PLANETARY STATUS REPORT!

There will come a time when the CLEAVEN-FOLK leave the hills and swamps. They’ll come after you and your fancy pants sentimentality and other grongozoid-husk-varmint-juice.

It will be RELENTLESS …

And after?

The dusk-wench will cry “FURY FOR THE DEAD SCROLLS!”

(but echoes)

Only the echo of stale promise in the light of NEW SAND REALMS.

“STAG RULE is DROWNING!”, cried Freedus, the nut-gromel and toog-stand.

He’d been clawing at reality, trying to find a way back to the Cave’s of Sym, where his mother had killed his brother’s uncle’s wife’s dog CHERRY TOP …

Dennis, the COOB, stood by the burly hornet women.

Our sadness fumed. We had not fire to warm our gruel nor cow to milk for our finer sauces. When the French King visited? – we simply had canned tuna and old ranch dressing. His cloak was thick and torn, his crown made of iron and thorns. He walked with a limp due to some wound he got during the 32nd War of Robotics and Porn. He was hated among the hill people, but loved among the harbor rats of Marseilles. Once, in Bombay, he made love to 68 women and then ran off when he found out half were pregnant … such are the tales of King Uuggen.

Still … there were night terrors and sweats and delirium tremens – as the alcohol leaves the body and the mind quakes at the thought of NEW DAY and MORNING TIME. All made smooth for the Cleaven-folk.

Cleaven-folk are powerful beasts, covered in possum oils and fish guts. They range about the streets looking for young flesh and blood ponies. Last time they ruled the lands, the soil was soaked with blood and the turnip fish lay dead upon the sands.

All for what?

Mexican pie?

Could be Troggen-Skleek – this is harvested from the Baltic where the sea demons pray.

2,000 years ago, before the Danish overlords were driven from their ancestral muck, the SKOOB-FIENDS bred lions and hawks and some squirrels. They would raise squirrel meat, and eat it.

The Cleaven-folk take BIG RISKS … they ride the wave of disarray and panic as the ASS CLOWNS of Wall Street go sideways and the FED turns NORTH. They don’t wait for TIME BANSHEES to grant special rights – nay … they are the STAR CHASERS and eat brandy soup with monsters.

When the DRE’LL told Queen Moorsol to surrender her navies following the ninth lesbian war of total regret? Did she not stand up as Cleaven-folk and declare the near space her monkey realm. Sure, she did … Can we recall how many of these fine waifs were tossed from the bus?

STRUGGS dealt the final card to Oberly and his crooked harem. He made money from selling jewel-wine and hardening window passes in Quadrant-21BRAVO. His mud whore, Sheila, dug the star-bishop and ate from the table of sand and glass. Her stare could cut you, bleed you, consume.

I know the mark of the mountain bear. I’ve seen his glare, and the growling embittered voice of that hairy thing haunts my nights. I ran to the forest and lived like a denizen of stuzzle-graves. I ate the last pieces of that dead thing, that was buried under the church nearby.

SHALL WE TALK OF CLEAVEN-FOLK MAGIC?!

1. Grape saw gloom.
2. Tester binge.
3. Rat march.
4. Kennedy sideways after darkness.
5. Moon rile.
6. Ghost coffee.
7. Kelp trials.
8. Snake bearer.
9. Summon the gods.
10. Demon power rod.
11. Jizz parley.

Do you want to travel further down the back roads of Styg Town and sojourn among the flying fish?

You just have to break free …

For too many days now, the HELGEN-KLAN has been scouring the river bottoms for what’s left of the salmprey … half salmon, half lamprey … something the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation came up with …

Seegen-Nol, the knife-wielder, kept his own nig-swamp out back behind the dumpster. He’d brew muesel-wax and sell his own tyg-sore scabs to the pimp off of Blinkton Street. There were those demon cubs that roamed about, seeking after the fallen-by’s and the other side-alley scum crew. He’d been Helgen-Klan since he was 10 years old, before that he was sold to the pedo-merchants for use by the sky-lords and the sky-hawk-shaman.

The MORG FIEND UNION of splaguus were living it LARGE 10,000 feet up … in super-mega structures of steel and will and whore-guzzle … These were the SKY FIENDS selling juice marker to the scuzzle realm below … the lower tiers … the sewer folk.

At the appointed time each day, he would climb to the top of Dixon Tower, and speak directly to the sky-lords above, in their cloud realms, living a kite-fancy life:

YERGEN, I was your butter scamp during the heaving times,
You kept my flesh hidden in the score zone,
You kept my screams blocked by the lancet guards,
You kept my skeezel-juice in a JAR labeled COARSE ...

I saw you ...

HO-TREASE, you beat me with whips of iron and glass,
so many chunks of flesh tore off and left by the sink,
and you told me "don't tell anyone", and so I didn't.
I kept your HO-SECRET, 
as I cleaned the cum and blood from the bathroom floor.

I brought you spice wine ...

And the VOOR-DOMERS?
That tribe of sea minge?
They would tie me up and kick me,
they would spend all day beating and kicking me.
They enjoyed filling a pillow case with bars of soap,
and taking that bag of soap,
and pounding me in the nads ...

I remember your breath ...

I spend my days making swords and knives,
I carve out my words of revenge on every dead thing.

I keep the warm truth of this hellscape,
and for the cost of my rotten flesh ...

I'll wait for you, you fuckers ...

I'll wait for you in Hell.

Seegen-Nol spoke those words, to the sky, to the clans above …

They were the golden people, and their world was clean and their air was crisp and pure and innocent still …

The eagles and hawks had long since gone, but the robot birds guarded these regions …

And Seegen-Nol knew his challenge was great.

But his was the song of revenge.

There’s was the reaping of consequences, growing from a garden of dismal rule.

“I SEE YOU SKY PEOPLE” …

(I see you)