Tito Presentation: 1967-2013
By Hugh G. Pickens The Lankville Action News: YES! Team
Crime Beat Reporter
File photo
Pondicherry Association News reporter Tito Presentation is dead. The journalist was 46.
“Mr. Presentation was killed in a challenge,” noted Detective Gee-Temple, who responded to the death scene. “We are seeing more and more of these challenges and although we know little about them or why they occur, we intend to get to the bottom of the matter.”
“The challenge came early this morning,” said Presentation’s girlfriend Nikki, who was judged to be very stupid but with Grade-A tits. “Tito went out to the field and that’s where the challenge occurred. I didn’t see anything but the waving of the tall grasses and the darkening of the skies. I knew then.”
When asked who or what challenged Presentation, Nikki threw her arms in the air accentuating her cuddly, mound-like protuberances. “These challenges are just a complete mystery,” she added.
“It’s definitely a scourge and it’s getting worse,” said Detective Gee-Temple. “They [the challenges] also yield few, if any clues other than a body. Even the markings on the corpse are confusing– everything is absolutely unclear.”
Gee-Temple paused to sign some papers on a clipboard and study a small wooden storage box for crafts that was offered for sale.
“I thought my wife might like it. But the condition is poor,” he said to no one in particular.
Tito Presentation had been reporting on life in Lankville since 1998.
Royer Introduces New Dog, Claims He is a Vampire
By Marles Cundiff
Lankville Lakes Region Attache
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Incarcerated executive Ric Royer introduced his new dog, a gorgeous collie, at a press conference held today at the Foontz-Flonnaise Home of Abundant Senselessness. He then stated that the dog is also a vampire.
“He’s a vampire mostly in the evenings,” said Royer, who was wearing a thin, muslin robe with a hard, chocolate-colored outer covering. “The body of an antic gravedigger, killed during the war and forced to walk the earth in a vampiric state, has taken over this dog. I have to be very careful at sundown.”
When asked if this was the sort of terrible perturbation that made owning the pet intolerable, Royer leaned over and stroked the dog’s haunches lovingly. “No, no. I could never part with Mr. Chops.”
Royer claims that Mr. Chops is kept locked in a secure coffin during the night and is fed the blood of dead Foontz-Flonnaise patients intravenously.
“By morning, he exhibits the energy of a jackrabbit– ready for long walks about the grounds.”
Mr. Chops sat stupidly by the executive’s side during the press conference, staring languidly and emptily at the assembly.
Royer, who has been incarcerated for over a year, is expected to be released this fall.
Royer’s Madcap Experiences: I, River Dick
By Ric Royer
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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?”
“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.
My Process: By Dean T. Pibbs, Author
By Dean T. Pibbs
Popular Writer of Terrorist Attack Novels
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People often say, “Dean– what is your writing process? How do you begin a new terrorist attack novel?”
By way of answering, I have to take them back almost sixty years.
The year was 1956. My Mom, who was drunk at the time, gave me fifty cents for some bread. “Go down to Gino’s,” she said. I recall she was wearing a periwinkle house dress.
Gino’s was our corner store that had an array of items– bread, soups, comic books, bolts. I recall vividly putting the bread on the counter and then Gino’s hairy arms (he never wore a shirt) pushing a magazine in my face and then past my face and onto the floor. “You might like that being that you’re one of those weirdo kids,” he said. I picked it up– it had a colorful painting depicting a spaceship being blown to smithereens by some robots. It was called Inflamed by Stars and Blood. First issue– a pivotal moment in my existence.
I’ve been reading ever since. And, inspired by so many of their great contributors (Donny Ehlo, Jutts Pangborn, Quincy Checkers, just to name a few), I began writing myself.
In 2004, I was honored to receive the “Rayford Award for Outstanding Achievement”. During my speech, which was given in a windowless ballroom in a hotel tucked between two hills, I thanked Inflamed by Stars and Blood and also Gino, who was crushed to death during a challenge in 1962. It was an emotional day.
I continue to write terrorist attack novels– a genre that seems to grow in popularity with each passing day. It gives me something to do while I sit in the car, the engine running, while my aging wife takes an interminable amount of time performing some mundane activity. It can be quite enervating (the waiting, I mean).
Thanks for reading,
Dean
Anthropomorphic “Fixin’s” Bar is New Pizzas Mascot
By Salty Cubbes
Sedentary Reporter
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An anthropomorphic “fixin’s” bar with eyes and a mouth was unveiled today as the new Small Pizzas hockey club mascot, sources are now reporting.
The mascot, known as “Fixin’s”, was instantly popular with the few fans invited to attend the ceremony.
“I loved him. I thought he was great,” said a fan who was later revealed to be a blathering idiot. “He had little containers with sauces, pepperonis, different cheeses, veggies– oh, it was just great. JUST GREAT.”
The fan continued his incessant nattering and the weather outside grew dark and bleak and the atmosphere in the stifling conference room was heavy with something grim and unmentionable. At the suggestion of authorities, we slowly got the idiot into an elevator, rode down with him as the machine grumbled unwillingly, walked with him outside, feigning interest under deeply forbidding skies and lured him into an unfinished housing community where we were finally able to brain him with some two by fours.
It was a long process after that. Hail, the size of bottles, commenced falling and we could feel the anger of a maniacal god. We raced on towards something unseen, towards something unknown, through deep, thick-walled cellars in ancient houses. We chained ourselves to the stone walls, threw dirt in each other’s faces, trying desperately to excise the demons. There was no hope for us, though. We knew it.
When we returned to ground level we could see a redness in the air like nothing that had ever been before. Someone mentioned that ancient dead races had once spoken of this red but we no longer had computers, nor libraries– only our memories and these grew fainter by the minute. It was a harried time out there in the red woods. We felt the ground to be soaked in blood. We saw the monolith.
We are still wandering.
Buckets Dundee: 1962-2013
By Dick Oakes, Jr.
Senior Staff Writer
Senior Staff Writer
Veteran Lankville political commentator Buckets Dundee has died. He was 51.
“I came home and I could feel that death had permeated, that death had visited,” said Dundee’s wife Leslie, a pretty blonde with better than average tits and a reasonably firm, white ass. “I called out, Death? and then Buckets? as though I expected both to answer. But neither did.”
The cause of Dundee’s death is unknown.
A small, restrained service was planned and then immediately cancelled.
Royer’s Madcap Experiences: The Teacher of Grubanian
By Ric Royer
File photo
I put on a coat and tie and snuck into this fancy-pants luncheon; turned out it was for the “Modern Languages” department at some nearby university. I shoved in as much meat as seemed possible without causing a scene, then wandered over to the bar where I ordered a bourbon– neat.
Some broad in a suit that accentuated a round, handsome heiney appeared out of nowhere and ordered a soda with lemon. Our eyes met.
“Are you a professor at _________?” she said, in a tempered foreign accent.
“Yeah sure baby.” I bent backwards slightly at the waist to show off the goods.
“I teach Grubanian,” she said. Her eyes began to ramble slowly downwards.
“Say something in Grubanian,” I prodded.
She smiled and delivered some horseshit. I couldn’t make hide or tail or it.
“Listen,” I said, deciding quickly on a gambit. “I’ll pound you so hard, you’ll be speaking fucking Chinese.”
She dropped the soda on the carpet.
Two hours later we were lying on a waterbed in a deluxe motel, staring up at the water-stained ceiling. I had absolutely destroyed her suit and we had to have it sent out. I figured on ordering some food in.
“Why don’t we get fusion? I know a place,” she suggested.
“Fuck that. I’m going to have a guy send over some potatoes. Maybe a side of pit turkey.”
“You are a meat and potatoes kind of guy aren’t you?” she said. She climbed aboard again.
“That’s right, baby. They used to call me “ol’ Meat and Potatoes” back in school.”
“Oh? University?” She began rocking back and forth.
“Nope. First grade. Jesuit school.”
“Oh.”
She seemed confused. I liked it that way.
The Electronics Cranny: PIPES!
By J.H. Bangley
President, Electronics Cranny Industries
File Photo
Pencil-size pipes carry telephone messages and TV across Lankville through the System’s coaxial cables. Once, each pipe could carry 6,000 voices, or one TV show. Now, it can carry 58,000 voices or 600 voices plus three quality TV shows. So, you can see that progress has been made.
Yet the pipes aren’t any larger. They are being made into triple-duty voice tubes by new repeaters, new terminal tube equipment, tents and other transmission sheet advances developed right here at Electronics Cranny laboratories in Southern Lankville.
Our conversion expense is less than the cost of laying extra coaxial cables and also less than the cost of, say, fifty pink clothes hampers. But it calls for highly-responsible manufacturing procedures which are made possible only by the close co-operation of The Electronics Cranny and some factories in the mountains.
In improving the coaxial cable systems that were created more than 85 years ago, engineers at The Electronics Cranny have devised a new way to give Lankville better TV service, better telephone service and improved access to pipes while keeping costs low.
Sincerely,
J.H. Bangley
Royer’s Madcap Experiences: Orion Revisted (Part III)
By Ric Royer
File photo
It grew dark up there in that room above the forlorn diner.
She had fallen asleep. There was a little television and I turned it on to nothing but static. Out of boredom, I started pulling up the carpet with some tongs that I found in a bureau drawer. Came up pretty easily. I shoved the pieces out a window and onto the roof.
She woke up after a few hours.
“When’s your boy coming home?” I asked. I was a little worried. You never know what you’re getting with a mental.
“Who, Dave?”
“Yeah, whatever.” I feigned disinterest.
“He’s not. He makes the bread sticks in the morning and then leaves. We don’t speak.”
“He makes a damn good bread stick. I’ll give him that.” I spat cockily on the floor.
“He’s angry with me over this graffiti artist who moved off to the Islands.”
“I get it, baby. I don’t get angry over that kind of stuff.” I started to move in again but she got up quickly and lit another cigarette. I was forced to pretend to be interested in the pillows. I fluffed them accordingly.
“You should go. Get a flight back to Lankville. There’s no hope for anyone here.”
I thought about it. The Jew wouldn’t be happy. He wanted those pictures of the cow-eyed girls. The Jew usually got what he wanted too. I had an idea.
“Hey, how about posing for some shots for me? We can frill up the place, you know, class it up.”
“I need to see about the diner. We had a clumsy patron who kept spilling sauces all over the place. It’s down there congealing, I can feel it.”
I listened to her walk slowly down the staircase. For a second, I thought about trashing the room but came to my senses.
Then I placed a collect call to Lankville City.
Funny Stories by Dick Oakes, Jr.
By Dick Oakes, Jr.
Senior Staff Writer
Senior Staff Writer
The Pondicherry Association News is happy to present a new feature by veteran writer Dick Oakes, Jr.
I awoke in a windowless, subterranean bedroom and immediately spit up a surfeit of blood. A haggard blonde with jumbo yams was dressing in a corner. The light from the filthy fixture above was stale. From somewhere I heard carnival music.
The blonde lit a cigarello and said, “Bonjour mon amoreux! J’ai pense a fermer la porte a clef.” I started blankly.
I waved off coffee and stepped into the shower. Many of the tiles were gone and the water spit out onto the wood floor. Suddenly the thin muslin curtain was wrapped around me by two shadowy figures and I was pushed to the floor. Then I was lifted out of the shower and one of the guys brained me with a splintery piece of crown moulding.
When I awoke I was naked, still wrapped in the muslin shower curtain, in the back of an old ice cream truck. One of the goons sat sullenly in the corner, holding a .41 on me. The asshole had a real listless way about him. I decided to play possum.
After about ten minutes his cell phone rang. He snapped it up on the first ring.
“Yeah baby. Where are you?”
Silence.
“Naw. We’re just taking this guy up to the mountains.”
Silence.
“Well, we’re going to set him on fire with some of those leftover posters and some gas that Johnny picked up.”
Silence.
“Well, the posters have this gloss on them so we think it might take awhile. I don’t think I’ll be back before midnight.”
I kicked him hard in the shin and then got him with a perfect uppercut that shattered his jaw. I could hear the crazy bitch on the fallen cell phone, still asking about the goddamned posters. I stripped the guy of his shirt and pants, then ever so slightly opened the rear doors.
They were on the highway.
After about a half-hour they stopped at a breakfast joint. It had started to snow so I nicked the asshole’s jacket and took off into the woods. I could hear a train in the distance and I made for the tracks.
As I came out into a clearing, I saw a series of antique dolls tied to some of the trees. A fire had been recently extinguished and there was a tiny green pup tent set up on an old palette. There was a jar of mustard on the palette and a pair of red plastic tongs. A tiny robot was pushing the tongs around senselessly. I decided to keep going.
It took another ten minutes, through thick underbrush, but I finally made it to the tracks. It was an old coal engine pulling some graffiti-ridden boxcars. I hopped on the first that had its cargo door open. There was some straw in one corner and before long I had fallen into a deep and troubled sleep. I dreamed of a disturbing redhead, a kittenish piece of used jailbait. She was hanging around with a house-dick. They were making jokes in a darkened hotel lobby, filled with a thick gloom, like gas. When I awoke my pants were gone.
I jumped off the train in a little town and nicked a pair of stone-washed jeans from a second-hand place run by a guy that looked like a gibbon. That’s when I ran into Probationer Talleyrand. “Mr. Oakes”, he said. What are you doing across state lines?” I had no choice but to lure him into a soda fountain, ask everyone to clear the room, and drown him in the sink. I hoped I would have a half-hour start.
But I never did leave that little town.
Royer: “I’ve Been Crying in the Van”
By Bernie Keebler
Senior Staff Writer
File photo
Incarcerated executive and businessman Ric Royer stated yesterday that he has been frequently crying in his new van.
“It came upon me suddenly,” noted Royer, who was interviewed beside the van at the Foontz-Flonnaise Home of Abundant Senselessness. “It was a stark, unforeseen realization of a terrible loss and it hit me with ungodly, elephantine force. I have been putting the back seats down and just crying and crying.”
Royer would not elaborate on the nature of the loss.
“That’s just between me and those back seats,” he noted.
When asked if the loss had something to do with his incarceration, Royer demurred.
“Absolutely not. These lumpen patients, these lumpens– they have no effect on me. This is a much greater, spiritual sort of loss. When you believe that you have found a certain quantity of love in the cosmos…you…and…”
Royer suddenly became distracted by the arrival of a pizza delivery truck. He wandered towards it and the interview was ended prematurely.
Woman in a Man’s Game
By Robin Brox
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It was another bullshit schmoozefest at a Condiment outlet store in some corncobber town. They had a big printed sign out front– TODAY ONLY! MEET ROBIN BOX. I was going to say something but decided against it.
They put me in a chair at a table covered in orange linen. Copies of my first book Succeeding in Condiments sat in a big pile.
People started filing past. At first, I put up with it. Then, I started fucking around.
“What’s your name?” I asked a lardass.
“It’s Phil. I’m a great admirer of yours, Miss Brox.”
“Alright, Phil. Here’s your book.” I signed it “To a God Damn Mary, Best Wishes.” He’d shit later.
At one on the dot, as promised, the session was stopped. I had a car waiting.
“Any male strip clubs around here?” I asked the driver. He looked at me in the mirror. “How the hell would I know?” He started the car angrily.
“Female is fine too. Just take me anywhere dark.” He pulled out onto the highway and dropped me at a forlorn place surrounded by a pebbly lot. There was a lighted arrow that pointed towards the door but it was temperamental and flashed irregularly. A light breeze picked up.
“Fucking bag of shit,” I said, senselessly. That breeze threw me off. Everything was going to be different now. I knew it.
Inside, there were a bunch of filthy tables and a stage covered in poorly-heaped mounds of tinsel. The pole had a red band around it. Nobody was around. Finally, an awkward brunette came out in a bikini. She had a tiny, provincial voice. The kind of girl that would forever get taken advantage of in some desperate, hopeless search for love. The kind of girl that would inevitably end up in a place like this. I thought about offering her a job.
“Know anything about condiments, sweetheart?” I said.
She surprised me. She knew it all. She summarized the whole damn business in fifteen minutes.
“I can put you on as a mustard determiner,” I offered. “It’s mustard but it’s not yellow. It’s colorless.”
“Why?” she asked, genuinely. I was perplexed. I had no idea.
“Listen honey, in Lankville you feed the lumbering beast. If the lumbering beast likes it, you keep on feeding. Maybe later, you can plow some guy. That’s the Lankville way.”
She looked confused. I let it go.
She’s been my mustard determiner for fifteen years.
BIG CHIPS: Ramping it Up for Autumn
By BIG CHIPS
Special Correspondent
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Man, I’m ready to ramp it up for autumn.
We’re going to get ourselves one of those big gourds, some of that hard corn and a couple of those big tables with benches and we’re going to put the whole thing out in the little side yard where “The Cut” has his fire pit.
One time we were out there and “The Cut” looked down the alley and saw that some of the asphalt was all cracked up. “Yo, that’s gonna’ happen to all of us,” he said. It was a profound moment. He and his old lady started to make out on account of how profound it was. They split up later cause she was banging some blonde dancer or something.
The other thing I like to do in the autumn is to drive those old country roads. You can really ramp it up watching all those leaves change colors. You don’t have anywhere to go, everything is nice and chill and you can stop at one of those roadside stands and buy some apple cider. They always look at me funny at those roadside stands but I don’t let it bother me.
Cause when you’re ramping it up with Big Chips in autumn, you don’t need anyone else’s permission.
Oral Histories of Some Former Lankville Pugilists
By Chico Shermey (1945-1955, 62W 15L, 27KO)
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I grew up in a tough part of Eastern Lankville– Christ, there were five or six beheadings a day. It was an old Island Crime Syndicate– they had never renounced their back-ass ways. You could always see them on the little beach, eating pancakes in a tent. I mean, who the hell does that anymore, right?
I started boxing when I was 13. Saved me from the streets. Hooked up with Gino Rices. Gino had a great boxing mind. He was all of about four feet tall but he could whip anyone. “It’s all about geometry, boys,” he would say. We were never sure what he was talking about, not being educated. Then, sometimes he’d say it was all about the angles. “Learn your angles and you’ll never lose, not once.” Then he’d tell us all about them– the acute, the obtuse, Knapp’s Patience, all of them.
I guess I probably had about ten fights in the amateurs. I faced off against Junior Spotts for the Tawny Gloves Competition in early ’44 and beat him in 5 rounds on a knockout. Junior tried to come up with this big uppercut and he missed and he got off balance and fell straight out of the ring into the press row. Well, the press, they started just wailing on him and then they threw him back in the ring and by then it was a done deal. I got that beautiful silver belt, hand-engraved in the Outer Depths. Used to wear that thing everywhere– I’d go out just to the bank or something and I’d wear that belt, no shirt. Finally, this policeman, he said, “Chico, we need you to put a top on. We can’t have that with all the women around.” I didn’t want no trouble so I started wearing a little button-up number but I still wore the belt underneath. I was proud.
It was about that time that I met my wife. We used to go everywhere and by then, of course, I was a pro and we used to get good tables at all the big places– Ted’s Eatery, the Meretricious Top Hat, Gelsey’s French Toast (that’s before it went pornographic). We had a good life for awhile and then I found out about her fucking this blonde pretty boy and it was all I could take. I’d go into the ring just fuming and I’d take all that jealousy out on the other fighter. I won 13 straight at one point, all by knockout.
Gino, he tried all the could to get me a prizefight. They’d never give me a go at the champ though. I know about ’52, ’53, I would ‘a won. Not a doubt in my mind.
Things started to go downhill from there. I got injured one time playing Lingus Nets over the summer and my shoulder never was right again. I became estranged from the wife– I just could never not picture her fucking that blonde pretty boy.
Before I even knew what hit me, I was out of boxing. I was living in a filthy room above an electronics store– Christ, they had peeling wallpaper coming down every place. There was a guy in the next room who was fairly quiet except twice a day when he would suddenly scream SMILE, PEOPLE! Always scared the Christ out of me for a second but then I got used to it.
Eventually, things got a little better for me. Moved out to Sherryville in the Inner Depths– got a little place with a porch. They got a bus station over there and I watch them come and go all day and I read the paper and listen to the radio. Sometimes, I look past the station to the Big Hill where an enormous pumpkin fire has been burning for over five years. They can’t figure out what the hell to do with the damn thing. Everything smells like burnt pumpkins. You can’t get that shit out of the your clothes. Don’t matter how hard you try.
New Evidence Emerging on Disappearance of Plantains’ Meyer
By Brock Belvedere, Jr.
Senior Staff Writer
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New evidence is slowly emerging on the disappearance of former hockey club owner and fried plantain magnate Shane Meyer, sources are now confirming. Meyer was presumed killed in a tire-house fire last August.
“We have some new juicy morsels of an interesting nature,” noted Detective Gee-Temple, currently in charge of the case. “Some family photographs have emerged and we discovered a previously unknown sister who has revealed some luscious tidbits. So, we feel confident that a conclusion will be forthcoming.”
Gee-Temple would not elaborate, however Meyer’s sister, speaking under condition of anonymity, consented to a brief interview with The Pondicherry Association News.
Meyer family, 1982. Shane is pictured second from right.
BB: Tell us a little about yourself.
S: You Know the apartments?
BB: Oh, yes, of course.
S: Yeah, I manage them.
BB: So, can you tell us anything about Shane’s disappearance?
S: Shane and I don’t have a lot of contact. He disapproves of my lifestyle with the apartments and I disapprove of plantains. Nevertheless, I got an unsigned letter about a month ago that appeared to be in his handwriting.
BB: What did it say?
S: It just said some nasty things about the apartments. I knew then that it was Shane.
BB: Do you think he faked his death?
S: Maybe. You’ll have to wait to hear what Geez-Temples [sic] says.
BB: What does Aunt Pam think? Everybody really wants to know what’s going on with Aunt Pam. (Belvedere began gyrating lewdly).
S: Aunt Pam disapproves of the apartments. And I disapprove of her craft-stuffed home. We don’t speak.
BB: You tell Aunt Pam that I have no problem crafting it up. Any time, any place. Hell, I’ll craft it up in a pile of garbage if Aunt Pam’s there.
S: Alright.
The interview suddenly became disorganized and succumbed under a vast, unmentionable pressure.
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!
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BANDED DUFFELS ON PALLETS
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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