Archive
Fuck it, I’ll Rob a Grave
By Fingers Rolly
Man on the Street
File photo
If you think I’m beyond robbing a grave, then you’ve got another god damn thing coming.
I could drive one of those brick shithouse excavators right into the cemetery and have that motherlover up in about ten minutes. If you think I’m shittin’ you then we can go out there right now. I’m no bullshit artist. Never have been.
But then that asshole desert comes around again and I scream and I scream and I scream.
The Pondicherry Association News would like to apologize for Mr. Rolly’s article. He was given an assignment on colorful hockey masks.
Royer’s Madcap Experiences: The Graveyard Shoot-Out
By Ric Royer
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For weeks, I had been receiving mysterious unsigned letters demanding exorbitant sums of money. I paid no attention to them and continued eating daily at the mall food court. Finally, however, the writer indicated that unless $10,000 were left in a lonely graveyard on a certain night, I would be murdered. That’s when I did it.
I notified the L-Men.
The L-Men instructed me to do as directed, using a fake package (diapers) as a decoy. I was then to conceal myself behind one of the gravestones.
That night, I dressed in an oversized white suit and a pink hat. I made my way slowly to the desolate cemetery, pausing once to purchase an enormous economy pack of paper towels for no reason whatsoever. Upon my arrival, I placed the decoy (diapers) by a stone that rested eerily upon a fog-enshrouded hill. Then, I waited.
Shortly before midnight a car approached and stopped near the gates. A sinister figure emerged from within and disappeared among the shadows of trees and shrubbery. Suddenly the silence was broken by the booming voice of one of the hidden L-Men. “STOP IT! C’MON!” he shouted. It was not commanding. The figure continued its course towards the decoy. Then: “C’MON. JUST…STOP.”
The answer to this limp challenge was a barrage of shots from an automatic pistol followed by the crash of the L-Man’s service Colt. Then silence again.
Considerable time seemed to pass. They had taken the decoy, that was no doubt. I followed the crushed, wet grass until I discovered the L-Men. They were all dead.
“This is just ridiculous,” I said aloud. The sun was coming up over the horizon. I could see that the car was gone.
I made my way home. Another letter was waiting for me.
Royer’s Madcap Experiences: The Mysterious Visitor
By Ric Royer
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The vast auditorium was gloomy and tenebrous with the exception of a faint bluish light aimed at the stage. The mysterious visitor walked into it.
I was the only one in the audience. He looked right at me.
“Do you like puppets?” he asked.
“Yes,” I responded, quietly.
“Do you like magic?” he followed up quickly.
“Yes,” I said, even fainter this time.
There was a pause. Then:
“Do you like balloons?”
“Yes.” I knew he could hear my response but it was practically soundless. He walked offstage. The lights went up slightly. The pageant was clearly over.
Musings of a Decorative Ham Man
By Chris Vitiello
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A group of men in yellow jumpsuits came to install the pneumatic ham tubes.
“We require an efficient way to be able to transport hams to the basement quickly,” I had said. The salesman eyed me suspiciously. “I don’t think the air current could be generated…for something of that weight…the engineering is not available…” He paused when I produced the whip. “Make it happen, Mr. Woppy (for that was the man’s idiotic name). Make it happen.”
He left the room quickly with his sad little tweed case.
They found a manufacturer in the islands; someone unfettered by the taint of regulation. The tubes were delivered via a fleet of tractor trailers. I got Woppy out of bed at 3 A.M.
“The tubes have arrived,” I commented sternly. “When will you?”
“Jesus Christ. In the morning. We’ll be there in the morning.”
“I’ll be closely monitoring your arrival.” I hung up and returned to a long film that featured some spacemen firing lasers at dinosaurs. It was mere background.
I stayed close by during the installation. Woppy was clearly hungover; for that, he deserved a whipping but I abstained throughout the morning. Around noon, he made an inappropriate comment as a female secretary passed by.
“Jeezus, wouldn’t mind gettin’ my noodle wet in that sauce.”
I asked him to come outside. He followed me to a small yard with a high fence and it was here that I whipped him mercilessly. I sent him home in a cab.
Near dusk, I dropped the first ham into the tube. I could feel the air suck it briskly downwards through the floor. Then, I called downstairs.
“Never arrived boss,” they said.
“Are you lying?” Are you a liar? Are you creating illusions?” I asked.
“No sir,” they said, seemingly perplexed. “We heard a loud bumping noise and then nothing arrived.”
I quietly hung up. It had not worked. It was inefficient. I tore the tube out myself. It took all night.
It is 3 A.M. I am staring up at the darkened second-floor windows of Woppy’s house. Light tuba music is playing on the radio.
I know not yet what I will do.
Royer’s Madcap Experiences: Beyond Human Ken
By Ric Royer
File photo
“I’m contemplating an expedition to the South Lankville Pole,” I said. “I need a man like you along.”
I stared across the desk at Turps. He blew a gigantic cloud of cigarette smoke at me. The late afternoon sun made its way in thin shafts through the blinds. I could hear the sounds of a beheading faintly in the distance and the murmur of automobile traffic. There was a quality of lethargy in the air.
“You may have the Pole in your loins,” Turps finally commented, “but your loins are not in the Pole.” He blew another gigantic smoke cloud my way.
“I aim to undertake this, with or without you. You are well aware that I have mastered technique forty-four just as the Handbook says.” I slammed a piece of paper down on the desk and turned away. He stood up.
“Let’s go get the physicals.” I knew I had him then.
Two hours later, a small man in a white lab coat was delicately fingering my testicles. “Your gonads will need to be taped,” he kept saying. I had no idea what he meant. He stood up and began making notes on a clipboard as I hoisted my trousers. “No, no,” he admonished. “I need to paw at your testicles a little more.” The process lasted hours. When I emerged from the examining room, Turps was waiting for me. He looked annoyed.
“What the hell took so long? My physical lasted fifteen minutes”.
We walked outside. A gray jeep whipped around a corner, slammed on its brakes and skidded to a stop before us. “This is Carthill,” noted Turps. “He’ll drive us to get hot dogs and then to the boats.”
We stopped at a nearby stand.
“Going to the Pole, huh?” said Carthill. He was a good-looking blonde kid with a square jaw.
“What do you know about it?” I threatened.
“I know that there have only been two tries at it,” he responded, his mouth full of half-masticated hog. “The first was in eighteen forty-something. An utter failure.”
“That was the Little Anton Expedition,” Turps noted.
“Right, Little Anton. What, nine-thousand dead, something like that?”
“I believe the count was 39,” Turps corrected.
“Yeah, right. They never did find the ship. Then they tried it again in the twenties with that islander explorer, what was it, Batts?”
“No, his name was Himmelthorn,” said Turps.
“Right,” said the kid. He paused to throw up crisply into a box of little lamps. “Himmelthorn got stuck in the ice about twenty miles offshore. Never did even see land. Not that there’s much land to see. Nothing but fucking ice. Himmelthorn, a-number one fuckhead if you ask me.”
“Yeah, well, no one’s asking you”. Turps had to hold me back. The kid had a smirk that I wanted to smack off his face or perhaps crease with an ax. “Easy boy,” Turps added.
An hour later we were on our way to what I thought would be the South Pole. But really, it was a long, long journey to a place beyond human ken.
To be continued.
Woman in a Man’s Game
By Robin Brox
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He was a little man with round glasses and a piebald head and he emerged awkwardly from beneath the surf, his skin a delicious malachite hue that belied his otherwise grotesque appearance. I watched him towel off and stared hard at the center of his taut short pants where I could sense an ethereal bulge that I knew would whisk any woman away to a place where no eternity existed and where there would be only an endless corkscrew pounding like some ancient, mythical rotary tool lost to mankind.
I followed him up to the hotels. He ducked along a fading side street and the air suddenly became rarefied and then stale with a deep and resolute masculine musk. I collapsed briefly against a pushcart popcorn vendor and then into some small garden fencing that surrounded a weedy, unkempt little lawn. I remained there, up on one hip, staring across at the piebald man as he entered a dilapidated flophouse known as “The Emerald Inn”.
Minutes later, I entered the lobby. It was adorned in unfashionable browns and purples and manned by a frowzy, corpulent islander. I walked up to his little counter kingdom and, by means of cutting off the light with my quaking body, isolated him from all warmth and love.
“Tell me where the piebald man is staying. The room number.” He produced his sad little sign-in tablet from beneath an accumulation of phone books. Freezing now, he pointed to a name. I allowed light, then.
I climbed the carpeted staircase to the second floor. Someone was grunting loudly in short, agonizing rhythmic spurts. I kicked open the offender’s door. He was a bulging, overly-muscled man doing squat thrusts. He failed to notice me. I continued down the hall.
I tapped on 121. Where there had been the light sound of movement within, I now heard nothing but a ghostly sibilance. Then, the sound of a supernal wind. He was gone.
He had left the taut short swim trunks, wet and sandy, on the unmade bed and a greeting card depicting a cartoon turkey. “HAPPY THANKSGIVING” it said inside, though it was July. He had left it unsigned.
I have not been back to the beach since.
Doctor Pennies on Travel, Special Tactics
By Doctor Pennies
Special Correspondent
File photo
I always pack lightly and utilize a suitcase that no one will remember. I change suitcases often. I have driven out to the desert and burned many a suitcase.
Upon occasion, special tactics are required. I have traversed many a rooftop in pitch black darkness.
Thanks.
Woman in a Man’s Game
By Robin Brox
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Ivan was my first love. He had strange, tremendous tufts of blonde hair and a glove compartment filled with napkins. You would have never thought it possible to shove so many napkins into a glove compartment.
We drove down to the paper factory. “It’s burned to the ground,” he said. “There’s nothing to see, really.” He opened the glove compartment, removed a single napkin and tossed it out the window. “Hand me those tapes,” he said. They were neatly arranged in a brown leather case. We listened to some bullshit– he had terrible taste in music, one of his few faults.
We walked among the charred remains. A train went by and disappeared into a tunnel. “You know what that means?” he asked. At the time, I didn’t. He let it go and walked over to the car and took out another napkin before I could respond. He folded it carefully and threw it up in the air. It landed at his feet. “Gravity, that shit!” he exclaimed.
He rented a hotel that night under the name “Mr. and Mrs. Karl Koupons”. Paid cash. It was a double bed with a yellow comforter and a large painting of a dog above an old television set. “Why don’t you see what’s on?” he said. “I’m going back to the car”. I knew it was to get another damn napkin. It never ended.
The set sputtered and then flashed on. A series of spaceship rockets were being launched into a bay. You could hear a voice over a radio– “The spaceship rockets just fell into the bay. Mission aborted.” Then, the show ended. There was a long pause and then a commercial came on for soap flakes.
I put on some pink shorts. Ivan came back in with his head down. He looked terribly guilty of something.
“What? What is it?”
“Nothing,” he said. “Nothing. Just, those napkins make me so nervous”.
I kissed him. He ran his tongue along my front teeth. The sensation was odd.
“I…I’m sorry, I’ll be…just a minute.” He left. Those fucking napkins again.
I slept alone.
Royer’s Madcap Experiences: The Ardth Hordes and the Tongueless Horror
By Ric Royer
File photo
Time was passing quickly when I selected my donkey. The sky, where it had been crimson only moments ago, had turned a dull slate grey and was moving quickly. Momentarily, I stared at the perplexing mountains beyond. There was something derelict about them.
It became suddenly yellow. “What’s that donkey? Why?” I asked, pointing into the hay-strewn mud shed. The native, an ancient figure, began to count out currency.
“Are you going to sell me that donkey? And what about the swords?” But it was useless. The figure continued his deliberate counting. I ambled over to a machine that dispensed hats.
I came back.
“What about the donkey and the swords?” He pointed to a barrel, covered in muslin. It became slate grey again. I selected two swords. One had a delicately-engraved scabbard.
“Give me a little booklet on the Ardth Hordes. Throw that in there. Put it on the counter, old man.” I was becoming pushy– it was impossible to tell whether night was coming. I eyed again the monstrous, grotesque mountains.
He had interest only in the coins. He took two sacks and immediately drained them.
The donkey was led out by a small boy.
That’s when I lit out for the Ardth Hordes and came upon the tongueless horror.
How to Make Hockey Better for Puppets: By a 1960’s Space Puppet
By A 1960’s Space Puppet
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It has often been opined (by puppets) that hockey can be a difficult game to follow, particularly on television. This is a problem that has plagued the Pondicherry Association (and puppets) for years.
Several space puppets, including myself, have come together to offer a solution.
We have constructed a constantly moving, glowing small orb that will be placed in a transparent puck. The glowing orb will occasionally emit flashing rays that will be visible from anywhere in the arena. These rays will, in turn, hook up with transmitters in the rafters and will emit a further, even more powerful ray. We have placed the timing for this emission at once every three seconds during game play.
We will introduce the concept to fans (including puppets) so that they might be prepared for the flashing radiance. We are experimenting with the idea of having different colored rays according to the period of play but at the moment, this is merely conceptual. We have also toyed with the idea of having players wear transmitters so that the rays might issue forth from the puck and carom off their jerseys, then finding their way upwards towards the ceiling transmitters. Again, this is currently in the conceptual stage.
Nevertheless, it is our intent to make hockey better for puppets.
Doctor Pennies on the Humanoid Pig-Like Creatures that Live in the Depths of a Great Chasm Beneath His House
By Doctor Pennies
Special Correspondent
File photo
I became trapped there during a flood. I had to kill hundreds.
After some time, I became transported to a further pit noted by its extraordinary periods of silence followed by eldtrich, sibilant bird calls. The pit changed into a vast sandy plain surrounded by mountains. For a time, there was peace.
Then the humanoid pig-like creatures returned. It was a dire struggle but I killed them and repelled them.
I returned to my bedroom but I have not slept.
Musings of a Decorative Ham Man
By Chris Vitiello
File photo
In his later years, my father rarely left his second-story rooms above the antique store. Most of his time was spent composing simplistic paintings of bears while crying. I would often catch him at this– on his little stool, bereft of upholstery, his back quaking with emotion as he executed a childish bear face in cheap oils. Finished, he would tape the painting awkwardly to his walls (while still sobbing) where it would remain for years– growing dusty and edge curled, faded by the sunlight.
I would bring him a brown sack of groceries– fish, beans, rice and the like– staples that he himself had forgotten. Upon the occasion of my next visit, most of the sack would be where I had placed it, untouched. And I would wander through the rooms until I came upon him again in some distant corner, crying while painting a happy bear face. I would often leave without a hint of acknowledgement.
Finally, I enlisted the services of a man called “Castles”, a local psychiatrist. Castles and I made a slow tour of the rooms until we came upon the old man, as usual, bawling while painting. Castles observed him for some time– through the entire process and completion of yet another happy bear portrait.
“Well?” I asked. The old man paid us no mind. He continued to wail helplessly.
“I think it’s alright,” said Castles. “Yeah, there’s nothing really the matter here.”
“Is that so?” I questioned. I would whip him. There could be no doubt of that.
And later, as I walked Castles back to his car, we came upon an old alley, paved in ancient, uneven stones. With my shoulder, I guided Castles into the dark lane and proceeded to flog him mercilessly.
I received no bill.
Woman in a Man’s Game
By Robin Brox
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He took me out to the racetrack. It was desolate, not a car in the unpaved, dirt parking lot. It had rained so there were puddles everywhere. Puddles and potholes, filled with brown water and the effluvia of filthy, degenerate mankind.
The sky was slate grey.
He launched the airplane. It made a queer buzzing noise, then ascended out of sight.
“Imagine my pride at this,” he noted. I hated his winter jacket– it was too damn puffy. A man gets too puffy and he looks like a total asshole.
“Did you hear how it took off towards the heavens with a great WHOOSH?” he added. That was enough.
“No, don’t go yet, don’t go,” he pleaded. “You have to see this.”
In the grey distance, I could see something red appear from the bottom of the plane.
“It’s the recovery chute!” he exclaimed joyously. “It will float gently back to earth. Another sensational flight!”
The plane disappeared with a final ejaculatory buzz. We walked back to the car. I dumped him a couple of days later.
They Have Made Me the First Human Being Able to Communicate from the Beyond
By Paul Bearer
Former Lankville Wrestling Manager (Deceased)
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Mankind has speculated for years about the ability of the deceased to speak to the living. There have been a lot of theories but I need you to understand that these speculations have all ended at the chalk line of reality. Until now.
When I died, I found myself transported to a room with a lot of long tables. They said, “Sit down, sit down at one of those tables.” So I did. And I sat for awhile.
But then, I was called forward to an office. And the guy said, “Paul, we’ve decided to make you the first human being able to communicate with the living. You’ll have a little column with The Pondicherry Association News. Write what you want, we don’t really care. Just so’s people know that you’re dead and, yet, you’re still writing things.”
Then they sent me back to the long white tables with a pad of paper, a little box of pens and a pneumatic tube device. “When you’re done with your column,” said an administrator who wandered by at one point, “just put it in the tube and send it on down. Works just like those tubes at the bank back on earth.”
I looked up at him (I still had my makeup on and everything– I tried to wash it off but nothing happened) and said, “I never used those bank tubes. I always went inside.”
The administrator just stared at me and moved his shoulders up once quickly. “So what? What do I care? Tell them down there about it. Not me.”
I struggled with the column for a couple of days. What do you say to the people of earth when you’re dead? So, I went back to the office.
“I don’t know what to write,” I confessed. “Should I be all spooky and eerie?”
“Do what you want but it need not be dramatic,” said the man in the office. He was dressed in white, thick robes. “I’d just write about everyday stuff. Sitting at the long tables, whatever. Just as long as everybody down there understand that you’re writing stuff to them but you’re dead at the same time.”
“OK.” The makeup was really starting to bother me now but it wouldn’t come off. I was also really hot. It’s about 90 degrees here.
“Can I have one of those robes?” I asked, as I was leaving.
He looked up. “No way we have your size. Leave the suit on.”
So, anyway, here’s my first column. Just want to stress again:
I am dead.
Paul Bearer’s column will continue in future issues.
Musings of a Decorative Ham Man
By Chris Vitiello
File photo
I sat in the white room. A guy came out holding a clipboard.
“A terrible battle to the death ensues between two ferocious dinosaurs,” he read. He was wearing a red tie. I had a fervent desire to whip him.
He went back in.
Then he came out again.
“The oversized gila monster will menace a small group of experienced fighters.”
“GIVE US SOMETHING TO WORK WITH!” shouted a nearby old codger. But the man just went back in again.
Then he came out.
“The stampeding dinosaurs will flee the erupting volcano.”
“I want to die,” moaned the old codger.
The man never came out again. I was never seen. I fashioned a sling out of a bedsheet and healed on my own.
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