obsession and I failed to notice out the window that the beacon had been lit. I know now the exact time that the flames would have risen out of the mountains, signifying mankind’s terminus, the time of the end, 4:05 LST. I know now because later I would locate the diary of the nearest Roi Hardy hill person and the dead embers of his beacon, his last act. Ironic, then, that my being distracted by Turtles! saved my own existence.
For when I alighted upon Roi Hardy weeks later, I alighted upon the dead and the broken and a barren wasteland.
Eldritch Canisters Have Been Haunting Royer
By Joel Tweez Resort Correspondent
A series of eldritch canisters have been haunting business magnate and Lankville Daily News correspondent Ric Royer for many months now, the executive is confirming.
“The canisters appear at twilight, often in the garden,” said Royer during a morning interview on some boats. “Then, when I finally give in to repose about midnight, the canisters begin their infernal rolling, back and forth down my driveway. It goes on all night. And with this noise, comes an ungodly howl.”
Royer has alerted authorities but to no avail.
Typical canisters. These canisters are not haunted but are merely shown for illustrative purposes.
“Some cops came but they just ended up ogling my East-Island neighbor. Admittedly, she has fine tits for an East Islander.”
Royer even hired a security guard to man the driveway of his resort home in hopes of preventing the canisters from gaining access to the yard. The guard was found the next morning with a frozen look of terror on his expired face.
“I may have to abandon the mansion temporarily and move back to the mall,” admitted the eccentric tycoon.
Royer’s Madcap Experiences: It Was Orange…and Emitted Vapors!
By Ric Royer
When I first saw the Thing, it was throwing a car into a ravine. It stood as tall as a large building, its center completely amorphous. It emitted an eerie yellow vapor and it appeared to have the strength of something superhuman– indeed, when it was done with the car-hurling it moved to a nearby train trestle and crushed it easily with its fist.
This girl I was seeing and occasionally having boring intercourse with, let out a loud scream. LOOK AT THAT HORRIBLE THING! LOOK AT IT! I laughed and stared her down. There was an old clamshell bucket that someone had left to rust by a barn. “Go sit in that,” I told her. She did as I said.
The next thing was to figure out how to bring the orange beast down. A piece of paper blew against my shin. I picked it up– would it yield a clue to the mystery of the terrible monster? And I read: “it also has 2 fish crates with fish in them! Just add a delivery figure and you have a great delivery scene…” I tore it apart in frustration. And then the beast was upon me.
Artist’s rendering
Later, I would realize how lucky I was. If not for that senseless hole, I would certainly have perished. I climbed in and waited until the monster had satiated his mad, violent desires by destroying a series of nearby homes. Then he went away, I think. I don’t care really.
After that, I traveled into the Lankville back country– an area called “the Forest Quarter”. There were a series of fallen towns that had been destroyed during the Depths War; bereft stone walls and a series of windowless parish houses were all that remained. I stopped at a graveyard– the stones had mostly been lifted and replaced with little advertising placards. Still, I was able to locate several relatives. I didn’t know or remember any of them and yet, it was calming to stand there, reading my last name again and again.
I was suddenly hungry. Although nothing lived in this ancestral town, I managed to find a Pappy’s Chicken on the outskirts. I ordered a bucket. The guy behind the counter asked about the orange monster.
“You don’t wanna’ know about that fucking shit,” I said, allowing the chicken grease to run down my chin. “You’re better off right here. That thing is a nightmare.”
I ordered some fries.
“Just regular fries?” the guy asked.
“Yep. Fix ’em up in bacon fat, would you?”
“I can do that. We don’t have napkins, I’ll warn you now. But there’s a little pond out back.”
“Yeah, fine.”
The guy put on a little TV. Nothing came in from the cities.
I finished off the chicken and then went to the pond. Night came.
Royer’s Madcap Experiences: The Western Town
File Photo
By Ric Royer
I pulled off the Interstate after a long drive and searched around for a hotel. I decided on a place called “Slumberland”– it was bereft of cars and ramshackle but the colorful sign tickled my fancy. Also, there was a girl with giant tits sunning herself outside the office. I got wood immediately.
I paid $29.95 for a room on the end, overlooking a ditch and a runoff. I crossed at the busy intersection, entered a strip mall hardware store and purchased the biggest pipe wrench I could buy. Then, I picked up a roast, some baked beans in a can and a bottle of box wine. Then, I went back to my room.
I picked the mattress up off the bed frame and heaved it against the windows. It blocked out the diminishing sunlight perfectly. Then, I busted up the frame and dragged the pieces out into the runoff. That cleared the middle of the room.
The Slumberland Motel has beds!
I moved the table over and covered it with a bed sheet. Then, I prepared the meal over a fire I set in the bathtub. Everything was cooked to perfection.
I went back outside. The girl had put on a thin robe and was just packing up her portable chaise-lounge and her little plastic table.
“You own this place?” I asked in a slightly threatening manner.
“No,” she said quietly. She offered little else.
“Well, I got a roast, some beans and some box wine in there, just going to waste.” I jiggled my hips a bit.
“I’m vegetarian,” she said. She bent over slightly though, giving me a pretty fair look at the goods.
“Fuck that. You’ll eat the roast.”
There was a long silence. Traffic had died down and the sun was disappearing over the hills.
“OK. I will.”
“Yeah.”
She followed me back to the room. I pulled her chair out for her.
“I’ll be right back.”
I took the pipe wrench and went to the bathroom. I dismantled the u-pipe from beneath the sink and turned the water on full blast. It wasn’t long before it flowed out into the main room.
“It’s like we’re dining on top of a river,” she said excitedly.
“Yep, I think of everything baby.” I shoved some roast into her mouth.
We ate for awhile but then I got sick of it and dumped the table. She moved her chair back quickly, a fork of beans still in her hand.
“Sorry, baby. But the big train is pulling into town right about now.”
It was a long night.
Royer’s Madcap Experiences: The Gazebo Kit
By Ric Royer
File Photo
I didn’t have a basement but felt that the gazebo kit required one. A well-lit clean tool bench where I could spread my paints out, a steel stool, an old radio with calm, easy-listening trumpets and a triple-layered serving plate stuffed with various cakes to the extent that the cakes had become more horrific than desirable. I had to make that happen.
I cased an appropriate house. The owner carried a lunchpail and wore overalls. I knew his basement would be suitable.
Traditional gazebo kit.
I blew the door off with some low-grade explosives and carefully took the gazebo kit into the basement. It was perfect.
I sat my paints and the kit on the well-tended bench. The pink bakelite radio immediately issued forth the low, soothing music I had hoped for; I could hear frogs from somewhere even though it was winter.
I opened the box. The gazebo was thoroughly researched and finely-crafted and I immediately admired the highly-detailed white metal castings. Here, before me, was an old-fashioned gazebo with a dome roof, latticed side railings and benches. I thought of finely-clad 19th-century Lankville women (perhaps with tits), listening to the music issuing forth from the bandstand as they sipped lemonade on this very structure.
Something happened then. My hand began to shake violently and I smeared brown paint all over the roof– brown paint that had suddenly become thick and viscous and could not be removed. I cursed and then, as I attempted to save the gazebo, I pressed too hard on the supporting beams and the entire structure was destroyed in my hands.
I was temporarily blinded. Then, I saw only a screaming skull encircled by fire. I knew that someone would have to die for this, that real structures would have to be destroyed.
I went upstairs to the kitchen and found some hams and a big can of candy. Then I set off the remaining low-grade explosives. I watched the conflagration from across the street.
The only thing I cared about had been doubly destroyed.
Royer’s Madcap Experiences: The Green Cross
File Photo
By Ric Royer
The Green Cross came to the home. Two men clad in white coats set up a blood station in the dining hall. Volunteers were requested and, bored, I elected to participate.
Ten of us patients filed in.
“ALRIGHT SHITS,” said one of the Green Cross Men. “Get your pants off and your milky white asses in the fucking air!”
I had never heard of blood being taken from the rear but I did as I was told and had a needle roughly jammed in, perilously close to the anus.
“Fuck. Sorry about that. Missed the cheek,” said the Green Cross Man. “Like a god damn can of corn,” he said mysteriously.
Warden Jenness sauntered in. He gave a short speech, as is his wont.
“It is important what you men are doing. I congratulate you heartily on your extraordinary efforts. From the buried veins of the ass grows mighty trees.”
He slapped me viciously before I could hoist my pants. The sound resonated throughout the nearly-empty dining hall.
We were given heavy cookies and punch by a fat nurse who appeared from somewhere. The Green Cross Men packed up the blood station quickly, hauling the entire thing out in two medium-sized suitcases.
Then, we were led back to our cells.
Staple Comes Loose from Royer Paddle Ball Game
File Photo
By Bernie Keebler
Senior Staff Writer
A staple has come loose from a paddle ball game owned by mall-dwelling Lankville business magnate Ric Royer, according to sources. The executive is believed in repose.
Staples coming loose from paddle games can render them useless and cause extreme emotional distress for the owner, experts agree.
“Mr. Royer had been playing with the game for most of the morning,” said his personal assistant Orpan Gheymook. “By lunchtime, the string was clearly stressed, the staple was bent awkwardly and the endless jackhammer action of the ball slapping against the paddle had rendered the contraption near the breaking point. Mr. Royer was warned but he continued playing at a similar high level and all of the sudden, the staple came completely loose. We never did find the ball.”
Gheymook continued. “Mr. Royer let out a horrific scream and collapsed in a corner. For some reason, he removed his shirt as he went to the floor. He could not be consoled and ultimately we had to remove him to a comfort station. I have no further updates.”
Royer’s whereabouts are currently unknown.
Royer’s Madcap Experiences: The Other World Figures
File Photo
By Ric Royer
It was evening and I was alone in the unfinished room above my garage, eating an owl. I had a pictorial magazine depicting doors of all types open at various angles and the radio on low when I heard a soft knock. The sun had just gone down.
It was odd, indeed. The stairway to this mysterious room issued a series of sharp creaks and low moans and yet, I had heard nothing. The knock came again. “WHY?” I called out and then realized my mistake. But by then it was too late. The doorknob turned slowly and three shadowy other world figures entered the room.
The unfinished room above Royer’s garage. The Other World Figures appeared on the right.
There was nothing to them but pure shadow– only the barest outline of past humanity could be discerned. They seemed to be hooded– their arms hung limply at their sides. They stood like the front of a bowling pin formation– two behind the first.
Minutes passed. There being nothing I could do until they fired the opening salvo (whatever it be), I elected to finish off the owl. Then, I drank two two-liter bottles of soda in quick succession. After that, I was ready.
One of the figures in the back suddenly picked up an empty plastic container shaped like a barrel (it had once contained puffed cheese triangles). The barrel hung there in the shadows eerily. Then, it disappeared slowly– as though it were being sucked into a pit of quicksand. The plastic top did pop off and land on the ground– to which one of the figures distinctly said “shit” in an eldritch, ungodly voice but otherwise the passage was perfect.
“Why don’t you get out of here,” I said, electing on a gambit that seemed futile and yet, I could think of nothing else. I picked up a giant newspaper and swung it about in their direction. “Go on now, get out of here.” The trio moved slowly backward towards the door. It seemed to be working. I stepped it up a notch. “ASSES! OTHER WORLD ASSES. GET OUT OF HERE.” I threw a bucket towards them– it disappeared into the shadows. “Get out of my unfinished spare garage room– YOUR KIND ARE NOT WELCOME HERE.”
I had cornered them near the doorway. I continued to hurl objects towards them– another empty plastic barrel, an old decorative ham, a piano. Finally, it was too much for them. They retreated. I watched them move strangely across the lawn– you could see their path in shadow behind them. Finally, they seemed to move off into the night air. Then the path before me slowly dissipated.
I looked over and saw my East Island neighbor. The consensus throughout the area was that she had fine tits for an East Islander. I stared right at them. “To hell with it,” I thought.
“Everything alright?” she asked in her East Island way. “Yeah,” I said, continuing to stare at the fine, perfectly formed titties. “Everything looking real good to me, real good.” I allowed myself to drool a little.
It must not be part of her culture. She was putting dirt into clay pots.
It would happen. Another night.
Royer’s Madcap Experiences: The Pledger of Allegiances
File Photo
By Ric Royer
Today, at the mental facility, a man approached me outside of the dining hall. He was small in stature with short-cropped hair that somehow befit his size and a generally staid, serious appearance– indeed, upon his initial approach, I was expecting a senseless row. Instead, after several uncomfortable moments of high scrutiny, the man suddenly dropped to his knees and said, “I pledge all allegiances to you, lord.” Concurrently, the tinny loudspeaker announced the general placement of cake and thus, frankly, I paid no attention to his proclamation.
Paddle ball games are a very popular leisure activity at Lankville insane asylums.
Later, however, in the amusement room, the man repeated the covenant. As he knelt at my feet, I placed the flat surface of a paddle-ball game upon his crown for symbolic purposes and announced, “Do all see what Kevin has done?” The mass of lunatics stared fatuously and the ward later informed me that the man’s name was not Kevin at all but the scene was stirring nevertheless.
As a pledger of allegiances, thus, Kevin (for that is how I knew him) made it his purpose to prepare a flawless bedsheet and wool blanket for me each evening and to run a moistened towel over my toiletries and a squeegee across my vanity mirror. The tasks completed, Kevin would turn towards me and pronounce his only words of the day– “Lord, your forgery glass is cleansed”. (Kevin knew a mirror as a “forgery glass”). Oftentimes, I would find some tiny flaw in Kevin’s otherwise impeccable work and berate him over it for this was the crux of the pledger-lord relationship. Upon occasion, there were sexually-charged beatings in which I chased Kevin about the tiny cell– initially just grab-assing but then ultimately crushing him across the cheeks so that his head caromed to and fro in a most comical manner. He seemed to enjoy this tremendously and often squealed like a child.
It was not long, however, before Warden Jenness noticed our bond. He called me into his office– crowded with dead plants and mysterious species of cacti and delivered a forceful speech in a most efficacious manner. There being no response possible, I bowed slightly and left the room. For the first time, my short trip back to the cell was under the supervision of guards (one, a huge Negro whose strength was undoubtedly uncontested in these environs).
After that, I saw Kevin infrequently and he no longer met my lordly gaze. He seemed smaller now, more hunched. I could hear him talking to other lunatics at table. He spoke of getting a car and driving through the mountains, perhaps settling on boats. He was agitated, discontented– it was clear. There was money coming, he said, there was family assistance.
A storm hit. Two feet of snow were dumped about the grounds, cutting off all contact with the outside world. Although power remained on in the home, we could receive no reception of any sort– we had no idea what was happening. It was during this maelstrom that Kevin disappeared. He simply wandered off, barely clothed, into the sea of white.
I have had no pledgers since.
Royer Calls Inner Hammer Mummy Story “Shifty Excreta”
By Brock Belvedere, Jr.
The Lankville Action News YES! Team
Senior Staff Writer
File photo
In a reversal of customary roles, Lankville business magnate Ric Royer is going on record in stating that small pizza billionaire “Inner Hammer’s” recent mummy account is “shifty excreta”. Mr. Hammer’s story appeared in The Lankville Daily News last Tuesday.
“It’s dung chips. It’s a story that has less value than a basket of dung chips,” stated Royer, who was interviewed in his new home, a shuttered retail space at Twin Removed Pines Mall in downtown Lankville. “It’s a sham that has been coated in a hardened, outer shell of feculence.”
Royer suddenly produced an ice cream cone that had a hardened shell of chocolate. “I got this at the foot court,” he noted. “It’s right down there,” he added, pointing vaguely outside the curtained glass doors.
Food court at Twin Removed Pines Mall.
A shadowy figure suddenly appeared from behind the curtain and Royer demanded quiet and that the lights be dimmed. “It’s that Kites guy [manager of the mall]. He doesn’t want me living in the mall. I’m avoiding him.”
Once Kites disappeared, Royer continued.
“My Experiences are based on a lifetime of travel, interesting moments, sexual intimacy, and food. But Inner Hammer is just a liar. If there are mummies then I would be seeing them at the mall. And I haven’t.”
Royer paused.
He then asked, “You haven’t seen any mummies at the mall, have you?”
ACCOMMODATIONS
When staying in the Area Beyond the Outlands, pick the Murray. Friendly, creative staff, delightful beds, curtains. Phone Far Outlands 5-6712.
LANKVILLE DAILY NEWS: IN BOOK FORM!
The book is gone. It will never return. We hear stories but they are likely false. We live in the woods now. We make fire with a lighter that we found in the street. It was crushed by a truck but, somehow, perhaps through some intervention that is beyond us, it still works. We are waiting. We are waiting.
Original Pondicherry Association News promotional advertisement (2009)
TONIGHT ON TV! RICHARD AND THE POSTMAN REUNION SPECIAL!
The Hit program from the 1970's returns to Lankville TV tonight on LBC!
ADULT ADVERTISEMENT
Women all over Lankville are just sitting at mammoth computers waiting to hear from men like you! Just insert a floppy disk, write a (non-sexual) message and let the sparks fly! (Computer not included).
ADVERTISEMENT
A Vitiello Decorative Ham makes a great gift. Show that you care today.
BANDED DUFFELS ON PALLETS
Assorted colors. Whatever you want to do, man. Call Lankville Falls, 3247.
BRIAN SCHROPP IN THE LANKVILLE DAILY NEWS
The most important cuisine articles ever written.
CANDY
Jipps Co. Full Service Candy Counter! Our alert girls will push gummy drops into special paper sheaths, engage in restrained pleasantries and explain chocholate-to-nougat ratios. Call Central Lankville 3614.
CAT PHOTO
In compliance with Lankville subsection 11:16-4.
CHAMBERS CO. HAND DRILLS: When Electricity is Not an Option
When electricity is not an option consider the Chambers Company hand crank drills. Perfect for use in tight spaces, on distant islands or for drilling holes in fences to see TITS. Call 4-2309.
EMPLOYMENT
Big Ed's BBQ Shack is looking for a part-time waitress. Someone who doesn't nose around and ask a lot of difficult questions. Call Lankville Rougher Area, 5-2100.
EMPLOYMENT
Nuts, Ah! is looking for an experienced nut-handler. Experience with bagging nuts also important. If you break the nut sack, the nuts will drop onto the floor. Come in person for application to Twin Removed Pines Mall. NO CALLS.
FOX FOR PARTIES
Hire the Poetry Fox for Your Child's Next Party. Reasonable rates. Writes poems, dances, will not stand for any shenanigans. Call South Lankville 2009.
The funny stories of Dick Oakes, Jr. have thrilled millions. Look for them today in The Lankville Daily News!
GELSINGER’S ALLURE CLUB
Topless, bottomless wonderland. Mysterious back rooms. Carpeted entirely in astroturf. NO CALLS.
GREBOV BROTHERS TELESCOPE COMPANY
The Grebov Brothers are Lankville's finest purveyor of telescopes for astronomy enthusiasts. Substantial 4.5" apertures and fast f/4 focal ratios provide bright, detailed views of solar system targets like the Moon and planets, as well as wide-field celestial objects like nebulas and star clusters but also TITS.
GUMP PENETRATES
Only in The Lankville Daily News
HADBAWNIK HAUNTED STAIRCASE COMPANY
The Hadbawnik Company is Lankville's #1 installer of haunted, brush-littered staircases. Friendly non-foreign staff! Call Western (Outer) Lankville, 2154 or 2198 today.
HADBAWNIK HAUNTED BRUSH PILES!
The Hadbawnik Haunted Staircase Company is now offering haunted brush piles for use on your staircase. Create eerie, supernal ambiance. Allow the brush to blow haphazardly in the wind, creates fear, foreboding. Call our friendly staff of white people at Western Lankville, 2154. Brush piles may contain other forms of yard debris.
HEY! WANT A MONKEY?
Hey! Want a live little monkey? They do cute things like climb into pumpkins. Call "The Captain"- Central Lankville Hills, 5264.
HOME DUMP Your Neighborhood Hardware Store 16 Lankville Locations!
Weekly Special: Primitive Forged Hooks. Buy 4, Get a Can of Paint. Or Maybe Not. You'll Just Have to Find Out.
INFLAMED BY STARS AND BLOOD
Lankville's Premier Science Fiction and Horror Magazine Now Appearing in The Lankville Daily News!
JOHNNY PADRES, OPTICIAN
Lankville has been relying on Dr. Johnny Padres for their optical needs since 1973. We offer a full service family eye care center and provide examinations for glasses and contacts and have a large display of designer, traditional and innovative eyewear for both regular prescription eyeglasses and sunglasses all of which will enable you to see TITS better. Call Lankville Business 2618-2.
LIFE LESSONS FUNERAL HOME
Life Lessons Funeral Home has been helping Lankville with dead people since 1932. Contact Eddie or Stummins, Lankville Business, 5-2161.
LOOK AT THESE BEAUTIES!
Really some of our best ever! Have you ever seen anything like it? Call Kelly (male) at Lankville Sound 2615.
MISSING
Missing: adult penguin. Christ, I just let him out in the yard for one minute and now he's gone. Responds to the name "Richard". Call Lankville Eastern Outlands, 5-6213.
NOW PLAYING!
The Unhinged: A New Film by Tom "Vapor" Rayford. Crisp Street Cinema, Eastern Lankville
PINEAPPLE CITY: A New Way of Being
Pineapple City is a new way of being, feeling and having your shirt off. Located in the distant, barren Lankville Pines, Pineapple City is now accepting applications for sheds. Call PINES, 2-5771.
THE PUZZLER
In the pie chart above, what segment represents a certain specific strata of the general population?
REAL ESTATE
Little shed for sale. With door, mailbox, dirt plot. Site of multiple murders but don't worry, they happened around back. To inquire, come to the shed. Go around back.
REAL ESTATE
Four acre lot in Eastern Lankville Cove Area. Price reduced! Site of a fireworks display in which several people fell out of their lawnchairs and died. Locals believe it haunted but that's crap. Call Cove 2751.
THE RECKONER EXACTRA 2.0 : A Danny Madison Product
It's Your Time: CALCULATE
SARAH SAMWAYS: CONTRIBUTING FEMALE
Exclusively in the Lankville Daily News (and some other papers).
SPEAKING ENGAGEMENT
Robin Brox will sit around and get progressively more intoxicated while listening to this other broad natter on about something. LANKVILLE REGIONAL AUDITORIUM, August 4, 11PM.
SPEAKING ENGAGEMENT CANCELED
The Dr. M. Chambers speech and candy-making event has been canceled again following Dr. Chambers' sudden collapse into some baskets. New date TBA
TRAVEL TIPS by Randy Hammers
The Kum Back Inn in the Lankville Desert Area has long been serving road-weary travelers. They feature a restaurant (with cocktails) and two spacious conference rooms. The Kum Back boasts 65 units-- each including window dressing, some chairs and a larger chair (seats two smallish children), a bed with orange comforter, a plastic trash can, clever paintings, and a windowless door. TV also available in 17 (sometimes 19) rooms. Most of the rooms are air-conditioned. Oscillating fans available upon request. Illuminated carports will protect your vehicle from the vicious sudden dust storms that often overtake the Desert Area and the wild thieves that occasionally parade across the landscape like some unmentionable horror. Call now at TU-0780 and ask for Bud or Karen (married).
UTILITY YARD SHEDS
The Lowinger Brothers offer great utility yard sheds at low prices. This one is haunted. Call Lankville Port Area 1072.
VACATION PACKAGES!
Spectacular vacations in campers by little mountains. Your cares will melt away but you will have to be careful of that shack (pictured). A lunatic lives there. Call Mercantile District 2711.
WRESTLING TONIGHT!
8PM, Southern Lankville Man-Arena. Featuring Ric "Wild Boy" Tipps (green trunks).
ZACH KEEBAUGH INVESTIGATIONS
Only in The Lankville Daily News
The Lankville Daily News 
LETTER SACK