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Longest-Running Home Improvement Project in Lankville to Continue
Jackie Sheds, Jr.
LANKVILLE ACTION NEWS: YES!
It began with an innocent beige-and-urine colored tarp, which concealed the “coming attraction” of a refurbishing project that has become the talk of this sedate neighborhood in Lower Lankville Heights. When Francine Tippit-toes (great aunt to Janice Tippitt-Toes, millennial entrepreneur with big plans for the Lanqueduct) hired Mutter and Sons to redo her front porch, she had no idea she was actually bankrolling a summer “hit” that’s been running for three months now, with no end in sight.
“What’s going on under there?”
Mutter and Sons – operated by Karl Mutter with his two sons, J.B. “Jellybean” Mutter and Augustus “Auggie” Mutter – left the tarp up for a solid month before commencing work on the porch. This, they later revealed, was a tactic aimed at building anticipation and tension in neighbors and passers-by.
“What’s going on under there?” mused Mutter Sr., casting himself in the role of a curious onlooker. “You don’t know, but you want to know. It’s all part of our plan.” Indeed, next-door neighbor Glen Rumpus (brother-in-law of Genevieve Rumpus, but no relation to the Ida Rumpus who writes for this paper) made it his business to peek under the tarp on several occasions.
Finally the Mutters unveiled their work-in-progress. They quickly tore down the facade of the porch, using chain saws to dispense with the shrubbery out front that could only obstruct a clear view of their performance. Settling into their “one day on, three days off” routine – which became as familiar to home improvement aficionados as the intermittent Lankville postal delivery schedule – they put the porch through several stages of deconstruction that at first baffled area residents.
All the world’s…
All the world’s…
Auggie Mutter explained that their slow, careful process reflects the stages of man’s development, from a mere negative particle drifting in deepest space, to what the Mutters call “the First Notion” (represented by a seemingly chaotic scattering of dirt, rocks, and equipment), to conception, birth, puberty, aging, and death. Often, everyone is so moved by the process that they repeat it several times on the same project.
Dr. Kevin Thurston, Expert on Men’s Feelings, noted that the gestalt produced by the Mutters’ work resembles that of more primitive, but often effective, therapeutic strategies, such as Scream Technique or Intensive Hugging. He can often be found on the site during work hours, selling personalized folding knives and tickets to an upcoming event at Casa Montecristo.
While the Mutters recently installed a new porch surface and support columns, their “audience” hopes the show doesn’t end anytime soon. Glen Rumpus said he finds the work soothing, especially given that it usually occupies no more than an hour or two of every fourth day when the crew arrives with their truck and tools. Watching from his own front porch, he’s entertained by the sounds of grunting, sanding, sawing, and singing (J.B. is an accomplished interpreter of sea shanties) – not to mention titillated, amused, and informed by the Mutters’ witty repartee.
“the first notion”
“There’s a presidential election coming up in Lankville, in case you hadn’t noticed,” said Rumpus. “When Karl and Auggie get to talking about the differences in policy platforms between some of the candidates, or unraveling the corruption of the Pondicherry regime, well, I have to sit up and listen. Honestly, I don’t know how I’ll make an informed voting decision without them.”
Thankfully, the Mutters confirmed that they plan to extend their run well into fall. “Gosh, there’s a good two months of home-improvement weather left,” said Mutter Sr. “This is a prime location, and we’re excited to take advantage of it as long as we possibly can.”
Funny Stories by Dick Oakes, Jr.
Dick Oakes, Jr.
Dr. Yothers peeled off the gauze bandages. I let out a muffled cry. Then the air hit my legs and I let out another.
“Chrissakes, I’ve tried everything, Doc. Gone near to broke with these creams and lotions from the god damn pharmacies.”
He poked the weeping sores with a tongue depressor. He leaned back in his little swivel chair and thought about it. Then, he leaned too far and fell flat on his ass. The chair went scuttling off into some dark corner of the filthy office. Who knew what the hell to make of it?
“Mr. Oakes, the pharmacies– they deal in mere parent medicines. They are the snake charmers of the modern era.” He giggled strangely.
“You mean patent medicines, Doc?”
“No matter.”
He was a squat shithouse of a man in a worn white lab coat. There were bleach discolorations all over the damn thing. But he moved nimbly.
He tore an entire drawer straight out of the battered desk. It was full of pills.
“The mind is set at ease Mr. Oates on the fate of humanity when one contemplates the great work of the pharmaceutical companies of Lankville.” He giggled again strangely. “Just think of the selfless research that went into the creation of all these marvelous concoctions.” He ran his hand over the pills. I stared down at the myriad of colors. Many weren’t even in bottles. I couldn’t figure on any of it.
“You got anything in there that’ll clear this up, Doc?”
“Oh, there MUST be,” he said. But he continued to hold the drawer in his lap, staring mindlessly out of the long-uncleaned picture window. You could see the tops of the skyscrapers far in the distance.
I picked up a bottle. Some long senseless brand name. The expiration date was November of 1998. I read the patient name– Herm Mount-Vince.
“Oh, he died,” Yothers said. “There used to be a file on him but I believe it was swept away. We have these foreign people that come in and clean up.”
I looked around. There were ancient sauce spots on the linoleum floor. There was an area in the corner where it looked like a cat had thrown up.
“Yeah, when the hell was that, Doc? November of 1998?”
He giggled.
“Anyway, Mr. Oakes. These are what they call “antibiotics”. I prefer another term but that’s another story. I would try these for two weeks. The sores will clear up and you will find that you have clear, rubbery skin again. It will be good for you. And for me.”
He handed over the bottle. There was no label at all on this one. The pills were green.
“Do you have twenty dollars?” he asked suddenly.
It had been awhile since I looked in my wallet. I decided to bluff.
“I’ll pay you next time, Doc. Let’s see if this horse medicine works first.”
“Fair enough.” He giggled. “I wonder what became of my little swivel chair. Do you remember?”
I stared at him a moment. “Over there, Doc. Remember? You fell clean off it.”
“Of course.” He smiled mildly. “What an affair this has been.” He giggled again.
I got the hell out of there.
Cheese Falls on Royer
Elliott Cumber-Lanny
LANKVILLE ACTION NEWS: YES!
Some nacho cheese fell on Lankville business magnate Ric Royer last night.
Royer’s condition is unknown.
“What we had here was a situation where some cheese fell on [Royer],” noted Detective Gee-Temple, who was the first to arrive on the scene. “The How’s, What’s, Why’s, they are unknown to us at this time.”
Some crickets chirped loudly. It grew darker.
“There could be a time in the near-future when we will be able to update you further,” Gee-Temple added.
A curious beam of light briefly illuminated the detective’s darkened office, then vanished.
Can you give us an idea if the cheese was hot?
Royer with the cheese on his head.
It was an aberrant, high-pitched voice– unknown, unseen. Its preternatural quality was clearly a monstrosity. And yet, it refused to come forth from whatever abominable realm from which it spoke.
“We do not know that. How could we?” Gee-Temple answered. But this was no longer his dominion. He possessed no earthly right to converse within this nightmarish dimension.
Someone stepped forward. He was a reporter, yes– we recognized him and, yet, we did not.
“Eons ago, unimaginable eons ago,” he began, “when only the waters existed. And from this foul, hateful slime there came a race of beings which dwelt in the sunken abysses of the oceans, inhuman creatures bound to the worship of inhuman Gods. When the great continent arose and the islands arose, then these revolting creatures sunk deeper into the lowest depths. They hate man, for they feel that man has usurped their kingdom. Their power will eventually embrace all the continent, all the islands. They will achieve their desire.”
“Who are you?” demanded Gee-Temple.
The reporter laughed. “I work for another paper. I’ll see you guys later.”
After he left, it grew darker. “I’m going to put a tail on that guy,” Gee-Temple said, after a long period had passed.
We set out into that darkness.
We have wandered all night.
Famed “Pizza Disturbance” Closes After 61 Years
Buck Igloos
LANKVILLE ACTION NEWS: YES!
The “Pizza Disturbance”, a famed Eastern Pines restaurant, has closed after 61 years.
“We were a beacon for pizza enthusiasts,” noted manager Crease Sandborn, who inherited the business from his father. “But now that run is over. It’s time to prepare. To prepare for death.”
Calls to the old phone number went directly to a recording thanking its loyal customers and also admitting to several murders.
The property, which featured a carry-out window, a sit-down bar, and balloons, has been sold to Sensational Mons Entertainments, a developer and amusement park concern.
“I can confirm the purchase of the property that formerly housed The Pizza Disturbance,” said Sensational Mons representative Al Heffler. “But I have absolutely nothing further to add to your story. Eventually, a placard will be put up. But you’ll have to wait.”
The site of “The Pizza Disturbance” before Brian Schropp set it on fire.
Sandborn, now 82, is planning a move to the Islands.
“The Islands seems like a good place to die,” he stated.
A small gathering of pizza enthusiasts assembled at the location in the Eastern Pines Business District to mourn.
“I loved the Pizza Disturbance,” noted Lankville Daily News cuisine writer Brian Schropp. “Mr. Sandborn said that I was the goofiest-looking person he had ever seen before shoving slices at me on a grease-soaked paper plate. So, there was that old world charm that you don’t really get at the modern places.”
Schropp lit a candle in memory. The building immediately went up in flames.
“Oh…um…guys,” Schropp was heard to say before darting off into the woods.
Officials put out the fire shortly thereafter. The building was burned to the ground.
Calls to Sensational Mons Entertainments were not returned.
Musings of a Decorative Ham Man
By Chris Vitiello
It is important to be sure that a client will not behave idiotically in front of a decorative ham. Therefore, we have developed a short test.
A Vitiello Decorative Ham makes a great gift. Show that you care today.
The ham is placed in the client’s home, office or vehicle. One of the lesser men (generally the gasket fitter) will begin making lewd comments. I stand as judge of how the client responds to these comments. If he responds in a dignified manner, thus the ham remains. If he joins in the barbaric, lascivious discussion, then it is to be assumed that he will eventually turn into an idiot. Therefore, he cannot have the decorative ham. It is packed away and he will never be a client again. Upon occasion, he is whipped.
The Vitello Decorative Ham factory has been the scene of many a violent affray. I have organized some of these myself. You want the masses to believe that they are teetering on the edge of anarchy at all times. You want to be there for them with the offer of one, two, or a thousand decorative hams. The business of Lankville is business.
It is seldom that I am wrong.
Beware of Traveling Pizza Men! Brian Schropp on Cuisine
Brian Schropp on Cuisine
I have heard the tales of traveling pizza men most of my life but I honestly thought they were just the stuff of legend and folklore. Vagabonds and ne’er-do-wells traveling the roadways with their compact pizza stands setting up shop sometimes for a day or even just a few hours selling ‘wholesome pizza’ to an unsuspecting public. These con artists were out just to make a quick buck and nothing else. The ‘pizza pies’ were usually made with the lowest quality toppings available or ones that were stolen from actually pizza shops. Horror stories of people taking their pizzas home only to find that the ‘crust’ was made of simple cardboard or that the ‘sauce and cheese’ was really just red paste and shredded packing peanuts. By the time the police were called these evil fiends were already far down the road counting the real ‘dough’.
Most of these tales sprang up during two different times in Lankville history- the lean and hard depression years and the ‘pizza prohibition’ years. Both eras were so far in our past that many (including myself!!) took these men to be almost myth. Well, sadly I had to learn the hard way that this practice is very much alive.
A picture from the ‘pizza prohibition’ years. A very dark time in our history.
Of course all of this would happen when my manager Scott had stepped out to run a few errands one day last week. Our early afternoon rush had just ended and there was always a bit of lag time before the mid-afternoon rush would pick up. I was in the back showing my ‘cleaning team’ the finer points of some new scrubbing brushes when Big James (the kid in charge of the nacho cheese) came up to me.
“Huh– Bri, it looks like there is a-huh-group of guys outside—and huh—they’re setting up what looks like a pizza stand–singing and yellin’ and-huh-stuff like that. No one knows what to do cause Scott isn’t here.”
We were also between assistant managers yet again so I peeled off my yellow cleaning gloves and headed up front with Big James. We joined Charlie ‘The Nugget Guy’ by our storefront window who was keeping an eye on the whole thing. “Looks like traveling pizza men to me and they’re putting on quite a spectacle. Got a whole huge crowd gathering around them now. They know what they’re doing– setting up by the dialysis center. Those old folks don’t know if they’re coming or going.”
I pressed my face really close to the glass. “I can’t believe there is really such a thing as traveling pizza men!”
Charlie shook his head and gave his usual sarcastic snicker, a snicker born out of many hard years in the pizza trade. “You better believe it’s still a thing. Whenever times get tough you will see traveling pizza men trying to earn a quick buck. All I know is our mid-afternoon rush is going to start soon and if we do nothing about it these guys are going to take a big chunk of our profits.”
Big James took off his cap and scratched his head. “What should we do?”
Another snicker, this time a bit more nervous. “One of us is going to need to go out and tell these guys to move on.”
I pulled my face off the glass making a popping noise like a suction cup. “Maybe we should wait until Scott gets back.”
“He pretty much trusts us with the afternoon rushes so he might not be here until evening. Who knows what will happen by then.”
Neil Cuppy, a ‘sucker’ for pizza.
“You should go out Bri,” Big James added– quickly trying to get himself out of dealing with it.
“Yeah-yeah Scott likes you the best anyways. Plus I got a bummed knee and all so I really can’t.” Charlie was already holding the door open for me.
I knew arguing was going to delay the inevitable so I wiped my hands on my crusted pizza apron and headed out into the afternoon heat. The crowd was gaining in size as I made my way across the blacktop. They had indeed set up right by the front door of the dialysis center so not only were they getting the people coming in and out but everyone driving by had a nice clear view of the show. There were four of them all dressed like a “barbershop quartet”. They had the folks tickled and distracted, doing song and dance numbers while making the pizzas quickly out of their tiny tasty bake oven and the toppings put on from a makeshift table. They even wore ‘name tags’ with false names like ‘Johnny Pizzeria’ to look legit. As I pushed my way to the front I stopped for a moment to watch in awe and wonder at how fast these guys were moving. So fast that in fact I think people were not even sure what they were buying, the dog and pony show had them spellbound.
I was bumped by fellow Lankville reporter, Neil Cuppy who had just purchased one. He held the box up proudly “Say Bri, these fine folks are such a hoot! Can’t wait to sit in my car and try a slice.”
“Neil, I think they’re traveling pizza men and might be ripping you off.”
“Don’t be silly who would try to scam anyone on such a joyous thing as a pizza? You folks over at ‘The Round’ need not to be jealous, you know I will be back for my lunch there tomorrow.”
I turned my attention back to the traveling pizza men (the opinions of Neil Cuppy have always mattered little anyway). One of them had noticed my standard issued ‘Pizza-A-Round’ outfit. “Lookey here folks, a roly-poly lad from the local pizza establishment who must be tired of his own boring crust!!” He said this very loud and whimsical, making everyone laugh. “Please when buying our fine pies don’t let him in our secrets!!”
Three of them broke into a song (I have to admit– their harmonizing was spot on) while one in the corner shouted, “Get your pies- get your pizza pies!! Made fresh for only five dollars!!”
I made my way around the fast and furious exchange of cash to speak with the cashier. “Uhm, excuse me- excuse me sir–”
He tried to ignore me by talking his game louder. I tugged at his striped shirt sleeve- “Can I just have a word?”
The man turned to me, eyes blazing. He spoke very softly so no one else could hear. “WHAT, do you want?”
I am never good at confrontation. “Uhm, I know all about you guys. Not only are you taking business away from my workplace, you are also fooling these fine people. I think you guys should leave, believe me you don’t want to be around when my manager comes back.”
The Traveling Pizza Men, please beware!!
His eyes bore into me even further from behind his glasses. All I could see in them was a pure, dark soulless evil. Again he spoke very softly, “Listen chubby, we will be out of here soon enough.” He casually pulled a little bit of a thick pepperoni stick from his pocket just enough for only me to see. “Now you are going to slowly walk back across the parking lot, go in, and lock the door and wait for us to leave. You do not want to be on the receiving end of this pepperoni stick.”
What was I going to do?!! I know what Scott would of done– there would have been none of this talking business, just bloodshed, but I’m not Scott. Before I had time even to think about a solution, Neil Cuppy was back comically and awkwardly climbing over the crowd. “Sirs-sirs-you made some sort of mistake with my pizza! Instead of pepperoni there are these strange metal bits spray-painted orange. I chipped a tooth!” I heard one in the middle mutter to the other “Shit, they’re opening their pizzas too fast–”
The scene turned tense quickly– people who had just paid their five dollars threw open their own boxes to see what was inside. Shouts of all sorts of things were heard ‘confetti’, ‘plastic tubing’, and ‘razor wire’ were some of the more popular ones. A vicious slapping fight ensued with the traveling pizza men trying to pack up their stuff and the conned reaching over the table trying to grab their money back. The one with the glasses took out the pepperoni stick and things turned uglier. The crowd was in a full uproar but with many of them being older folks from the dialysis center they had a hard time fighting back physically.
The next thing that happened was purely my fault, I should of had my wits about me and been far away from this chaotic mess. But I was caught up in all the action and was standing there like a bump on a log with my mouth open.
I was clearly in the way of these men who were nearly packed up. The bespectacled cashier wasted none of his breath in giving me a firm whack over the head with that thick pepperoni stick so they could get away. I went down like a ton of sausage and cheese pizza brick rolls.
First there was black and then a light—and then, yes, the sweet chorus which I haven’t heard in so very long. I was having a bumpkin vision!!! We were somehow having a picnic in the middle of a giant tornado. Three bumpkins (one with a tail!!) had set out a large red and white checkered blanket with all sorts of food. Even though we were spinning in this whirlwind everything was peaceful and calm. Their destroyed trailer was circling around us in the background. All the plates had strange food items not yet invented but someday I would remember them and bring them to life; I vaguely recall pairings of meats and various cheese sauces for the most part.
Slowly, I heard my name being called from outside the tornado– at first a whisper and then becoming louder. When I was brought back I was still on the ground in the parking lot with Scott shaking me asking if I was OK. The police had sealed off the area and were taking statements from people (I even saw Neil Cuppy with an ice pack over his mouth). I learned from Detective Gee Temple that this particular group have been very active of late and probably the pepperoni stick was stolen from another nearby pizza place. Scott drove around after the cops were gone in hopes of getting a little bit of revenge. But these guys know how to make a swift getaway and I’m sure they were already in another suburban neighborhood.
So please dear readers be careful and use extra caution when you are out and about on our streets. Don’t be a Neil Cuppy and get swindled into a quick fix pizza– they are not always what they seem. Until next time please keep your minds and mouths open to new ideas. Happy Eating!!-Bri
OPINION: I’m Tony Pepperony and Yes I Fill Holes With Your Money
Mr. and Mrs. Tony Pepperony
IMPORTANT OPINIONS
This is a response to a recent prominent so-called “person-of-letters” who’s been leaving placards around Southern Left Lankville saying that “I’m just looking for someplace to put my hole in.”
Let’s get some things straight. Sure, I’m a businessman and I’m always looking for holes in the ground to dump my money in, especially when President Pondischerry [sic] is throwing the Casa Montecristo vouchers my way, but my enemies are always trying to smear me. People are always trying to get in my way of progress and it makes me sick enough to dig another hole in Southern Left Lankville and put some TP big bucks into it, but I won’t be deterred, and I won’t back down.
Lankville deserves better than these obstructionistas, mired in the status quo of dysfunction for so long and happy to watch our quality of life deteriorate, echelon by echelon. They don’t know down from up, or up from down back up again three ways from Tuesday.
About the Casa Montecristo vouchers, listen, the Casa Montecristo is as elegant of a reception hall as any in Lankville. When you order a tray of fetteroni, you know they’re gonna crisp it just right and they do it every time, because I’m Tony Pepperony, and they take care of the big guy.
The Montecristo had a problem a few years back, a hole opened up in the lot next door. It used to be drug store until the earth swallowed it. I filled that hole with sack after sack of money and steady supply of vouchers from Pondycherry [sic] redeemable next door at the Casa, and next thing you know the hole is filled and me and my groups filled to the belly with perfectly browned and crisp fetteroni. Also, their chaffing dishes keep the fetteroni and medallions at the perfect fiery temperature. It’s top notch.
Yes, the vouchers were paid for by Lankville community funds, but would you rather see a whole in the ground directly next to an elegant reception hall? I THINK NOT.
It’s called business, you morons! It’s called progress, you mental cases!
Let me tell you Ms. Person of Letters, you’re part of the problem and you need to get out of our way, because Lankville is coming for you. Because who dah fuck are you, Tony Pepperony? I THINK NOT.
On another note, look at that picture of my wife. Ain’t she a peach?
The opinions of Tony Pepperony are not necessarily the opinions of The Lankville Daily News or any of its subsidiaries.
Funny Stories by Dick Oakes, Jr.
Dick Oakes, Jr.
I was lying sick on the yellow bedspread looking up at the smoke-stained ceiling. The curtains were drawn. It was nearing noon.
I heard a car pull up out front and a sudden, rapid series of knocks at the door. I figured on it being the manager, wanting rent for the day, so I slid off my shoes and let them drop gently to the carpeting. Then I made my way on tiptoe to the window and looked out. I was pretty wobbly from the night before and nearly knocked over a lamp on a side table– nearly blew it all to hell.
It was Sammy “The Cylinder” Cummings.
“C’mon now Dick,” he called through the plate glass. “Plain as Christ, I know you’re in there.”
I opened the door, looked out on the half-filled parking lot of the Motel Travel Elk.
“Lissen’ here,” the Cylinder started right off. There was never any pretense with him. “I got an old car I gotta’ take south down Highway 71. Itsa’ about a 70-mile trip but I don’ wanna’ do it myself. You take it down for me and I’ll pay you fifty bucks. Twenty-five now, twenty-five after.”
“Why don’t you take it yourself? Save the fifty.” I rubbed my eyes, felt like nothing more than crawling back into that bed.
He paused awhile and spat on the ground. “I don’ like driving Highway 71. You know.”
The Cylinder was a superstitious guy and had doubtless heard all the urban legends. He was the type that gave merit to ’em. I couldn’t figure on any of it.
“Anyway, the car also has to be dropped with my ex-wife Sandy. It’s for her halfwit son. Not my boy, of course.”
The Cylinder hefted his pants proudly. He was a stout little shithouse of a man.
“Sandy’ll drive you back up 71 to the bus station and then you can make your way from there. Might even get a hot meal out of it. I’ll give it to her- she made a hell of a chuck and onions. I never seen meat ooze gravy like that.”
“Alright,” I said. I didn’t want to think about meat. Or gravy.
An hour later, the Cylinder dropped me off at yet another one of his houses. He pulled up the door of a battered garage and there it was– an orange cut of wreck, thirty years old. The chrome was sheared clear off one side and the hood was compressed in the middle. “Sandy dropped a bowling bowl on it,” the Cylinder explained. “Crazy god damn shit.”
I got inside. The plastic steering wheel was cracked and separated. The AC dash had been yanked out– a ragged chasm left in its stead. The carpet was torn to hell and the fabric ceiling had lost its adhesive and was sagging like an ass-ravaged armchair. The Cylinder had rigged up some popsicle sticks to hold the fabric up along the edges.
“This thing will drive?” I said. The Cylinder was peeling off some bills from a huge wad. Counting and recounting.
“Oh yes,” he said, his voice lowering a notch with sincerity. “This is a good car. I’ll take this car over any god damn shitbox coming out of the Islands. This is Lankville-made. You can look at the stickers on the door.”
“Skip it.”
“There’s power to spare under this big baby’s hood…”
“Alright, Sammy- I got it.”
“Oh, one more thing Dick. No smoking in the car. Right?”
“Yep.”
The Cylinder tried to give me directions to Sandy’s but I couldn’t make no sense of anything he was saying. Then, he tried to write them down. Then he gave up.
“There’s a guy that has a house on the banks of the Great Southern Puddly River nearing the end of the Highway,” Sammy noted. You’ll see a sign out front that says, CHOPS. He sells ’em. Got a little restaurant in the front. So, he’ll tell you how to get the rest of the way to Sandy’s. Maybe you can get a chop too.”
The Cylinder gave me five five’s. Then he thought about it and took one of the fives back and gave me five ones.
First thing I did was pull into a liquor store and pick up a quart of bourbon. I threw it onto the passenger seat with a pack of cheap Outlands cigarettes and an orange disposable lighter. Everything looked nice sitting there– nice little tableau. The lighter matches the hues of the car I thought half-idiotically. I pressed the automatic window buttons and they slid down creakily, letting in a burst of humid but pleasant air. I took a pull of the bourbon, lit a cigarette, and stared at the fast-passing traffic along 71 and the lush covered banks of the Great Southern Puddly. I found a station from the East playing light trumpets. I was feeling a hell of a lot better, good even.
I pulled onto 71 and made good time. The car ran like a champ– I just kept having to adjust the ceiling fabric– it kept alighting on my head and a couple of times nearly blinded me. I chain-smoked cigarettes and took down half the bourbon. Traffic was light.
71 ran between the river and a steep rock cliff. The few houses along the way were overgrown and abandoned. Occasionally, I’d come upon some mean, brutal concrete structure, bereft of adornment, closed to the world. I imagined the asshole that would erect such an abortion along the banks of a stunningly gorgeous river as though giving a giant middle finger to nature. The highway was dotted with such abominations– stained and worn, closed and crumbling.
But for long stretches, 71 was just the river and the rock face. I felt free and good. 
After about an hour, I came upon the CHOPS sign. I pulled into the pebbly lot, the river no more than twenty feet beyond. Puddles everywhere. Next door, was a place called “Fantasy’s Island”. There was a second sign– “Puddly River County’s Only All-Nude Strip Club”. It was in some old house. They had added on a “gift shop”. I figured on thinking it over. I went over to the CHOPS place first.
It was a long counter with some stools. A couple of truckers were drinking coffee. An Island girl in a white uniform was leaning in a corner pushing languidly at some slowly rotating hot dogs.
“Where’s the owner?” I asked. I couldn’t remember if The Cylinder had given me any name to ask for. I stumbled onto a stool and lit another cigarette.
“Bread is over at Fantasy’s,” said the girl. She belched and for a minute her mouth was full of vomit. I waved her out.
She was back in a few minutes– her face looked wet.
“Go over there, ask for Bread.”
I didn’t figure on having the jackpot for Fantasy’s Island. I looked at the girl.
“You know where Sandy lives? I’m supposed to drop a car off at her house. Might have a halfwit son or something?”
“Is she the retired Small Motel Girl Wrestler?”
“Yeah, I figure on that.”
For awhile, nobody said nothing. The truckers stopped moving. It seemed like it got suddenly darker. I could hear some distant thumping music from Fantasy’s Island.
Finally: “Well…I thought she was dead, mister.”
“She is dead,” one of the truckers affirmed.
I spit on the floor. God damn Cylinder. Better think this one over, Oakes.
I decided to order a chop. It’d play out.
Oakes, Jr. to Publish Short Story Collection
By Larry “God” Peters
LANKVILLE ACTION NEWS: YES!
Lankville Daily News correspondent Dick Oakes, Jr. will publish his first collection of short stories. The book will be released on September 1st.
No Merit in It includes several pieces that have been published in past editions of the News.
Oakes, who was interviewed while squatting in a pebbly lot, noted that he is pleased with the collection.
No Merit in It: The Collected Stories of Dick Oakes, Jr.
“I thought those boys [at the publishing house] did a good job with it. I mean, I don’t fool none with computers or calculators so they had to type it up and everything. Come out nice.”
No Merit in It will be available for $19.99 in trade paperback and $39.99 for deluxe hardcover. Several copies will be signed by the author. Oakes will not be doing a book tour.
“At first we thought that maybe Dick could do a few signings at the store,” noted Randy Pendleton’s Double Book Hut employee Larry Klacik. “But we were told by his agent that he will likely be out-of-town or “incapacitated”, whatever that means. We offered them twenty different dates but none worked with Dick’s busy schedule.”
Klacik paused to adjust some puzzles which were bumped slightly out of place by a passing customer.
“We expect that the book will sell well,” added Klacik. “Everyone enjoys Dick’s funny stories.”
Oakes, who has been writing for the News since 1982, has won several trophies for his investigative reporting. He is also Lankville’s premier authority on the sport of Small Motel Girl Wrestling.
The book is the third to be published this year by the News, following two titles by noted cuisine writer Brian Schropp.
Gump Penetrates
Gump Tibbs
It’s time for another penetrating interview with Gump Tibbs. Today, Gump interviews Scott, Pizza-A-Round manager and author of the bestselling “The Pizza Trade”.
GUMP: So, Scott, you have that little area in the paper where they talked about your new book?
S: Yeah man, that goofy employee of mine who writes about food and all that shit is helping me get the word out. He put out his own book recently which was a hit. I thought if someone that awkward with so little real life experience can make it work so could I. Three honest to fuckin’ God true stories, ‘The Trade’,’The Love’,and ‘The Passion’. Aren’t those titles like some damn poetry or somethin’?
GUMP: What a wonderful thing! Do you often write books?
S: Not so much writing, I just talk about my life and the business while Bri records it on one of those micro tape things. He then goes home and writes it all up on some fuckin’ computer program. Me, I ain’t got time to write it all down and shit. Bri really doesn’t mind doing the work and really loves it when I talk about the old days of the pizza trade. I think he likes to live through me in the stories. Sorta like how a poodle sees an alpha male wolf and thinks ‘shit man, I really want to be like that.’
GUMP: Such a pleasure! Is it hard to write books?
S: No way man, once the drink starts flowing and I’m in the backseat of my Neptune with some sweet trailer honey, everything I’m going to tell Bri the next day just sorta comes to me. It also helps smoking a few joints and having 103.5 ‘The Hammer’ cranked up. What a kick ass station, best damn bands.
Scott relaxing at home.
GUMP: What a delight! What is it like running a pharmacy? And why?
S: What the fuck are you talking about?
GUMP: Oh, my! Do you think your book will make people like pizza more?
S: I say it in the book and it’s so goddamn true, it’s a very rough business to be in. Most people have no clue what goes on and would probably shit themselves if they had to be in my shoes. I only hope my book shows how true I am to the business and that if you are going to order from the ‘Pizza-A-Round’ you will be getting a halfway decent pie.
GUMP: How exciting! If a customer dropped his pizza on the floor, would you give him another?
S: Depends if the dude has any more money. Ain’t got time for tears or refunds.
GUMP: Have you ever been mad and punched a pizza?
S: I’ve punched many faces but never a pizza. A pizza is a very sacred thing. I once had some joker work for me who thought he was the shit. Anyway, he lost his cool during a dinner rush and I could tell by the look in his eyes that he was thinking about punching a pizza he was making. Choked the motherfucker out before it got that far.
GUMP: Sensational! I’m going to fire some guns into a hill. Want to join me?
S: You gotta do what floats your fuckin’ boat. I got a hot one and a bottle of whiskey waiting for me in the back of my car. See ya’ around!
Summer Thunder by Jill Candles
By Jill Candles
A romance series exclusive to the Lankville Daily News.
She looked away from Rod as she fumbled nervously with the cup of after-dinner soda. Outside the plate glass window of the quiet side-street cafe, the first eddying wisps of fog circled about the street lamps accompanied by the sound of distant thunder. Inside, it was all warmth, soft light, restrained trumpet music…and heartbreak.
“Can’t you see what a fix I’m in, Jill,” said Rod, his handsome face sullen and darkened. “I’m poor. I can’t afford to get mixed up with a girl like you.”
“But don’t you see, Rod?” she begged. “I don’t care about money…I just care about us.”
He was silent. Then came the clatter of silverware, the muted sound of traffic from the street. And then thunder. It was growing louder, closer.
“Why did you agree to see me again, Rod?” she pleaded. “It would have been easier just to…not show up.”
Rod’s lips tightened and for one once he didn’t look quite so handsome.
“I didn’t…know what you might do. Why, I thought, perhaps you would…”
“Shall we walk a bit?” he asked. “It is becoming moister.”
Her olive skin flushed darkly; she looked beautiful then– brilliant with fury and alive with suppressed emotion. Her knees were lax with the fierceness of her anger. There was thunder.
And then she rose.
“You have nothing to fear from me!” she told him bitterly. “From this moment on, I don’t know you, never knew you and don’t ever expect to know you again!”
She pushed open the cafe door and the damp cottony fog rolled up to meet her. And then, from somewhere, was a voice.
“I like the fog, it’s so dampish, clammy and moist. Look at it against the light.”
He stepped out of the shadows. And there was thunder. But this time, it was the thunder of her heart.
“Shall we walk a bit?” he asked. “It is becoming moister.”
“Yes,” she whispered. She stared up at his profile, sharply cut against the drifting fog and thought how different he was then Rod. Sure, Rod had perfect features and a model’s smile. But this man, with his beaklike nose and strange, twisted grin had something Rod would never have– something that was difficult for Jill to put her finger on.
They walked, quietly but together. And then he suddenly led her into a low doorway, hospitably lighted by two old-fashioned iron lanterns. The thunder was now right above them. “My home,” he said. “Shall we get out of the moistness?” And he led her into a low-ceilinged room that breathed of peace and comfort.
Jill dropped her coat on a red leather bench and looked appreciatively about. Dark woodwork and pale walls, lighted by ivory-shaded lamps that cast a subdued light over the the built-in bookcases. There were leather chairs, several velvety throw rugs, warm red drapes drawn over sheer window curtains and the gleam of brass here and there. She watched as the stranger lit a fire– it smoldered immediately and then went out as the cacophonous sound of thunder echoed down the chimney.
“Perhaps not the right night…for this kind of fire,” he remarked.
It was inside her now, the thunder.
“My name is Otis. Otis Plaza.” Her heart stirred further, her lips tingled. Some of the misery was stealing from her soul.
“I’m not rushing you,” he said. “I’m just warning you that you better start thinking of me because one day soon, you shall have to make up your mind.”
“I want to be rushed, Otis.” She arched her back. He slipped his hand beneath it.
And then came the thunder, the summer thunder. Constant, streaming, flushing out the night outside.
5 Things that Disgust Me in Men: By 5 Famous Lankville Women
SHEEBA INCAVIGLIA, Astrologer
“I am an emotional woman by nature. Therefore, I could not stand the love and companionship of a man who was unable to share these emotions that often explode within me and which I feel so deeply. To make me happy, a man would have to be able to make me laugh when I am happy, to sob uncontrollably with me when I am sad, and to share my often senseless grief with me with I grieve.”
LE NORA ST. JAMES, Jungle Movie Actress
“I am really disgusted by men who hold up hour glasses and are like– OK, time’s up, honey.” Gosh, I can’t stand that. I want a man who doesn’t worry about time, who ignores times, who lets the day unfold naturally, even if it means missing the boat back to the mainland and having to stay with some weird island people that don’t have any teevees. That’s OK, though, because, like, then you get the adventure of staying with island people and a story you can tell later when you get back to the mainland. I also don’t like men who aren’t adventurous. If I want to go into a dark cave, why shouldn’t I be able to? I don’t need some man telling me, “no, no no.” All I want to hear is yes. That’s just my most favorite word!
ROBIN BROX- Businesswoman, Founder and CEO, Brox Uncolored Condiments
I drive 100 MPH everywhere and I don’t stop for any god damn traffic lights. If a man is scared by that, then he better stick to the fucking kiddie rides. And I don’t like prudes. If you don’t want to even broach the subject of rallying up enough pelvic torque to take a woman to a place where heaven knows no fucking bounds, then let’s call the whole god damn thing off right now. What am I in this shit for– the conversation? Forget it. I gotta’ look after these god damn uncolored condiments, I don’t need any of that garbage. The first time some asshole squirts some yellow mustard on a $20 tie is the next time I get another customer. They’re coming out of the god damn woodwork. They just love these god damn uncolored condiments. They plunk down ten grand just to hear my ass stand at a lectern and natter on about them. Who the fuck knows? Is anybody really happy? Get out of here with these horseshit questions, for Christ’s sake.
DR. GINA TORREZ-KEEBLER, Professor of Gender and Women’s Studies, University of Southern Lankville Plains
I don’t care for men who are crude or violent. They may call themselves he-men but as far as I’m concerned, they are merely overgrown juvenile delinquents. The Lankvillian male tends to confuse bad manners, sloppiness and sexual congress with virility. A real man is gentle, kind, effete even. He does not have to go around proving it by cursing, working out with free weights or having intercourse. He can prove it just by putting a single white rose in a vase on a table and creating a lovely, spare tableau or by hanging a fashionable drapery. That’s what interests me and I find men to be most useful for.
SHELLEY REPORTS, Economist, Writer
I guess I’m a little on the tubby side– just a little. So, a man would have to accept that. I have a strange, high-pitched voice as well. There’s that. And my feet make an eldritch squeaking noise when I walk. They’ve never been able to figure it out– it doesn’t matter what kind of shoes I wear. I don’t have to be wearing any shoes at all. My feet just squeak. It’s odd. I also don’t have any teeth.
So, I guess I would like a man who is accepting of all those things and still finds me beautiful. I am beautiful, it’s just those problems that I outlined above. I want a man who tells me I’m beautiful and who sends me pre-printed greeting cards that say, “YOU’RE BEAUTIFUL”. That would be nice.
In terms of what disgusts me? Probably just foreigners.
Gump Penetrates
Gump Tibbs
It’s time for another penetrating interview with Gump Tibbs. Today, Gump interviews Lankville Daily News correspondent and Men’s Feelings Expert Dr. Kevin Thurston.
GUMP: So, Dr. Thurston, you have that little area in the paper where you write about men’s feelings?
KT: Thank you, Mister Fump. I do, occasionally, have an area where I write about how to reach inward so that eventually they can reach outward. However, I no longer believe in paper, so I only read online. That is to say, I’m not sure how much area I have in square inches.
GUMP: Absolutely wonderful! Do all men have feelings?
Dr. Thurston (left) with the men’s.
KT: If you think of a number, men have at least that many feelings. If you think of a number, or perhaps a price is a better word, I will beat it. For example, on a leading national online retailer there is an exercise ball that is rated up to 2000lbs with a pump for $21.83. Not only is 2000lbs worth of feelings plenty of feelings, but it becomes even easier to unload your feelings on an exercise ball when you are paying $19.78.
GUMP: That’s just fabulous! Do women have feelings? And why?
KT:
GUMP: What a delight! Can feelings be passed on? Is that what ghosts are?
KT: There is a cycle that can occur from one man to another. Often the other man will be a son, but a neighboring boy will do.
GUMP: How do you see men’s feelings in 20 years time?
KT: Why, Mister Frump, feelings are an abstract concept, you can’t see them!
GUMP: Just exceptional! I hope we’re all alive in 20 years. Do you think we will be?
KT: On a long enough timeline, the survival rate for everyone drops to zero.
GUMP: Sensational! I’m going to fire some guns into the reservoir– want to come along?
KT: I have a great deal on some ammunitions.
Sing Us a Song, Piano Man: Bourdealeau to Revive Memories of Nights at Casa Montecristo
By Eric Klox
A slice of life from one of the Lankville Snowy Lake area’s most renowned and beloved musicians will be celebrated on Sunday, August 16th when the Two Carpet Theatre presents “Memories of Paul Bourdealeau at the Casa Montecristo”.
The event will recreate the era of the tinkly piano sing-along, specifically performances by Bourdealeau at the Casa Montecristo, which decades ago was Lankville’s most elegant reception hall and hot spot.
Paul Bourdealeau
Bourdealeau played six nights a week at the Casa Montecristo beginning in 1968 until he was replaced by Deejay Humphries in 2000. People would gather and sing along with the accomplished keyboardist well into the night.
“Nobody could play the tinkly piano sing-along like Paul,” said long time patron and aged person Glonn Wilkerson. “This is a great event and is going to bring back a lot of memories for us old-timers.”
Wilkerson was suddenly attacked by hornets and the interview was ended prematurely.
The Casa Montecristo (an elegant reception hall)
The August 16th event, which will include over 20 singers and a short performance by Bourdealeau himself, will benefit the Bourdealeau Confrontation Trust, a non-profit organization dedicated to ending the Challenge Problem in Lankville. Refreshments will not be served.
Bourdealeau, now 97, has been practicing for the event for weeks.
“Just trying to remember about the piano,” he noted. “Everyone is having a wonderful time.”
Tickets for the show are $20 for adults and $15 for students and are available by calling the Two Carpet Theatre at Snowy Lake 2-5512 or by visiting the box office. Ask for Kent.
John Knewstub’s Hard, Cold, Spiritual Facts
By John Knewstub
Sorry, shit for brains, but it ain’t that easy! Now, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking: I’m such a miserable bladder of ass, I’m such a pestilent hole piss-puffed with “life,” I feel so bad, so b—b—boo hoo. That’s right, you mask, you blood pad, boo fucking hoo! But damn it if you didn’t hit the nail on the head! Don’t ask me how, but you blathered and crawled your mucus-trailed way, and fell into a single correct apperception. Of course leave it to you to grasp this one true thought with your deformed, gnarled hand, and twist it into a signature of your disease; for no sooner do you recognize the hopeless abyss, you run for a rainbow-colored parachute. You think, “I’m of the race of men. Maybe Dr. Kevin Thurston can help me with my feelings.” You rolling log of shit! Dr. Thurston can’t help you! The man is about as spiritual as a pair of cow anuses –oh, I’m sorry, those are your puckered little eyes devoid of light –but I think you understand me, son –do you understand me?
Now you say, ‘But John, Dr. Kevin sold me a dozen cans of smoked oysters and a piano bench for $150 + s/h. And to that I say: shut it! Shut that herpes-studded mouth of yours. I didn’t say Dr. Thurston doesn’t offer tremendous discounts on merchandise. Why, just last month I bought a case of waterproof dog beds myself – came out under twenty a pop –top notch. But you think your feelings matter!? What do you think you are, a centipede pattering your thousand sensitive feet upon the filthy rug, sweeping your spelean antennae across its decomposing fibers, sliding in and out of shadow until your jaws possess your carnivorous feast? If that sounds like the way to enlightenment, then by all means sneak in through your grandmother’s window and pilfer her pathetic purse so you can slap a wad of blood-money into that charlatan’s palm. Go ahead! Steal from everyone you know so you can tithe that charlatan; in return, you’ll be led further along the brutal path of your narcissism and all-consuming obsession with your claustrophobic inner world.
Your problem, you rancid discharge, is the cosmic law and order which regulates and coordinates the harmonious operation of the universe and everything within it. Denial of the will? Eusebeia? What do they mean to you, you wannabe invertebrate? You’re too busy playing pocket pool with your emotions to cultivate a reverent attitude toward all life and uphold moral law. So do yourself and all of us a favor: next time you and Dr. Feelings commune over a cup of tea, peer through the steam and see in your wavering reflection the insubstantial nature of your existence, you leaking urethra, and admit that it’s not ephemeral enough, and ask that snake-oil salesman if he has any deals on a shot gun with a string tied to the trigger, or a goddam noose, and excuse yourself to the restroom to molt the last of your feelings like a leprous skin and be revealed, you pock, you bloated tick.
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