::loyalty test::

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:infiltrate_--_

__incident_

_interrupt__

Desert. Sighting.

[k-bzzzt] Seen. [chunka]

[chikkity] Swamp. [zzt] Monster. [k-chicka]

[bzt] Rising. [kzt] From sands. [a-chunk]



[chunk-chunk-chicka] Distance. [zzt] From Sandbowl. [chikkity]

[bzt] 23 miles. [chicka-chunk]

Night. Monkey.

What up, y'all?

Night Monkey here for a few ticks o' the clock befo' the sun come up and I go poof like a big cloud o' fairy dust.

Not that I'm no fairy. Oh no.

But I got somethin' in common wit' the one you sacrificed yo teeth to back when you all little n' such. I seen her do her thing! Usual I look up her skirt while she bent over fetchin' yo bloody, plucked off castaway bones, no need for 'em no more.

Yea.

I'm the one sits at the end of yo bed all night long, watchin' you snore n' toss n' turn n' best of all, dream them nightmares I so enjoy puttin' in yo head.

The sandman ain't no match for Night Monkey when it come time to slide a few coiled-up monstrosities in through the ear that ain't pressed 'gainst yo pillow. Yea, just roll 'em up tight and feed them burners right down in there like the worms they are.

Then sit back, pull some snack from my bloodsack (roadkill, most often), and set to munchin' while you unspool an evenin's worth of chiaroscuro ennertainment for yo's truly. Tell the truth, that stuff fill me up and keep me goin' way better than the dead critters I be pullin' 'part with my fangs and swallowin' in my gullet.

Yea, just perch n' eat and watch them head-worms burrow them nests in the fertile soil o' yo brain, mofo. Watch ever' bit o' their waste-trails they leave, spiraling up inna air over yo sleepin' head: the psycho chasin' you wit' his knife, the mistress dancin' nekkid when yo spouse ain' watchin', the great dark slippery fuzzy thing you don't dare look too close at lest you turn inna stone or worse more, right inna that thing itself.

'Cause hey, mofo - is you is all it is, wormin' in yo head.

And me.

Yo nightly apparition...is my nutrition.

So even tho' I gotta go now, 'member good my loved ones: I be back nesting 'mong your feet agin' tonight, crammin' my evenin' ennertainment in through yo ear (or both, if you dumb enough to sleep on yo back or stomach, y'all).

Then you be playin' the horro' sho' fo' yo daddy all night long.

See you when you close yo eyes, sweet'um.

No. 25

Kinda speechless at the moment, but Alan Moore Knows The Score. And the synchronicities, as always this time of year, are legion. From the same comic book issue that made me care about proper spelling to an irrational degree:

Autumn is coming.

Autumn...and something else. Something dark...

In the corner of his eye, a sudden blur of gray, moving through the treetops, up to the right...

He turns, focusing...

It's gone.

He stands.

He wonders.

What comes with the autumn?

...And the shadows are growing longer.

Something is wrong.

Something's been wrong all day...

The birds are silent in the branches.

The gators stay close to the bank, stomachs full of rocks and broken turtle shells.

Troubled, he sits...

And sleeps.

And dreams...

It is a dream of someone else, someone who wore flesh and not foliage...

A frightened man.

A man in a furnace.

Alec Holland.

He can hear the roar of the explosion, hear the dreadful sizzling and bubbling and popping...

He is propelled, a blazing stringless puppet stumbling through the flames like some Catholic martyr...

...And he screams...

...And falls...

...And wakes.

And thinks: "What is it that comes with autumn?"

And knows:

It is fear.

Burning in my own crucible, I'll see what I can grow from it.