I've lost my voice.

[Pæs]

What's wrong, cobber?  Did you think I'd gone away? No such luck, oh no. I'm not going anywhere. Not while I have a Voice-with-which-to-Holler and a MESSAGE, god damn it. A holy message to share with you. Because I care about your wellbeing and shit. I'm going to rant my lungs up and then I'm going to tuck them under my arm and play myself like bagpipes until you get the MESSAGE. I'm...

I'm... I'm going to... I'm...

Sorry.

Forget I said anything.

I don't know where that was going with that. I'll, er, I'll come back to it later and flesh it out. I'll think about it for a bit. Just watch and think about it. Just watch. For a little while. I'll just sit here, hands resting on mouse and keyboards, fingers twitching, struggling desperately against paralysis. Just watch. Absorb. Skimming and chunking, briefly processing. Refreshing. Just watch. Refresh. Just watch. Gaze tracking text, scanning, left to right, carriage return. Just watch. Fingers twitching, responses forming. Refresh. Rant, rising in my throat. My sore throat. Is it still sore? Best not risk it. Might not have my voice back yet. Just watch. For a little while. Refresh.

[The Good Reverend Roger]

I'll respond to this when I've had time to digest it.














Also, filthy Scotsmen have made bagpipes out of condoms.  If that's not worth a message or two (delivered by convention air power; we are not barbarians), then nothing is.

[Pæs]

My throat is closed and I'm running out of cavities to fill with HATE and RIGHTEOUS FURY. I've tucked LAUGHING, LAUGHING FOREVER into every little internal pocket which stands a chance to survive its incessant menacing vibration and strapped down a struggling SCREAMING HYSTERICAL NOTHINGNESS way down deep in my gut.

I am the epitome of responsibility and self-control.

There's a pressure relief valve at the top of my spine which spindly mechanical arms tickle open in my sleep. They direct my excess feelings into hoses which disappear beneath my bed.

There are flare stacks in the desert screaming fire at the sky. I don't know what they're burning but since they started, everyone's had a lot less to say.

[The Good Reverend Roger]

There are flare stacks in the desert screaming fire at the sky. I don't know what they're burning but since they started, everyone's had a lot less to say.

That's sort of like a relief valve for Tucson.  It lets the horror out occasionally, so nothing explodes up through the sidewalks of the regular cities that we dwell beneath.  You ever see those grates in places like New York that have "steam" coming out of them?  That's what happens when we vent...And the world's hate drops down to manageable levels.

Some of the vents are larger than others.  The vents that occurred in 1963, 1984, and the one occurring right now come to mind.

This is what happens when You People send too much filth down the drains.

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]

Message: Journey.

Half-flat tire, right front.
Eye twitches, climb inside.
Treachery; no visibility.
The rain filters down
through the gray sieve
of the sky like a net
emerging from spinnerets.

Drive.

Left turn. Right turn.
Gun it so it doesn't stall.
Left right left right, pull
through the narrow passage
like being birthed out
of your mother's vagina
into the mush

made by thousands of tires
churning tiredly over fallen leaves.
Brake and skid a foot or so
just to feel alive,
open the door to emerge.

Again.