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PERRIN LOVETT

~ Deo Vindice

PERRIN LOVETT

Tag Archives: Halloween

The Final Spooktacular

31 Monday Oct 2022

Posted by perrinlovett in fiction

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Halloween, spooktacular

*This is the last “Halloween” Spooktacular story. These have been, these past four years, fun. However, they were essentially a TPC-oriented line. Last year’s edition didn’t even run at the old paper, which was fine. If you were keeping score, then the chapters were cheap parodies of the following horror greats: Dracula (2019); Wolfman / American Werewolf [in Covington] (2020), and; Night of the Living Dead (2021). Here follows a short rip-off of I Am Legend. Enjoy, and happy All Saints’ Eve!

The Omega Spooktacular

 

A Ghost Town in a Ghost State, Halloween Night, dark…

A cool wind blew down a deserted street. Hanging by a single, rusted chain, a sign swung precariously in the breeze. Another gust, and the marquee broke its mooring and fell to the sidewalk with a clatter. No one was around to hear the crash. No one would ever again read the words on the faded sign, once announcing proudly to the passing public the headquarters of a now long-defunct newspaper.

No children stalked the streets of this dead town. All streets were empty in the dead country. There were no howls in the darkness. There were no strange characters and no sirens. All was deathly quiet aside from the wind, the creaking of branches, and the occasional collapse of some former indicia of civilization. 

For all life and society and culture had ended. Suddenly, released from government bioweapons labs, there had come a dread pandemic. More suddenly came the war and the eventual waste. All was blasted to dust. 

For all he knew, the man on the second floor of the old newspaper office was the last man alive. He gazed out the window into emptiness. And he laughed softly at the thought he would soon pass into legend, an ancient memory without the benefit of reminiscence save the mindless retention of the cold, dead air. He then uttered the concluding intelligible words of humanity. Still, time marched on.

Fin.

[INSERT FAKE DIET SODA AD HERE]

Halloween Happenings

31 Monday Oct 2022

Posted by perrinlovett in News and Notes

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Halloween, Pelosi, Ye

We have a great, short, and I suppose, final, Spooktacular coming a little later this evening. What else? Ye is turning into a 21st century Jim Conley. Or Newt Lee. Or … BLM, Ye included, folks. Uh. The Pelosi gay illegal nudist hammer attack story keeps getting more gay immigrated hemp unbelievable. I’m sure the truth will eventually be ignored. War. Rigged election. Double mask on those flying Greyhounds. Etc. A big, busy week. Keep an eye out for tonight’s exciting conclusion of the Diet Lime Chip ads!

FICTION: Night of the Living Vaxxed!

31 Sunday Oct 2021

Posted by perrinlovett in Other Columns

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2021, fiction, Halloween, NIGHT OF THE LIVING VAXXED!

*Tonight, friends, thrill and shiver to a tale of the macabre from that ever-popular genre of Vaxxploitation…

Night of the Living Vaxxed!

The 2021 [TPC] Halloween Spooktacular

by Perrin “Maskless” Lovett

*Brought to you by Diet LIME CHIP! Soda – Now in Grape!!!*

 

The Old Covington Cemetery, Halloween…

As the weary sun fell behind a line of ragged pine trees, somewhere a cat yowled ominously. Two somber figures moved among the tombstones of the beloved, the dearly departed, and old what’s his name.

‘Isn’t it a little strange these Halloween stories are always set on Halloween?’ Ann asked as MB kicked ants and confetti off of a low headstone. ‘I mean, it’s not even a little original.’

‘This marker epitaph is original enough: At least he was vaccinated!’ MB said with a grunt. ‘And he was. Good thing. He died of the Detrick-Harvard Variant just last week. Like with Colin Powell, if he hadn’t been fully vaccinated something really bad might have happened.’

‘Alldead?’ Ann asked, arching her eyebrows. ‘What kind of name is that?’

 ‘Paul Alldead. Just got the stone on for him. Another happy customer who will never complain or bounce a check or leave a bad review or ever bother me again,’ MB said while admiring a chip in the granite above a misspelling. ‘Really nice fellow. Hey! There he is now! Let’s say hello.’

Ann looked and saw a stiff, partially-decayed shell of a man limping and shuffling towards them. ‘Why is he out of the grave?!’ she asked with plausibly understandable alarm.

‘Paul!’ MB unwisely called out. ‘Good to see you up and— OH. MY. GOD! He’s a zombie!’

‘Yeah, duh,’ Ann mocked.

‘RUN!!’ they both yelled. And away they did run, just as fast as their feet would take them, or as fast as one needs to run to outrun a zombie that can barely limp and shuffle. Okay, it was more of a jog. It was… C’mon, man. You know the thing.

‘Wait,’ the corpse-like character mumbled after them. ‘Sorry to bother. I’m Ned Halfdead. Paul’s cousin. I came to apologize for the bounced check. Aaand, you’re gone. Oh, my, yummy ants!’

Ned was just bending down to dine like an apologetic, half-dead aardvark when he noticed a shadow. Looking up, he saw a tattered, pale, all-dead-looking man staggering forward out of the gloom. Half in fear, half delighted, Halfdead, and half Formicidae famished, he called out: ‘Paul! I thought you were de—’

*****

In the car, as MB drove madly if nonchalantly towards town, trying to dodge all of the raccoons, missing most of them, Ann scanned the radio. Pausing on NPR, she heard a voice of calm, reason, reassurance, and constant hair-flipping. They both listened to Jen Psaki’s hasty press conference, already in progress:

… all a little concerned. But, no. The president certainly is real, he’s really the president, and he really is not a dead robot. I mean, just because he short-circuited and caught on fire while the greenscreen program crashed… It, uh, it. We’ll circle back to that.

As for the national emergency, there is nothing to be concerned about. Not much. Much at all. Maybe a little. Okay, shit, look! All the recently deceased fully vaccinated thralls are reanimating as brain-eating zombies. They say it is the ultimate ADE or VEI effect, Case Nightmare Zombie, or something. Just, um, just trust science. Maybe the sixteenth booster and those hourly pills can do something? 

Yes. I mean, no. The military is not on it – all service members themselves being lately-deceased fully vaccinated zombies who now eat brains. 

Now, I’d like to point to the success of the recent evacuation. Thanks to Empress Harr-, er, Joe Biden’s very real and legitimate and totally not fake administration, several dozen American refugees were just today airlifted into Afghanistan with the help of our Taliban partners. You, hey you! Non-binary thing from CNN! Why are you drooling like that?! My what? My brain?! Eeeeeeeeeeek!!!

As a faraway production engineer cried, ‘Oh, God,’ or possibly, ‘Mo’ sod(?),’ the signal abruptly ended. Ann turned off the radio and bowed her head. ‘Greenscreen has fallen,’ she whispered sorrowfully. 

‘Best fake president we ever had,’ MB hacked, gagging on a Tic-Tac.

*****

Around the old downtown square, a line of double-masked, plastic-wrapped, CRT-indoctrinated, futureless children stumped along. One to another, they sang cautiously, ‘One, two, Fauci’s coming for you. Three, four, lock the bathhouse door…’

Once again this year, they missed him, as he hid in the dark, fingering his sledgehammer. ‘Imma get that statue tonight,’ the Chairman growled to himself.

Kayla looked down from the balcony of TPC Headquarters, perplexed. ‘What a sad fool,’ she said. ‘Doesn’t he know they already changed the statue? What’s he gonna do? Knock down the new Bankroll Fresh Memorial?’

‘Shhhh, woman,’ Da shushed. ‘Was that another ambulance?’

‘I don’t know about you, but I’d love a gurney full of some Halloween candy! It’s a shame MB lost the petty cash box,’ Kayla mused.

‘I mean, what is there to stop these white militias from getting nuclear weapons?’ Da asked the evening air.

‘Sir, any given day, it’s about twelve Marines and a chain-link fence,’ said a pleasant if unknown voice. Da didn’t notice.

‘Who the hell are you?!’ Kayla asked in candy-starved fright.

‘Hello, ma’am,’ the pleasant, unknown young man said. ‘I’m Abner Snickdowl. The filler character that Mr. Lovett added. You know, with Bess and Ryan and Fred being a little scarce these days.’

Though Da still strained his ear for a siren that never called, Abner and Kayla nearly jumped out of their skin. The shrill, screaming, crying, wailing, greatly-alarmed, desperate-to-flee screaming wail of a cry from the Chairman echoed around the square: ‘Great Lawd Yemaya, SAVE US!!!!!’ They turned in time to see him bolt as if the very foul spirits of the recently be-vaxxed were after him. Down the street he fled, screaming, and never to be seen again. Until sometime later, of course. And, of course, when he did reappear, he was re-elected. His sledgehammer clattered to rest in a pothole he’d promised several times to fix but predictably never got around to.

The moans and groans then drew their attention to the other side of the square. Around the corner, came a slow-moving legion of Vaxx Zombies!™ Now and again, as they inched forward, they let forth the nearly-indecipherable cant, ‘brains.’ Or, honestly, it could have been ‘veins’ or ‘lanes.’ It was maybe just a little south of nearly indecipherable. 

‘Now I’ll never review that candy for the Corner,’ Kayla said, fighting back tears. ‘ZOMBIES!!!’

‘Trust science,’ Da mumbled as he leaned over the railing in his vain search of auditory ambulatory greeting.

‘I have a horrible feeling that I know how this ends,’ Abner muttered dejectedly.

‘Hey!’ Kayla said, completely over her zombie scare. ‘Why do your hands stick out of your shoulders like that? Not to be rude, it’s just…’

‘It’s okay, ma’am,’ Abner said sweetly, flapping his little hands, ‘Mama was a good lady. She trusted science, Thalidomide, and all. Pa trusted science too. The Vioxx got him. My uncle in England trusted science. He died trying to kill bugs with Amiton. Shucks, I trust that science myself! Who wouldn’t, with such a great track record?’

‘Yeah, I didn’t need the whole life story,’ Kayla said dismissively.

Just then, Ann and MB sped into sight. They dodged a few of the foremost zombies, hit the sledgehammer-holding pothole, careened violently, and came to a stop below the balcony. In a moment, they huffed up the stairs and out to join the oddly-paired trio.

‘Some politician needs to promise to fix that damned pothole!’ MB bellowed. 

‘Well, looks like the zombies are here!’ Ann said with surprising and rather misplaced cheer.

‘They just came out of nowhere,’ Abner said, waving one small hand from beneath his sloppily-cut sleeve.

‘Who in the blue blazes are you?’ Ann and MB asked at the same time.

‘I’m Abner Sni—’

‘He’s some dolt ringer or something,’ Kayla said. ‘DO NOT ask about his little hands.’

‘More ambulances by the day,’ Da said with a shrug.

‘What a weird night,’ MB said, holding his lighter between his teeth and poking it with a cigarette. ‘First zombies. Now, this pleasant but unknown character. And all those oversized anthropomorphic raccoons on the streets!’

‘Raccoons?’ Da asked as if coming out of a trance.

‘Yeah, big, man-sized raccoons, a lot of them wearing saggy pants and basketball jerseys,’ Ann explained. ‘All over the place, coming out of all these new apartments. Making odd gestures and signs with their hands, paws. They’re all headed west, it seems. All of them talking about how DAT Raccoon tha Kang! Or, something similar they were saying, maybe.’

‘What’s up with that? Where were all the raccoons going?’ Kayla asked, happy some other strangeness had momentarily displaced the terror of the be-jabbed dead. Everyone shrugged their shoulders. Everyone except Abner. Because, uh…

‘I know,’ he said helpfully; ‘They must be headed to Atlanta to cheer for that giant raccoon that escaped and climbed up the Georgia-Pacific Tower. Took some woman hostage. Y’all hear about that?’

Ignoring Abner – a scenario to which he was well accustomed – they all looked down to the lurching, moaning pack of zombies. The reanimated fully-vaxxed had congregated in the street beneath the balcony. Pathetically, they all extended their hands and arms upward (and one can imagine Abner’s resentment) as if to climb the air itself to dine upon the brains of our beloved TPC staff (and Abner, poor thing). Fortunately for the gang, the particular mRNA poison at issue did not grant the deceased the power of levitation or flight. Still, they were trapped. As more and more victims of the worst hoax and war crime in history stumbled and staggered into the square, the stranded group grew nervous. But then, they heard a sound. It grew louder by the second, a great roaring, grinding noise mixed with notes of modified techno-rock parody music.

And, around the corner and into the square came the racket: speeding along, crushing everything in its path, an Abrams tank roared into full view. Over the whine of the engine and the grumble of the tracks, from two speakers poorly rigged on the turret, “It’s Time To Go” by Boomer Patrol blasted away. The great weapon of war rolled over the back end of MB’s car and proceeded to crush the leading ranks of the zombies. Slowing to a crawl, it abruptly turned and did a short series of donuts in the street. Zombie heads and zombie limbs and zombie bodies and an assortment of ill-fitting clothing that sleepy next of kin had thought appropriate for burial shredded and flew about.

The mechanical beast came to rest, its turbine idling. The music stopped, time paused, and the balcony brigade looked on with interest. After a few moments, the turret began to rotate from the rear-facing position. With a whir, it swung around towards the new memorial. The main gun rose. And, in a deafening flash, Bankroll Fresh’s image joined Robert E. Lee, Jesus Christ, Christopher Columbus, Sacagawea, Hiawatha, Thomas Jefferson, Theodore Roosevelt, The Old Pioneer Woman, Abraham Lincoln, Frank Rizzo, Mahatma Gandhi, Winston Churchill, Frederick Douglass, The Bird Girl, and all the other lately-deposed “racist” Confederate Generals in the dustbin of dystopia. As chunks of obliterated statue rained down among the mindless zombies (the vaxx victims, not the voters), the top hatch opened, a fragrant column of smoke arose, and a voice sarcastically called out from inside, ‘there’s your social justice, bastards. Big guns matter.’

And then, from out the hatch, there emerged, like a knight in cigar-reeking armor, the hero!

‘Perrin, old man!’ MB called out exuberantly.

‘You’ve come to save us!’ Kayla called.

‘Could have warned us about our ears,’ Ann said.

‘Abner on duty, sir!’

‘Did you pass many ambulances?’

‘Yeah, great and whatever,’ Perrin said as he sat up straight in the commander’s perch and jimmied the machine gun. ‘Gimme a second. Ears? Yeah, most uncomfortable vehicle ever.’ 

While the balcony birds lamented not covering their ears and while more zombies shuffled over the remnants of their crushed comrades, flattened like the curve of those two weeks that never ended, Perrin checked the feed on the Ma Deuce. Then, he proceeded to sweep the street, cutting zombies into pieces while cackling like a crackpot conspiracy theorist at play in the all-too-common position of being dead right all along while spraying zombies with .50-caliber BMG rounds from a tank in one of those patented run-on sentences that really does and, yes, on a Halloween evening, as cliche as that might be, or something, etc; and I’ll just stop this one right here, and now, the end. After a hundred or so rounds, or maybe a few more, he stopped, fully climbed out, stood still, and addressed the team.

‘I’m going to enjoy a delicious, cold Diet Lime Chip® soda! It’s better because it’s now available in this great GRAPE flava, er, flavor,’ he said as if delivering a cheap advertising pitch and while unscrewing the bottle top. He paused and read, mostly to himself, the side label: ‘Grape! Purpa Drank! *Skittahz and sizzurp “sold” separately. Big Floyd’s ghost, these idiots pander harder than the cucks in the GOP.’ With that, he took a healthy swallow. And … he immediately began spitting and spewing, hacking and gasping. Throwing the bottle, which hit one of the masked, miserable kids who had hung around and who you’d probably forgotten all about, he staggered to the edge of the turret and vomited all over a zombie below. Still wheezing and spluttering, he leaned down and grabbed the towel-like turban off the head of another zombie, who in life, had been much more American than you, and wiped his mouth – all the while uttering curses too vile to print here.

‘Horrible!’ he yelled in a blind rage. ‘Almost as bad as the original!’ As he continued to rant and pant angrily, he dropped down to the gun again and blasted a few more we’re all in WHAT NOW?! together walking corpses. Finally, he once more stood up and turned to face the bewildered crowd who were still on the balcony, still stranded, and still suffering from painful ringing ears.

‘Nice night, huh?’ Perrin asked with a smirk.

‘Where did you get the tank?’ Ann asked.

‘Well, with the Army all gone and turned into ghouls, the stuff is free for the taking. Of course, it never was that difficult to appropriate their equipment anyway. Armories wide open, coast to coast. Hell, even libertarians did it,’ Perrin said with a gleam in his eye.

‘Oh, no!’ Da cried. ‘I hope nobody gets any assault rifles!!!’

At that, Perrin laughed out loud. ‘Yeah, can’t have that!’ he said while glancing down at the 65-ton main battle tank that he’d just strolled up to, cranked, and driven away in. ‘Anyway, with those dozen Marines out of the way, I’ve got my boys down at Kings Bay picking up the good stuff!’ He leaned down and casually fired off a few more rounds without bothering to aim or look or think – just like Alec Baldwin.

‘Liberty!’ MB said with pride; ‘Legalize Columbia! Democrats racist like tomatoes.’

‘Damn right,’ Da huffed. Perrin fired one last shot while cocking a mildly concerned eyebrow at the balcony.

‘Why’s that bloody rope trailing behind the tow hitch,’ Kayla asked.

‘The whu?’ Perrin mumbled as he looked at incoming Trident II launch system codes on his phone. ‘Oh, crap! That was Laughing Albert from the drug company.’

‘The CEO of—’ Marshall started to ask.

‘Former CEO. And war criminal. I wanted to interrogate him so I tied him up. Forgot about him like the family dog in the vacation movie. Ah well, one torture’s as good as another,’ Perrin said. He suddenly laughed nonstop, just the way Albert had always laughed on television whenever he was asked if he took the death jab his evil company developed in conjunction with the other luciferians. Whereas he had been able to eventually cough out a rough “no,” Perrin concluded his fit, saying, ‘hey, at least he’s in hell with his father, the devil. Good riddance! Now to hunt down the rest…’

‘Why are all the zombies still under the balcony and not gathering around you?’ Kayla inquired smartly.

‘Why? Because they only eat their own. I wasn’t stupid enough to fall for a specialized military operation and take poison from people who have openly stated they want everyone dead, and that the inventor said no human should ever take, and which had a 100% fatality rate in all animal trials, all because of overinflated numbers in a hoax based around weaponized perceptions of the common cold and flu designed to cover up the world economic collapse, at best, and at worst to usher in a new age of international globalist satanic slavery. I mean, really, who could be that retarded?’ Perrin said somewhat smugly, absolutely correctly, and to the chagrin of at least one member of his audience.

‘Wait. Then why do you keep shooting them?’ Ann asked.

‘I mean, why not?’ he answered. The crowd found great wisdom in his simple logic.

‘So, they’re just after us?’ Kayla sought to clarify.

 ‘Oh, yeah,’ Perrin rejoined. ‘One of you must be vaxxed. They can smell it.’

‘I knew it!’ screamed Da, suddenly coming to life. ‘It’s this Abner! He’s come to lead us all to our brain-devoured deaths!’ With that and with a surprising show of strength, Da seized the pleasant, previously unknown, armless character and hoisted him overhead.

While Abner begged for mercy and Perrin retouched the foot of his cigar, the others chanted, ‘Vaxx he azz! Vaxx he azz!’ Then, as one might expect, Da hurled Abner from the balcony. The doomed filler character landed in a heap among the zombies. 

‘My legs! I can’t feel my legs!’ Abner screamed before fading away just as he had feared, having previously read the script, unlike the others. But, interestingly, he neither reanimated nor was of any interest to the science-trusting former TV news watchers. All dead (uh, of the lively deceased, not Mr. Alldead) arms again raised and pawed towards the balcony.

‘Well, crud,’ Da said, slouching guiltily. 

‘Whadda kill my ringer fer?! Whadda kill my ringer fer?!’ Perrin yelled.

‘You mean it’s one of us?’ MB said with a shutter.

‘Looks like it, you Abner-cidal maniacs,’ Perrin said as he lowered back into the turret. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I have a new Christian monarchy to govern. Enjoy the mess you made. You’re on your own!’

‘Wait!’ they all called, as the zombies bobbed and belched below. ‘Save us!’

As he closed the hatch, he called, ‘Read the Constitution to them! Better yet, vote! Vote hard.’

Finally realizing the political futility of their predicament, they sobbed and cursed. But it was too late. They watched sadly as the turret returned to the transport configuration. Then the tank, now sans the Day of the Pillow(!) justice tunes, turned about and drove away down the street. They watched it as it reached an intersection. And, then… They all jumped as an enormous clawed white reptilian foot stomped down with enough force to completely crush the pavement several feet into the ground. Perrin deftly swerved aside just in time. The Piedmonteers looked on in sheer terror as he overcorrected and drove straight through the local CBD store, utterly destroying it. A grievous injury! But their collective gasps and wails were silenced, drowned in a sea of noise from the clouds. Those silly kids had thought the boom of the old 120 was loud. Now, smashing down from above, there came a rolling, undulating roar of defiance and rage. Ears split, windows shattered, and the earth itself shook. Most unexpectedly, several out-of-sequence Japanese people ran around among the zombies, screaming, ‘Ritezilla! Ritezilla!’

Over them loomed a ridiculously tall white lizard, likely a giant albino Iguana or some other very large white lizard. Except this one was beyond very large. Enormous? Gargantuan? L-A-R-G-E. And white. With another roar, the beast picked up a bus and threw it back down. Then it waded through the buildings, moving generally towards A-town.

Having forgotten the now trivial zombies below, the gang stood rooted in fear. At last, MB broke the silence: ‘I wonder if that thing is going after the giant raccoon in Atlanta? That’d be a heck of a fight. Clash of the titans, so to speak. Battle of the monsters: Kang Koo—’ His words temporarily ended when, in a final parting lash, the monster’s tail reduced TPC headquarters to rubble. As the hapless gang dug themselves to safety, far away, carrying on the wind, they thought they heard a tune…

*Now, you’re probably thinking the tune they heard was one of Perrin’s pitiful parodies, perhaps a cheap takeoff on “Godzilla” by BOC. You’d be wrong (for once in a Halloween). They might have heard THIS.

**As originally written for (and about) TPC – where they can no longer be bothered to publish such things. This is, in fact, the final edition. Deo Vindice

Halloween

31 Sunday Oct 2021

Posted by perrinlovett in News and Notes

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fiction, Halloween

Has it lost anything because everyone has been in costume – as surgeons, bank robbers, or zombies – for the last 2 years?! More on that in this year’s spooky fun short story later this evening!

COLUMN: Now and Then: A Fair Affair

27 Wednesday Oct 2021

Posted by perrinlovett in Other Columns

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a long time ago..., America, fun, Halloween, history, with poem!

Now and Then: A Fair Affair

 

We will not get, for now, the final word on the assassination of John F. Kennedy, perhaps the last Chief Executive that really acted like one. The truth about the demise of a real President is blocked by a fake one. After 58 years, some vague need remains to “protect against an identifiable harm to the military defense, intelligence operations, law enforcement, or the conduct of foreign relations that is of such gravity that it outweighs the public interest in disclosure.” That literally means and states that the satanic cult masquerading as a government in Washington owes its allegiance to the Dark State and not to the American People. We all knew that anyway.

There’s a lot we know and that we suspect. None of it, this week, is too concerning to me. So, I decided to move on with something else. 

I saw a duo of pitiful stories in the pitiful newspaper of a pitiful Southern city about the goings-on at the local fall fair. Those used to be fun, back when America still was. These stories, the kind of which have become usual across much of the former nation, revealed a new truth.

The first one featured a pictorial presentation of all the “fun.” Patrons gain admission only via metal detectors. This fair boasted a new policy that requires clear bags, purses, and packs. It was obvious they were trying to keep certain things out. Once inside, the people waddle around in search of fried lard and sugar in order to increase their existing gross obesity. I have not been to one of these things in years or decades. It’s just as well, I suppose.

Over the weekend, despite all the metal scanning and tote translucence, an “incident” occurred which necessitated clearing the place out early. The second story didn’t say as much, but it was fairly clear that “teens” must have been at work. Going forward, all “teens” must be accompanied by an adult if they want to terrorize the tubbies. Again, from stories coast to coast, we pretty much know who and what that means. 

In other words, it was a post-modern USian affair, with debased Americans suffering mightily at the hands of not-Americans. I hazard to guess that not one in ten of the former group would admit as much. So it goes. And they can have it. I have my memories of a better era. 

Forty years ago, things were different. I’ve written before about my time at a private school in Mississippi, home to the great Friday night football shotgun raffle! Around this time every year, the same school hosted its annual Halloween Carnival. This is the kind of thing that became known as a “Fall Festival” and then “Trunk or Treat” or what-have-you.

Back then, in another age and nation, the culture was much purer and a bit more innocent. Many knew about the very dark origins of the titular day, but most simply put it aside in an effort perhaps best described as co-option. As, now, they steal everything from us, I suppose that back then Christians took something away from the devil! For a little while.

The main theme of the evening was fun. Real, all-American fun. Kids wore costumes and circulated around the school gym playing a variety of corny games. I can remember several of these events – and fondly. I do not recall a single problem ever.

No “teens” were present. Homogeneity, as we know, provides true blessings. Thus, there was no need for metal detectors, police officers, clear bags, or any other bullshit that has become the mainstay of the dead anti-culture. Not one of these carnivals was ever, to my knowledge, canceled early for safety reasons.

It was a K-12 school. One thing, of many, that would never fly today was the kissing booth. Varsity cheerleaders offered simple cheek pecks for a dollar. One can see how this would all be described by today’s low priests of destruction as sexist, racist, homophobic, fun, possibly anti-semitic, and maybe some other damn fool words they throw around to beat cuckservatives into fear and silence. Again, for us, it wasn’t a problem.

No, wait! There were a few little hiccups, as it turns out. We boys of the K-8 variety had the dollars. But there was, as one can imagine, a shortage of patience and line space. A little shoving might have broken out. Still, I don’t think anyone ever mentioned a need for teen detectors. 

Ah, America.

Here, only mildly related, please find the beginning portion of a poem. It’s part – the ending part – of something I started about a year ago and then forgot about. Look for the rest, attached to a short story, real or fictional, when or if you see it.

“Thus Missed Granny”

Why whip poor Will, he did not say,

This feathered country squire.

Yet, day and night, we heard the call,

From tree or roof or spire.

Whip! poor Will! Whip! poor Will!

-whip him good and more.

After dinner, dark and tired, 

staring out the door.

Quiet, herald! Leave him alone!

Peace we all would like.

Came,

Whip! poor Will! Whip! poor Will!

Bespoke the nightly shrike.

…

The Week Ahead

24 Sunday Oct 2021

Posted by perrinlovett in News and Notes

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blog, Halloween, preview

Five brand new PPN episodes are coming! A column, too, about something. And … we’re only a week away from All Hallows Eve. I’m putting the final touches on my annual TPC “Spooktacular.” This one is a little different and a tad longer than past editions. It will likely be the final one. Will it see the light of publication? We’ll find out.

A New Flavor?

12 Sunday Sep 2021

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Diet Lime Chip, fiction, Halloween, preview

That’s the rumor. Diet Lime Chip, Amerika’s favorite nonexistent soda pop might have successfully experimented with something new. No word on if it cures the common hoax. But, look for it, on or about All Hallow’s Eve with some new SPOOKTACULAR fiction aimed at the TPC (and general readership) set!

Boo.

“Halloween” Music 2020

31 Saturday Oct 2020

Posted by perrinlovett in News and Notes, Other Columns

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All Saints Day, culture, Halloween, Halloween 2020, music

The following list is unchanged from 2019 and will be the final edition of this series. I’m moving on from popular culture, especially the materialistic, the hedonistic, and the (even partially) occult. It is, somewhat to my dismay, not 1982 anymore. Looking around, even as to “kids’ activities,” we simply cannot continue to ameliorate darkness. Still, some of these songs are good, great even. Enjoy for what it is. Happy All Saints Eve and All Saints Day, in advance.

Note: some of these links may have been disabled or changed. Sorry. Think of it as a suggestion list if nothing else.

The music:

Werewolves of London, Warren Zevon, 1978.

Werewolves, Alternate Take, Zevon, 2007 Release. I know more than a few people don’t like this version. Then again, more than a few people can be wrong. Cool, jazzy, and you always have the ability to listen to the damned original…

Long Cool Woman, The Hollies, 1971. No Halloween, per se, but fits with:

Devil Woman, Cliff Richard, 1976.

Evil Woman, ELO, 1975. All these women…

Witchy Woman, The Eagles, 1972. More women…

Self Control, Laura Branigan version, RIP, beautiful, 1984. The best-looking artist on the list.

Legend of Wooley Swamp, Charlie Daniels Band, 1980. Lucius Clay approves.

David Pumpkins – Elevator Skit, SNL and Tom Hanks, 2016. Not a song. Just funny.

Monster Mash, Misfits, 1997. Yeah, I have trouble understanding the words too.

Mash, Original, Bobby Pickett (with Dick Clark), 1962. Classic; those facial expressions.

Dragula, Rob Zombie, 1998. Burn through ’em.

Thriller (Full), Michael Jackson, 1982. Before we knew the real MJ (RIP) horrors. With commentary from Price (RIP).

Poison, Alice Cooper, 1989. A few Cooper songs I could have gone with; I chose this one.

House of Fire, Cooper, 1989. And this one.

Ghost Riders in the Sky, Johnny Cash’s Version, 1979. Scary with a message.

The Time Warp, RHPS Version, Richard O’Brien, 1974. No need to suffer a theater full of freaks. (They still do that?) You’re welcome.

Sweet Transvestite, RHPS Version, Tim Curry, 1974. Probably the only trans-friendly post I’ll ever make.

Blue Moon, The Marcels, 1961. Shout if you know why I included this one.

The Zoo, Scorpions, 1980. Why not?

Nightmare on My Street, DJ Jaz Will Smith, 1988. Just remembered this one!

Pet Sematary, The Ramones, 1989. My personal favorite – possibly tied with Werewolves.

Sematary, Last Live Show, 1996. You don’t know this…

Stranger in Town, Extended Studio, Toto, 1984. Is your hero a criminal?

Uprising, Sabaton, 2010. Scary history. Great gym song!

Dr. Demento Halloween Special, Demento, Westwood One, 1986. Hour and a half of crazy.

Little Red Riding Hood, Sam The Sham & The Pharaohs, 1966. For the g-g-g-generation.

Swamp Witch, Jim Stafford, 1974. Wonder if she knew Lucious?

Purple People Eater, Sheb Worley, 1958. Currently seeking the DNC nomination…

Ghostbusters, Ray Parker, Jr., 1984. Can’t believe I didn’t have this one earlier.

…and…

Here Comes Santa Claus, Gene Autry, 1947. Oops. Too early – for another week or two…

Have a great All Saints Eve!

The cigar-chomping, government-bashing, culture-questioning madness shall resume soon. Oh, curious about how Tom Ironsides spent a Halloween evening in 2018? Check out Chapter Ten of The Substitute.

Werewolves of Covington – Short Fiction

31 Saturday Oct 2020

Posted by perrinlovett in fiction, Other Columns

≈ Comments Off on Werewolves of Covington – Short Fiction

Tags

fiction, Halloween, hoax, short story, TPC, werewolves

Werewolves of Covington

The 2020 TPC Halloween Spooktacular

*Brought to you by Diet LIME CHIP! Soda

FROM TPC, 10/29/20:

TPC Headquarters, Covington, Halloween 2020, as the sun sets…

A small host of costumed and MASKED children ambled lazily, listlessly, if cautiously incautious down the dark street. But, this year was different. The little ones were uncharacteristically quiet, in a near-silent way. One note of laughter – maniacal as could human voice might achieve – sounded from the shadows near the Confederate Monument. Laws, court orders, and history be damned! the Chairman thought, a sledgehammer in his sweaty hands. Outside, the wind blew a somber, haunting note through the barren trees. Inside, frantic last-minute preparations were underway.

‘Hand me another board,’ MB growled from atop the short ladder. 

‘We’re running low,’ Bess said with a tremble as she passed up a roughly-hewn one-by-six. ‘A few more and we’ll be out. And to think about the children. The children—’

‘It’ll be enough,’ MB gritted through the nails in his teeth. ‘Got the lower windows. Just a few boards up here, per pane, should do it. They say these things are big – too big to pass through a couple of flimsy boards. It’s not like a tiny virus slipping through the relatively miles-wide gaps in a cloth facemask.’ He stopped to admire his handiwork.

‘Did you remember the back door?’ Bess asked shakily. ‘No one has used it since the mob was here about Duke Marshula.’

‘I gotta chair up against it,’ MB replied. ‘Da used to make regular use of it. Anybody seen him lately?’

‘Not since the Braves washed out,’ Bess said, staring off into nothingness. ‘He put on his NBC suit and vanished. I hope … they haven’t got him too.’ She shuttered.

‘Nah, Da’s too tough for—’ MB broke short his contemplative ablations. He paused and gasped: ‘Was that a howl?!’

‘Oh, Lord, oh, Lord!’ Bess shouted hysterically, running in circles. ‘They’re here!’

‘Shotgun, Bess, shotgun!’ MB barked. There was, for the moment, no need.

‘Sorry, y’all!’ A friendly voice called out. It was Kayla. ‘That was my stomach growling. I need to review the new Chinese place. Need to get me a big dish of beef chow mein!’

‘God! Don’t do that,’ MB said, stepping off the desk where he’d jumped in a panic. ‘Have a Snicker, diva. Nobody eats out tonight. Maybe ever. Old Lee Ho picked the worst time to open a diner. I’d say he’s Fooked all-right.’

‘I’m afraid you’re correct,’ Bess said. ‘And, has anybody seen or heard from Ryan Ralston?’

‘Alas poor Ralston, I knew him well,’ Kayla whispered.

‘Not for an age,’ MB sighed. ‘First word of all this Amerikan, ginger-snapping, dog-soldiering, company of wolfen-man howling in Atlanta, and off he goes to confront ‘em. Carrying a Pop-Tart. Had those strange friends of his tagging along. You know? The duck and the cat or whatever? His grandfather told him not to, but yeah.’ He paused and then said with a grimace: ‘Pop-Tart. Cat. Chinese. Gettin’ a little hungry myself.’

‘Say, do you guys think Fred’s hungry?’ Bess asked with sudden maternalistic concern. ‘He’s been up there for three days. Only has a few two-liters of Diet Lime Chip.’

‘Fred?!’ MB called.

‘Door’s closed! I ain’t coming down! Not by the hair of my chinny chin chin!’ Fred shouted through the ceiling. 

The gang made their way beneath the attic door, sealed tight from above. ‘If you’re not hungry, then you got any news?’ Kayla ventured. ‘About them?’

‘Hang on!’ Fred echoed through the water-stained drywall. A humming noise emanated from his (poorly) jerry-rigged short-wave radio. ‘Coming in, now! Dr. Fauci’s speaking. He says the CDC in Atlanta has been overrun. Everyone’s dead or infected. Says the quote-unquote test they have is reliable, even if it’s never been tested and is not really a test. He’s predicting six trillion of us will be … converted or eaten unless more people start wearing plastic bags over their masks. Says the trouble is heading east rapidly.’

‘That’s our direction!’ Bess cried.

‘Do we have the silver bullet?’ Kayla asked alarmedly.

‘Yeah,’ MB answered, ‘got some Coors in the cooler.’

‘GSP had a sighting on Twenty, near Oxford, before their team vanished.’ Fred trailed off for a moment. ‘I’d say they must be on us by now. On you. You downstairs people are on your own!’ With that, he and his radio went silent. 

‘Oh, no, no, no, no, no!’ Bess wailed, again circling the floor. ‘Children in C-Town! Won’t someone think of the werewolves?!’

‘I think those last kids on the street were just eaten alive,’ Kayla said ruefully. ‘Just a hunch, but I know this year we don’t need facts. I mean, if Dr. Fauci said they’re real, then they’re real.’

‘The wolf and the kid…’ Bess mumbled Aesopically.

‘Screw the kids!’ MB barked again, barkingly. ‘Uh, sorry, Bess. I mean bless those rugrats and whatnot. But, they’re on their own. They knew about the wolves. Same warning we all had. Now, I’ve got one last sash and three boards.’

‘Oh! The worst year,’ Bess said through tears. ‘First the economic coverup … I mean the virus. Then, the police state … I mean lockdown for safety. Next, we had all of the White Supremacy peaceful protests over the not-police killing of Cannon Hinnant. Russia planted that laptop for the Proud Boys – with the videos of everything except Big Floyd. And now, werewolves are coming. WEREWOLVES ARE COMING!’

‘We know they’re real because the deep state government and the totally-independent media that have both lied to us about everything ever say so,’ Kayla remarked.

‘They won’t get TPC!’ MB said defiantly while hammering a cigarette and trying to light a nail.

At that very moment, the sum of all their fears burst into violent reality. From down the stairs, there came a rattling sound, followed by a creaking and hoarse moaning.

‘Did anyone lock the front door?’ someone asked in vain.

‘Something’s snarling downstairs!’ Bess screamed.

‘It sounds hungry and crazy and overly curmudgeonly for its age! Kayla shrieked.

‘Tell me when it’s over!’ MB called down from his perch on the chandelier.

Bess leveled the double-barrel towards the blackness of the stairwell. Kayla stood by with the flashlight. MB swung pensively. In breathless terror, they waited. Heavy feet clomped up the steps. A shady, shaggy shadow crept forward out of the deeper darkness. There came the distinctive sound of a wild beast snapping, menacingly, nationalistically. At the last possible second, Kayla hit the light.

‘Get that out of my eyes!’ A perpetually-perturbed, none-too-local, and all-too-dialectic voice shouted. ‘Bess, put that blunderbuss away!’

A figure stumbled into the room.

‘Perrin!’ Bess cried. ‘We thought you’d been eaten by a werewolf!’

‘We thought you were a werewolf!’ Kayla chimed.

‘Little help up here,’ MB whispered from above.

‘Cheap soda socialists!’ came a rumor from the attic.

‘WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU NUTS GOING ON ABOUT?!’ Perrin demanded, demandingly.

‘Hello!’ Kayla hello’d. ‘Werewolves taking over? It’s all that’s on the news!’

‘They ate Da and Ryan and all the children,’ Bess said as she absent-mindedly ejected two previously fired shells from an ancient hammerless Nerf blaster.

‘Yeah, man. It’s like the pandemic, but completely more plausible,’ MB added before tumbling to the floor in a heap. ‘Go Dawgs…’ he muttered from behind the poorly-placed armoire.

‘Werewolves?!’ Perrin bellowed in typical cynicism. ‘That’s just another hoax! Won’t you people learn that everything everyone says at all times is a lie? That’s the truth, you know.’

‘But, even you said, It’s a monster! Grab the guns!’ MB remembered at the most or least opportune time. ‘Dude, like you’re even carrying a rifle, right now.’

‘I was talking about the ELECTION FALLOUT!’ Perrin boomed before wheezing pathetically, forced to lean on his newly, uh, appropriated .458 SOCOM for support. ‘The election! Civil War! Mass casualties! For the love of— For the last time – like fake, unisolated viral hoaxes, werewolves don’t exist!’

Whilst the office party evaded the eyes of the literary scion of Floyd, not one of them noticed the disheveled carcass of Da, who had, unseen, followed Perrin in, tromp to the top stair step, right behind Perrin, standing, glaring at the assembly with wicked yellow eyes, his wild hair matted like that of an unkempt wild wolf, his chest heaving, fangs protruding, growling, like a man who, bitten by some demented demon wilderness canine – as part of a sentence that just drags on and on and on and on … and you get the point, I think – had himself been turned into a hairy beast, more creature than man, intent on revenge and mayhem, poised to pounce, claws out, et cetera, et cetera, etc, and so forth; behind a semicolon, far, far, far beyond the help of a definitely terminable punctuation mark (of any kind), and now issued forth a GggggrrrrrrrRRRRR!!!! sound that indicated that he was most likely considering his former co-workers as a meal – notwithstanding Fred, who was still safe up in the attic (and, let’s face it: attic doors embedded in, let’s say a nine or ten-foot ceiling would be a little difficult for even a “War-Wilf!” to reach, because I’m going with the idea that Tolkien knew what he was talking about when he said something to the effect that not even the wild wargs could climb trees [although, even if a collapsing, spring-loaded attic door isn’t the same as a tree, we can all freely speculate] and therefore, moving on) and furthermore, okay, okay, OK, I’m losing my place now … they finally noticed that which they almost hated to think might really be Da!

Looking over his shoulder, Perrin got off the group’s final pointless words: ‘Da, what big ears you- gggahafffff!!!!!!!’

And, somewhere between the cold street and the high, full moon, a shuttering, bellowing HOWL pierced the night!

…

Away, over on 441, driving north, unaware of the unfolding calamity – perhaps shielded from it by some vague disturbance in the continuum, Thomas Becket wondered aloud: ‘How the hell did a nice French teacher like me get roped into this third-rate tripe? Ah, well, maybe there’s an old Warren Zevon song on. Or, at least a cheap ripoff…’

I saw a politician with a crumpled paper in its paw,

Staggering through the Esoteric South in pain.

It was looking for the place called T-P-C!

Gonna get its fill of something lame.

Raooooooooo… ah, yeah…

HAPPY HALLOWEEN This Holiday Canceled By Order of Dr. Fauci.

A Halloween Short Story…

30 Friday Oct 2020

Posted by perrinlovett in fiction, News and Notes

≈ Comments Off on A Halloween Short Story…

Tags

Halloween, TPC

I understand there’s one over at TPC. (Or, there will be, sometime today…) A howling good time.

We’ll have a repeat rerun, here, tomorrow for Big Pumpkin Day!

What, you ask, goes great with anything pumpkin? Well, I’d say a strong, hot cup of,

Soon…

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