Posts Tagged ‘Devon Fick’

Detective Gee-Temple: The Tibbs Files

May 8, 2017 Leave a comment

Detective Gee-Temple

In April of 2017, The Lankville Daily News began publishing excerpts from the diary of wanted Craughing mass murderer Tibbs Senior, missing since 1967.

Shortly thereafter, I received a request for assistance from the Craughing Area Police Unit (CAPU) in regards to the possibility that Tibbs could still be alive and living in Almond Beach, a once prosperous oceanside community in Eastern Lankville. We knew, of course, of his son Gump, a noted recidivist and Daily News reporter but efforts to discuss Tibbs, Senior with Tibbs, Junior led nowhere. “He is dead to me,” the normally well-mannered son said of his father. “His spirit is a curse and an abomination upon the firmament.” Tibbs, Junior claimed to have none of his father’s personal effects.

A week after the excerpts began appearing in the News, I connected with the East Lankville Beach Police Precinct and was given an exceedingly small file on an individual named “Ferguson Bunts”. The file consisted of three pages, typed on browning onion-skin paper.

“Who is Ferguson Bunts?” I asked.

Sergeant Service, a gaunt, grey man with prominent brows, scratched his chin reflectively.

“He’s a curious individual who appeared in Almond Beach some time around 1967, 1968– prior whereabouts unknown. He purchased one of them so-called luxury villas out in the Almond Beach Prosperity Village. He’s the only one on our books that fits your man’s description and would be the correct age to be this Tibbs.”

I leafed through the file. Three public drunkenness raps. Little else. But there was one recurring detail which leaped out at me.

Subject wearing a white three-piece suit was repeated in all three accounts.

“I think this could be our man,” I proffered. “Course, he would be about 90 years old now.”

“You think he’s still living?” Sergeant Service asked. “Mother of shit.”

Service glanced at the documents and then consulted his Danny Madison Reckoner. “This Bunts is still listed in the white pages. Says he’s still living out in the Almond Beach Prosperity Village. We can ride out there iff’n you want.”

I thanked him for the offer and we set out in the prowler.

The Almond Beach Prosperity Village is located on a stretch of flat, marshy land, a few miles from the ocean. The houses, save for the paint jobs, are all identical one-story cottages with front bay windows, winding cement sidewalks and modest, tasteful shrubbery. Still, the place had aged poorly. It was of another era.

“What’s the population here?” I asked. Service thought about that for awhile.

“Older, I’d say. Maybe you got some young families but they ain’t much good. It ain’t really a vacation hub lik’n it used to be. Peoples tend to stay now in them luxury hotels and condominiums. You gotta’ put the corn down where the cows can get at it, if’n you know what I mean.”

I didn’t. “What does that mean?” I asked.

“What the hell do you mean, what does that mean? It’s a common expression.”

“No it isn’t,” I argued.

“Well, it is,” he responded.

Home of Ferguson Bunts (file photo).

“Listen,” I said. “I want no part of your made-up folksy aphorism. Just drive me out to this address.”

We pulled up to the curb and, just like that, there he was. He was hammering a stake into the middle of his yard– the purpose of the stake eluded me. He was wearing a white, three-piece suit and did not appear to have aged at all– if anything he looked considerably younger. The only conceivable sign of decline was a pearl-handled cane which he leaned on as he hammered but this accessory could have been merely ornamental.

I got out of the car and approached the individual.

“What is your name, sir?”

He looked up. The grey beard in the 1966 photo was now an unearthly black hue.


He let out an expansive, booming laugh.

“Mr. Bunts.” I paused. I had to be careful here. “How long have you lived in this house?”


He suddenly let loose with an earth-shaking blow to the stake, driving it completely into the ground.

“MY WORK IN THE FRONT YARD IS NOW COMPLETE,” he announced. He stood up and the pearl-handled cane flashed in the sunlight.

“Mr. Bunts, do you have any sort of identification?”


I paused again and looked back at the prowler where Service sat with the window rolled up, reading from a lewd pamphlet. I could see that he would be no help whatsoever and I wondered about that.

“Mr. Bunts, you may be aware that a…diary was recently discovered and published in excerpts in The Lankville Daily News. I stopped. His face revealed nothing.

“Anyway, this is simply a routine inquiry into that diary. You see, the man who wrote the diary has been wanted by law enforcement since 1967.”

“WELL, CERTAINLY, HE MUST BE DEAD BY NOW, OFFICER!” he offered in a strangely agreeable and joyous voice.

“He would be of advanced age, yes. But, well, see, the East Lankville Police Precinct returned only one name during our routine inquiry and…well…that name was yours.”

“ISN’T THAT A DELIGHT?” he asked, nearly blinding me with the sunlight caroming off the pearl-handle in a peculiarly strong manner. “BUT I CAN ASSURE YOU, OFFICER, I AM NOT THAT MAN.”

“Did you ever own a hotel, Mr. Bunts?”

Still, his face revealed nothing.


I looked again at the meager documents in my hand. I could think of nothing else.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Bunts. Please stay in the area for the time being.”

“Officer,” he said, in a low, foreboding voice. “I am here. I am always here. As are you. As are all of us.”

I looked back at Service. He had not even bothered to look up.

“Thank you, Mr. Bunts.”

I got back in the prowler.

“Think I can get a warrant on this guy?” I asked.

“Nope,” he said. “Not in a million years.”


He finally looked up and placed the pamphlet on the dashboard. I noticed the title– Lesbian Circus.

“Find out for yerself. Do some digging. See what happens.”

He suddenly slammed the car into drive and we drove away.

Bunts watched us all the way from his porch.

Further Leaves from the Diary of Tibbs Senior

May 4, 2017 Leave a comment

Tibbs Senior, shortly before his disappearance.


The new menus have arrived! They are an unparalleled DELIGHT!

The frontispiece features a most lovely illustration of a mother bird providing regurgitated victuals to her three chicks. I felt it to be most ideal as we tend to view the Murray as a sort of maternal entity providing shelter and sustenance to the weary traveler.

Insolent Gump, of course, did not care for the design. “It’s shit,” he commented, “tho’ I suppose the mindless simpletons to whom we feed grilled prawn and gravy fries will not know the difference between fine art and banal representation.”

The boy is sullen because Shapely Susan has not called today. The spurious pair had a scheme by which they would picnic by the dried-up pond come evening and, no doubt, enjoy jejune coitus. His papa, however, knows that this monstrous convocation has been delayed permanently. As the poet said, and tears but nourish, in your soul…


Set another car on fire at Ellinor Village. Once again, the throng spilled out into the parking lot and I was able to come away with a case of benzos. On my way out of the pharmacy, I noticed a most fetching straw hat hanging on display in the window. “TREAT YOURSELF MR. TIBBS,” I said aloud.

It fit perfectly.


Young Gump sits about the anteroom in a withdrawn manner, scribbling poems into a calfskin notebook.

“Where is your fair maiden today?” I asked. “Bearing her rump for an aggregation of deviants, I surmise?”

He refused comment. Suddenly, Mr. Oakes stumbled into the lobby. The poor wretch– he was most inebriated and was attempting to carry two enormous ceramic owl lamps.


It was too late. Mr. Oakes lurched forward and the lamps were smashed into a million pieces upon the tile floor.

“Who knows what the hell to make of it?” Oakes uttered, before passing out.


Junior is positively crestfallen.

He has been making desperate phone calls all day pausing only to restate his desire to join the Craughing Expeditionary Force.

After dinner, he announced that he was making a sojourn to the public library. He set out in his battered orange Neptune and I followed close behind. Within minutes, he pulled in back of the Playpen.

“The mountebank!” I cried loudly, nearly blowing my cover.

He entered via the back door which was most heavily guarded by two ruffians. I decided to wait and thusly, removed a bottle of Old Lankville from beneath the seat.


Once dark, I slid out of the car and found the familiar duffel bag in the trunk. I crossed the alley and entered a most forlorn stairwell leading upstairs to a series of shabby apartments. Number 14 faced the alley.

I removed a most curious device from the duffel bag. Indeed, I had purchased it many eons ago, out of the back of a gaudy comic magazine. It had somehow defied time and remained a most prized tool. By the simple press of a button, suction with the power of a tornado (as it was once advertised) tore the lock straight from its moorings.

A man with uncombed hair and a filthy tank top slowly rose from a chair. “This is my…” but I daresay, he could not finish his sentence. The .22 split his face in half. I pushed the corpse behind a hamper, killed the lights, and set up a nocturnal watch upon the Playpen.

Hours later, the rear door of the Playpen was violently pushed open and Junior was tossed unceremoniously to the curb.

“THE GOLD GOBLET FULL OF THE IMPURITIES OF YOUR IMMORALITY SHALL OVERFLOW!” the juvenile cried out drunkenly.  I raced downstairs.

Two thugs stood over the spawn. “Listen you! Get the ____ out of here or we’ll tear ya’ apart!”



I smiled at the men. Then, I leaned in close.

gentlemen…you are no doubt familiar with Satan’s pony?

They each took a step back.  One said, “you look familiar.”


do we understand each other gentlemen?

I knew I would have no further trouble. I drove Gump home.

Further Leaves from the Diary of Tibbs Senior

May 1, 2017 Leave a comment

Tibbs Senior, shortly before his disappearance.


Saucy Young Gump has become most imperious.

This morning, he pushed over a cart of linens.

“These sperma-stained bedclothes toppled here in the mezzanine, if you will, represent my contempt for this revolting hostel,” he stated.

I removed my belt but the lad was quicker and tore it from the loops with great alacrity.

“I see the tables have turned, Father,” he said, a glint of cruelty in his eye. “Perhaps, indeed, I should tan you. I wonder if a man, if he possessed a certain archery, could maneuver a strap deep into the recesses of another man’s hinterlands.”

I could stand no more. I sallied forth to the kitchen and began mindlessly pushing a spoon through a pan of scrambled eggs. The profligate son had unnerved me, there could be no question.

Later, the boy approached me again in the anteroom, that same glint in his eye.

“Father, do you recall how earlier I was speaking of the hinterlands?” he asked.

Stunned, I could offer no response.

“Well, I have just probed them, tho’ not with a belt.”

At that, Shapely Susan appeared, appropriately enough, behind him in the darkened chamber.

He let out a booming laugh.

When I returned to my room that night, I made some notes upon the vellum and then burned them in the fireplace.

There would be no need for any evidence. They were now clear in my mind.


The Playpen is located on a stretch of mean, seedy structures on the outskirts of town– edifices which stand in stark contrast to the natural beauty of the surrounding desert landscape. It is illuminated by a garish flickering neon sign and a small contingent of goons stand alertly around its entrance.

I parked across the street and surveyed the scene for nearly an hour.

Then, I made my approach.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen. I wonder if you could tell me if your most enchanting artista de striptease Shapely Susan is performing tonight?”

“You like her Pops?” said one of the thugs. “Got an ass that won’t quit, am I right?

I grimaced momentarily but affixed the affable smile back upon my countenance.

“Oh, you are indeed right, my friend. It is a most agreeable posterior, there can be no arguing that. But, pray tell, what time will she be treading the boards, if you will?

“What the hell is this guy talking about?” one of the other delinquents called out senselessly.

“Pops, I think she goes on in 20 minutes. Now, if you want to see her exotic dance, you gotta’ pay ten dollars.”

“NO PRICE IS TOO HIGH GENTLEMEN,” I boomed out. “WHAT A DELIGHT THIS WILL BE!” And I removed a ten from my calfskin wallet.

“Sure will, Pops. Nobody gets the tent pole raised like Shapely Susan.”


I entered the den of iniquity. There were several round tables in front of a miserable, poorly-lit stage and a worn and tattered red velvet curtain hung limply closed across it. The patrons were most deplorable and there was a fetid smell of smoke, inexpensive hops and unlaundered clothing about the room. I approached the bar.

I shall choose not to put down the sorrowful particulars of the show that followed except to say that it was most foul. Nonetheless, the assembled seemed to enjoy it immensely and threw many a bill upon the stage. When the pasties were finally removed, the roar was nigh-maniacal.

During this most outrageous spectacle, I had noticed a door to the left of the stage and immediately following the strumpet’s program, I made for it. It was a darkened, carpeted hallway which turned towards the right and appeared to go behind the stage. As I made this turn, I ran into a white-suited bruiser who appeared to be guarding a series of dressing rooms.

“Hey, man, you…”

I removed the .22 with the optional silencer from my suit jacket pocket and shot him in the face. He collapsed against the wall and a pool of blood and gore expanded beneath him. I stood for a moment and listened beyond the wall. Faintly, I heard the canned trumpet music and the hoots of the debauched aggregation.

I began calmly opening doors until Shapely Susan appeared before me. She was slathering her cheeks with foundation before a most distasteful and garish mirror.

“What…you come to see my show Big Daddy?”

“I have indeed, dear. I have indeed. And this delightful proscaenium. I am impressed that you have secured such an engagement.”

“Who? What you talking about Big Daddy? I ain’t understanding them words.”

I laughed and removed the .22. She dropped the foundation sponge.

“I’d like you to come with me, dear. Get your coat made, no doubt, of some trapped mammal.”

We left by the back door.


“You gonna’ blast me, Pops?” she said, once I had turned the car out onto the desert road. “What for? Cause Gumpy did me up the butt?”

“I’d like to request that you not speak, my dear, especially of such…endeavors.”

“Can I play the radio then?” she said.

“My dear, I’ll be driving you to the crossing. There, you will take a bus into the Lankville Outlands. If you are amenable to this assignment, then we shall have no problem. And, of course, you will receive a most magnanimous remuneration.”

“Daddy, I can’t understand them words.”

I laughed heartily.


Two hours later, we reached the crossing. I parked along the riverbank and watched the customs guard in the booth above. He was asleep.

“Now, here in this case, my dear, is a thousand dollars. You will take this and walk along the right foot bridge into Lankville. Do not come back.”

“A thousand clams, huh, Daddy? What, you want to sack out or somethin’?”

“YOU ABOMINABLE CRETIN!” I shouted. I began breathing heavily. “Listen, I want you to disappear. Do not come back to Craughing, do you understand?”

She looked at me for an interminable period. It was as though the idea was coursing slowly through her brain.

“Yeah, I guess I get it, Daddy. Why you want to keep me and Gumpy apart?”


She opened the door. I watched her traverse the foot bridge into Lankville. The guard never woke up.

It was near morning when I returned to the Murray and finished this entry.

The Diary of Tibbs Senior will continue in future issues.

The Street Scoop by Otis Nixon

April 29, 2017 Leave a comment

By Otis Nixon

For many years, a short row of parking meters have been located along the 2900 block of Everbrown Avenue, just across from the Lankville Equitable Bank in the Snowy Lake District. Of the few residents who noticed they were there, no one could remember why they had been installed in the first place. To our surprise, when The Lankville Daily News contacted the Lankville Parking and Curbs Authority, they didn’t know why either.

“I pulled some giant tomes off shelves,” noted LPCA employee Jean Stargell. “There was nothing in any of them about any parking meters.”

Just like that, with a simple question from The News, the meters will be no more by summer.

“The process essentially involves beheading the meters and then leaving the posts up for a year or two and then taking the posts down,” noted Stargell. “Or maybe not.”

After speaking with Stargell for a few more moments, I was able to glean some information about her whereabouts. Utilizing the Lankville Real Property Data Digital Workstation, I discovered her home address.

I picked up a six-pack of beer and a pack of short cigars and drove to the house at dusk. Indeed, a squat, shapeless woman was outside watering some dead ferns. A radio played somewhere deep inside the house. I cracked open a beer and watched Jean– I watched her until darkness fell. When she finally went inside, I got out of the car.

There was a little area in between the wraparound porch and the dining room bay window where I could lurk unseen. An overhead maple shielded me from the neighbors. At one point, a strange-looking man wandered by aimlessly, walking a little puffball dog and whispering, “C’mon now Hugs. C’mon. C’mon Hugs. Please urinate, Hugs.” But he didn’t see me.

I am still lurking.

Further Leaves from the Diary of Tibbs Senior

April 27, 2017 Leave a comment

Tibbs Senior, shortly before his disappearance.


I was standing at the stove, boiling my toothbrush, when that intemperate moppet Gump, Junior burst into the kitchen.

“Father,” he said, breathing hard. “I wish to join the Craughing Expeditionary Force. It is my intent to kill many of our Lankville overlords.”

I let out a booming laugh.

The affairs of a simple hotelkeeper preclude involvement in worldly matters but in the service of that odious whore that is context I should note that a series of Lankvillian tyrants have infiltrated the 65th parallel and established a most abhorrent suzerainty over our Northern brethren.

“Why, young Gump,” I said, once my guffaw had subsided, “you are too young, my boy. And, I should add, your services are needed here, at the Murray.”

“____ the Murray, this lousy dungeon of vice!”

I removed my belt and whipped the ruffian mercilessly.

He is clearly his mother’s child.


Young Gump woke ill-tempered this morning and was rude to several guests, including poor Mr. Oakes, who had clearly spent the night in a deep state of inebriation. The fledgling shoat also dropped a plate of gravy fries into Mrs. Stocksdale’s lap, causing the wretched matron to launch into a series of coughing spasms from which, I feared, she would not recover. Later, I encountered the dissolute lad in the parking lot.

“My boy, I would like you to join me tonight in making an offering to the seventh emanation of the divine hierarchy between Earth and the Godhead. I believe it will assuage your boyish desires.”

“Father, it is my most luscious intention to join the CEF. I shall do it with or without your approval.”

“And while we are on that subject,” the plucky schoolboy added, “I would also like to announce my intent to wed Shapely Susan.”

“WHAT!” I screamed. “That common ecdysiast that works at that den of iniquity, the Playpen! A THOUSAND TIMES NO!”

The devilish spawn grinned.

“Father, you are indeed most hypocritical. Is my own mother not one of the premier striptease dancers in all of Craughing? Answer me that?”

I could not. The boy was right.

But such depraved nuptials must most certainly be stopped.


I could not prevent this most eldritch dinner to which I was subjected this evening.

Young Gump appeared in the doorway of an upstairs chamber which I was preparing for a visiting dignitary. Behind him, lurking in the shadowy hallway, was a most curvaceous blonde.

“Father!” he announced. “This is Shapely Susan. My fiance. We shall all break bread together tonight at the Bun Boy.”

I did not want to be rude although I could not fail to notice that this harlot had the face of a half-breed.

And so, we drove to the Bun Boy.

Mr. Failing himself was our waiter. He is a slim, insignificant man, known for his fatuous statements at community association meetings. Failing was staring hard at the bust of my soon-to-be daughter-in-law.

Gump (the pure gall) ordered for our entire woeful assembly.

“Tell me, dear,” I said, after Failing had hopped strangely away to the kitchen. “Of the eternal poets, who pray tell do you hold in the highest regard?”

“Who?” she called out in a most unpleasant voice. “What’s he talking about Gumpy?”

Young Gump tore into a lard bun– the specialty of the house.

“Don’t worry about him,” said the abominable spawn. “His education belies his crudity.”

“Who?” she called out again. A most unpalatable tone, the likes of which I had never before heard. “What you talking about Gumpy? What you all talking about?”

“Forget it, darling,” young Gump declared, his mouth discharging shards of lard biscuit. “You are my soulmate. Tonight, we shall make love all over one of Papa’s giant poetry anthologies.”

That was it, all I could stand. I threw a ten down on the table.

“I will not tolerate such outrages!” I yelled. The dining room of the Bun Boy went silent.

“Hahahaha! Go home then, Father, go home to your miserable hostel. Your kind is not needed at the Bun Boy.”

Then the wretch planted an enormous kiss on the cheek of the pitiable harlot.

I walked home, disgusted.

I must think of a plan.

The Diary of Tibbs Senior will continue in future issues.


April 24, 2017 Leave a comment

Tammy La Hoyt

LDN: What is your name and where do your work?

TLH: My name is Tammy La Hoyt and I work at Tammy Nails.

LDN: Funny that it’s called Tammy Nails and that you work there.

TLH: Well, I own the place.

LDN: What do you do at Tammy Nails?

TLH: Nails.

LDN: What if somebody doesn’t have any nails?

TLH: Who the hell doesn’t have no nails?

LDN: Amputees?

TLH: Christ. Can you move on to something else, shit-for-brains?

LDN: Married? Children?

TLH: My husband Dick and I have been married for 16 years. We don’t have no children. Dick’s got a low-sperm count. But I still love him.

LDN: What do you like to do for fun?

TLH: Dick and me got a gravel lot in front of the garage.

The interview suddenly collapsed.

The Diary of Tibbs Senior

April 24, 2017 Leave a comment

Tibbs Senior, shortly before his disappearance.

Recently, a Lankvillian, who refused to be identified, discovered the tattered diary of noted hotel keeper and mass-murderer Tibbs, Senior at the bottom of a box of Christmas ornaments at a yard sale. Tibbs, Senior was on the lam for many years and was never captured. His whereabouts are currently unknown.

The Lankville Daily News is proud to present passages from this diary.


An absolutely DELIGHTFUL afternoon.

After serving breakfast to a full house of patrons, I left the Murray and drove carelessly down to the beautiful Ellinor Village Shopping Center. Why, you should see this majestic shrine to the best that Craughing commerce has to offer! There is a well-tended service station, a pharmacy, a glittering new grocery complex, a greeting card centre, and SO MUCH MORE!

I set a car on fire in the parking lot. During the commotion (four pump engines and several police cars were on the scene), I crept behind the counter of the pharmacy and was able to come away with an entire DELIGHTFUL assortment of Librium, Freenopam, Lankvillopam, and Amino Acids. I stopped at the liquor store (also now bereft of both attendants and customers– yes, they were still watching the conflagration) and walked out with two quarts of Old Lankville.

I sat in the car as the blaze died down. The radio was playing a nice little trumpet ditty and there was a temperate breeze whistling through the open windows. The palliatives washed down the ten pills with DELIGHTFUL efficacy and I leaned back in my cushy seat and permitted the verdancy of spring to waft over me.

Yes, spring. Such a time of harmony. As the poet said, “OH SPRING, THOU WITH DEWEY LOCKS…”


The half-breeds that work in the kitchen at the Murray are most useless. I have sent them away. Gump, that moody enfant terrible has been assigned kitchen duty. The urchin washes dishes with the competency of a spattered burro. No surprise, I must suppose, his mother being little better than a common harlot. And, yet, I must look back fondly on her most ample bosom. She measured at a most DELIGHTFUL 73 inches– no cup could contain her. I recall when I first saw her bewitching floor show at Cactus Andy’s Casino. Yes, I returned each night with a different flower plucked from the gardens of several conveniently-located neighbors. We fell deeply in love.

Once, she said, “I must get my bosom reduced now that I am an honest woman.” My response was most childish. I heaved a heavy chair through a window. Oh, that I was blessed with more restraint. A pity.

The Ellinor Village Shopping Center (file photo).


Near sunset, I took two sawed-off shotguns, a box of pills and some Old Lankville out into the woods. What a DELIGHTFUL stroll it was– the crisp crack of twigs beneath my feet as I ambled along the well-worn native trails. I must have walked for nearly an hour, allowing the varied tonics to soothe the recesses of my heart.

I came upon a green folding trailer tent in a clearing. Two young gentlemen were cooking weiners by a fire. They failed to notice my approach and this– it was their undoing. As the poet said, ’twas with this failing, still the roses bloom. 

I hope they rest peacefully.


Lot of to-do over the recent murders in the woods. A shameful act– I hope they catch the louse. As the ancients say, the cup of abominations is nigh-full.


Gee-Temple asked to see our register this morning. At first I refused– after all, the Murray prides itself on shielding the privacy of our benefactors.

And Gee-Temple said, “But Mr. Tibbs– it is likely that this murderer is an outlander. We know that no one in our town would commit such an act.”

I had to agree. And so the diligent constable made a review of our guests and several were called down and two were arrested. Poor Mr. Oates– they very nearly took him as well until I convinced the constable that the wretched fellow had been incapacitated that day with migraine. I understand that one of our tenants has been charged with the murders. And, indeed, he was an alien. The cad!


Woke up early this morning screaming. A most awful nightmare. I recall it clearly. The slaughter of two innocent homosexuals. Could I have done this? The diary says so but I have no memory of the heinous act.

Sleep would not come. I went down to the parlor and watched a program which ended promptly with the Lankville Joyous Anthem followed by static. The hideous colonists! One day Craughing shall be free!

The Diary of Tibbs Senior will continue in future issues.

Field Service Highlights of the Kingdom Witnesses

April 18, 2017 Leave a comment

By McGriff Key, Kingdom Witness

“I’m here to give you this month’s issue of Aroused!

(Hand magazine to the person. Allow them time to respond).

“What’s your opinion?”

(Allow them time to respond. Take two steps backward to avoid violence).

“There is a very nice article here that discusses some Kingdom principles that can help us improve our outlook on life.”

(Point to article).

Total field service credit:  1 hour.



When is it appropriate to discontinue Kingdom study?

If a student’s spiritual progress comes to a halt, you may have to discontinue his Kingdom study tactfully. Consider: Does he keep his appointments to study? Does he present himself in a neat, orderly fashion and generally wear long pants? Does he prepare his lesson in advance? Has he attended 75% of his congregation meetings? Does he share with others what he is learning or does he tend to lurk in the corner eerily? Does he turn his chair backwards and lean against the back in an overtly frank manner? Is he making changes in harmony with Kingdom principles? Of course, make allowance for his age and his abilities, recognizing that each person progresses at a different rate and that the retarded and spastic for example, will be very slow in grasping Kingdom principles and women, hampered by the abominable crimson flow, may also be inconsistent in understanding key concepts. Also, if you discontinue the study, keep the door open for him to resume his study in the future. “You are always welcome back,” you will say, as you show him out into the back parking lot where his battered jalopy is waiting, its faded paint failing to glisten in the sunlight of his recently-abandoned Kingdom.



Use the introductory pages of your Aroused! workbook to stimulate interest and then show the householder where the ancient texts give the answer. For example, you might refer to a recent terrorist attack or challenge spree covered in the news and explain that many have wondered about the answers to the questions on page 17. Or you could say that you are visiting your neighbors to share a wondrous, positive view of the future. Then show the pictures on pages 22-25 and ask, “Which of these promises would you like to see fulfilled?” If the householder does not wish any of the promises fulfilled, suggest an alternative promise. Another possibility is to say that you are making brief visits to help people find answers to very big questions. Then show the householder the questions at the bottom of page 35, and ask which one interests him the most. A third possibility is to point out things on his porch and say, “what about that?” His answers may be the springboard to a positive conversation and an opportunity for prime witnessing.


There have been complaints of Kingdom Witnesses, having been rebuked by householders, pushing over filled trash cans. This should be avoided at all costs.

There is absolutely no tolerance for inebriation while engaged in field service.

For more information, please call the Kingdom Witnesses free hotline at KINGDOM EAST 6-3442.

Rennie Stennett: Bounty Hunter

April 17, 2017 Leave a comment

By Rennie Stennett

Triple homicide, just over the border. Three agents. Craughing is giving us hell, giving us absolute hell. We got the potential for a war here. 

“We can fix that.”

Early this morning, a vigilante group– all blown to pieces. Out at Cactus Pond. Machine gun shells from a high velocity weapon. We’re talking extended magazine on a short-stroke piston gas-system kind of thing here, Rennie. It’s a hell of a mess.

“We can fix that too.”

There was a long pause on the line.

I got nothing else for you. No witnesses. We got a gas station nearby that was boosted out of fifty bucks, some chips and a collectible swinger’s magazine. We have two more dead at a sporting goods shop. But I got no line on the perp. Nothing.

“Hundred a day expenses. I’ll bring him in in three.”

I opened the closet and found the red metal case buried beneath some fall blankets. These are the kind of blankets that aren’t as thick as the ones I keep for winter. Just enough to keep the chill out. I looked over the weapons inside. I didn’t have nothing that would match up against that kind of firepower but I didn’t figure on needing it. I picked out a couple of shotguns and loaded them with shells. Buckshot lets you take care of business in tight quarters. I knew it’d be tight.

Klacik’s Garage was next up.  Where I keep the bus. Klacik had his kid there– he was out front stacking pebbles.

“How’s she running, babe?”

Klacik was lit, you could see it. He had to lean against a pole to keep himself vertical.

She’s a gem, Rennie. She’s a gorgeous piece of Lankville Iron. God damn sweat and elbow grease. Lankville ingenuity. Stars and streaks, baby. Our birthright…

Klacik suddenly kicked the boy’s pebble stack over. It was a hell of a boot. The boy took it alright. Probably used to it.

I pulled her out and headed West towards Craughing. About ten miles before the crossing, I turned south into the desert. Put the fan on and hit the gas– got her up to 75.  First stop was the service station.

There was a yokel done up in an oil-stained jumpsuit standing around out front– he had a car up on the lift inside that was dripping antifreeze. Light trumpet music was coming from somewhere.

“Hear you had some money and some chips go missing?”

Who wants to know.

“Interested party. Why don’t we leave it at that?”

Stole a car too, right off the lift. I didn’t report that.


He didn’t say anything for awhile. The light shifted. Had to be 95 out. Had to be.

It belonged to a friend of mine’s wife. Ex ball-player. I was…having sexual relations with her. Mostly just mutual oral but…well, I didn’t want him to know. He’d be upset. About the mutual oral, you know? Had a tendency to get a little sloppy– some spraying went on….

“I get it.  Now, did you get a look at this guy?”

Who? The ball-player? Sure, I’ve known him for years…”

“No, the guy that took the car.” Got a real rocket scientist, here, Rennie.

Just the back of his head as he drove off. He was bald, that’s all I can say. But, there’s one other thing…

“Spit it out.”

Well, it was near sunset a couple nights ago. Big guy with a beard came in, filled up his tank. He asked if I had seen a bald guy, a Mr. Oakes or Oates or something. Said that he was this guy’s caretaker or something. He said– “I am his eternal overseer” or something like that, I couldn’t understand him much. His whole suit was white and it had some blood on it. It seemed odd.

You tell the cops?

Yeah, they said it didn’t sound suspicious, it being a white suit and all.

Which way did he go?


The big guy with the beard and the blood-stained suit.

Into the desert. He drove off down 144.

I thanked him and headed West.

PEOPLE OF LANKVILLE: “I Work at the Self-Service Island”

April 17, 2017 Leave a comment

Keith Baby hard at work.

LDN: What is your name and where do you work?
KB: My name is Keith Baby and I work at the self-service island down at the Diadem Station on Highway 71.
LDN: What do you do there?
KB: Oversee the self-service island, make sure people aren’t having any problems servicing themselves. If they are, then I step in.
LDN: When you step in, what happens? Describe a typical scenario.
KB: I explain the pump to them– how it inserts into the opening of the gas tank.
LDN: Do you ever insert it yourself?
KB: Sometimes. If the person is really incapable. Sometimes people are incapable.
LDN: So, then you have to jam it in there and let it fly?
KB: Yep.
LDN: Do you ever pull it out and then go back in?
KB: Nope. I usually fill it up on the first try. That is, if they want it.
LDN: Sometimes they don’t want it?
KB: Sometimes they just need a certain amount, you know.

Keith can make change.

LDN: What if nobody comes into the station?
KB: Well, then I can sweep up, tidy up the place. We get a lot of vomit in the grass. Got to keep an eye out for that stuff.
LDN: When you get home, what do you do?
KB: I got a little place above a bakery. It’s alright. I was dating this lace-curtain paddy for awhile and she fixed it up OK.
LDN: Do you read magazines?
KB: A little.
LDN: How long do you think you’ll live?
KB: I hope to live to a hundred, you know.
LDN: You won’t.
KB: Well nobody knows, right?
LDN: Trust me. You won’t.

People of Lankville will continue in future issues.

Gump Penetrates

April 17, 2017 Leave a comment

By Gump Tibbs

It’s time for another penetrating interview with Gump Tibbs. Today, Gump interviews police chief and Bureau of Probes Director Houston Gee-Temple.

GT: Did you see that…cake…that they had for the President?
HGT: What?
GT: Let’s move on.
HGT: Alright.

Gump nods off briefly.

HGT: Are we moving on?

Detective Gee-Temple

GT: Of course! What a delight!
HGT: Did you have any other questions?
GT: I didn’t…I didn’t…hit that guy.
HGT: What guy?
GT: Let’s move on.
HGT: Alright.
GT: I don’t know…
HGT: What?

Gump collapsed into a corner and the interview was ended prematurely.

Diary of a Female Bowling Champion by Whitney Balboni

April 11, 2017 Leave a comment

Whitney Balboni (center) with two of her lovely bowling girlfriends.

I’ll never forget the Bowladrome in the Lankville Area Marshlands. That’s where Daddy first took me bowling. I think I was three years old.

Back then, everything was blue with red trashcans at the end of each lane. I’ll never forget those trash cans. People used to throw chipped bowling bowls in them. It was impossible for the attendants to remove the bag. The ball would break right through and roll away, littering the blue carpet with other garbage. I remember Cliff, the manager. He was a little blue, himself. He said, “there just ain’t no trash bag strong enough to handle a 12-pound bowling ball. Wish there was.” I bet Cliff could have used one of those big contractor’s bags that they sell at the Home Tyrant now. But this was back before they had places like the Home Tyrant or the Home Dump or Barlow’s.

Anyway, back then I was in the Lankville Young Female Bowling Association (LYFBA) and I was champion by age 5. Daddy showed me how to put a lot of reverse English on the ball and people couldn’t believe it. Cliff said, “look at that wicked little girl. Kee-rist, she’ll be a champion one day” and then he would go back to spraying the shoes.

One time, Cliff said to Daddy, “I’d like to make little Whitney the mascot here at the Bowladrome. We can put her picture up on the god damn sign.” But Daddy was pretty sly. He asked for a hundred thousand dollars. Cliff threw up all over Daddy then, I’ll never forget it. When he recovered, he said, “don’t come back here. Don’t never come back here. And give me back all those damn award patches we doled out like they was god damn candy. I’m revoking all them.”

Daddy quietly said, “Whitney earned them patches” and we walked out into the parking lot. There was a little store at the end of the strip mall and Daddy said, “let’s get a loaf of bread.” So we did.

The Bowladrome

And that was the end of our time at the Bowladrome.

We started going across the Area Marshlands to the Rose Bowl. It was run by an ex-boxer named Mr. Farmer.

“Mr. Farmer will be better for your career,” my Daddy said. “You now need to enter a higher phase of learning. Bowling will be your life now. There is no need for any further education.”

And so Daddy pulled me out of school and we spent everyday– 9 hours a day, at the Rose Bowl.

It paid off. Even though I couldn’t barely read, I was Junior Champion by age 8. By age 10, I was beating 20 year-olds. By age 12, I was beating 30 year-olds. And only one year after that, I beat a guy who was 54. I had a perfect game that day, my first. I was the Marshland Champion.

“It’s time to travel east into the capital,” Daddy said. “It’s time for the Wheat Triangle Lane Tournament. But let’s get a loaf of bread first.”

Daddy left the car running while he went into the little store. I played the radio for awhile but Daddy didn’t come out. Then, a fat man in an apron came out. He looked around for a while and then he saw me. He came over.

“Is that your Dad that came in for the bread?” he asked.


He sighed deeply.

“I hate to be the one to tell you this but I’m afraid that his arm got caught on the sharp corner of the bread shelf. His arm got torn off completely. Before I noticed, he bled to death.”

I was going to cry but I remembered what Daddy said. “There’s no crying in bowling”. So I showed the man my patch celebrating my first 300 game.

He looked at the sky. “Bowling is a sort of scourge here in the Marshlands,” he said. “That’s why your Daddy got his arm ripped off. Nature was balancing the scale.”

He reached into his pocket and gave me $5. I never knew why.

Diary of a Bowling Champion will continue in future issues.

Samways and Fick: Upcoming Training and Events

April 7, 2017 Leave a comment



Dr. Fick

This program is designed for Consulting and coaching professionals to become certified to deliver Fickways Thinking™ processes and apply our most advanced tools including the Fickways Ambrosial Assessment™ (FAA). This course blends our Foundations in FAA™ and Advanced Applications in FAA Courses™, and has absolutely no pre-requisites– anybody from the highest levels of senior management to some sweaty, illiterate, godforsaken, whoremongering buffoon can join! (not recommended– the part about the whoremongering buffoon).

In today’s world of increasing interdependency, complexity and robots, it is vital to utilize problem solving AND thinking to address all of your most strategic challenges and opportunities. Samways and Fick research is clear – leaders, teams and organizations that leverage Fickways outperform those that don’t. Discover how to eliminate paradox, tension, dilemma, and confusion to become more innovative, lithesome, profitable and hard immediately and over time.


3 Day Intensive Workshop with Chairs

Dr. Samways

Two 2-hour Facilitated Webinars (faciliators include Dr. Samways, Dr. Fick and a couple of bangin’ MILFS).

4 hours 1-1 Intensive Coaching and Mentoring in the Fickways Process™.

FUN cooperative exercise in which participants work together to bury something out of Dr. Samways’ van in the desert.

44 Page Consultant Guidebook (other pages extra)

1 Month Consultant Access to the Fickways Resource Portal™ (offer does not include access to the “mature section”.)

Certification & Licensing in Fickways™ Foundations and Advanced Applications

Step 1: Seeing – Appreciate undefined challenges and mysterious opportunities and see more of the whole reality.

Step 2: Moderation – Seeing the whole reality should not be forced but should be slid into smoothly and wetly.

Step 3: Assessing – Utilize the Fickways Ambrosial Assessment™ to gather quantitative metrics from key stakeholders (if there are no stakeholders, read step 2 again and then consider another, perhaps lesser consulting firm.

Step 4: Learning – Decide upon the meaning to be garnered from Assessment results, gain insight into your current strengths and vulnerabilities. Remember– one does wisely by taking the bear by the ring in his snout. Did you like that?

Step 5: Leveraging – Develop and execute interesting strategies to achieve and sustain desired results.


Samways and Fick: Helping You Reach the Area Near the Top of Your Mountain.


April 5, 2017 Leave a comment

By Cathy Tuffley

LDN: What is your name and where do you work?

CT: My name is Cathy Teffley and I work for the Agape Foundation.

LDN: What’s that?

CT: It’s a company that builds refreshment stands.

LDN: Do you build the refreshment stands?

CT(laughing): Of course not! I’m just a woman.

LDN: What do you do there?

CT: Answer the phones, operate the carpet sweeper, put out fruit.

LDN: Are you satisfied?

CT: Do you mean…in that way?

LDN: No, with your job.

CT: Very. I’m very satisfied. Mr. Agape is a sweetheart and he always gives the girls a real bonus during the holidays!

LDN: You mean…in that way?

CT: No, a check.

LDN: Married?

CT: Nah. I mean, sort of. I don’t know where he is. I think he went abroad. He said something about some island revolution.

LDN: Children?

CT: Just Glenn. He’s 6.

LDN: What’s he all about?

CT: He’s gay.

LDN: Is there anything else you would like to add?

CT: Hi Glenn!

Teffley began giggling and the interview was ended prematurely.

Reporter Tibbs Arrested in Tree

April 5, 2017 Leave a comment

By Bernie Keebler


Lankville Daily News penetrating reporter Gump Tibbs was arrested this morning in the Western Outlands, sources are confirming.

Tibbs, who was visibly intoxicated and registered a blood alcohol level of 0.36%, is currently in custody.

Local fire departments participated in the rescue. It is unclear how the reporter became stuck in the tree.

Gump Tibbs

“Mr. Tobbs [sic] was very hostile during the rescue and subsequent arrest,” noted Detective Houston Gee-Temple, who was the first to arrive at the scene. “He had a bunch of firecrackers and he was lighting them and throwing them down at us while muttering some nonsense about the cup of abominations being nigh full.”

“It was a strange scene,” noted Gee-Temple after an eerie silence.

Police had been on the lookout for Tibbs, who is currently wanted on public drunkenness, crass public urination and destruction of property charges.

“My Papa is innocent of all the charges,” noted Tibbs’ son Shane Meyer Tibbs, who, for reasons unclear, was standing by his father’s side with a carafe of hot water. “He is a beautiful, beautiful man. A delight.”

The Lankville Daily News has not issued a statement and no further information was available at press time.

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