FAX FROM HUNGRY TIMES PRESS / STABBER

 

FRIZZ UNFURL / FAX FROM HUNGRY TIMES PRESS / NOTHER EDITION / DODO

There was a strange turn of events last month. I saw it myself. There was a hole in the wall, big enough for a brute.

It came outta nowhere and led nowhere too, deep into the walls and in-between what's between them. 

DOWN DEEP. 

We're patching it up with stucco but also thought of using the yogurt in the break room before it all goes "off".

I saw his ghastly office door, now gone awol, all haunty and shit - that one mentioned in the first fax from Void Fox, leaning keen at the laundry mat up on Grant Street beside a folding machine that mangles kids to bits (just guessing). There's a bench in the park that had the door there leaning onto a glinty red dewey Madrone at an angle, as if furniture were practically Fonz.

These things came at inopportune times, so I put it into song and ignored texts asking about the boss and its whereabouts.

BB was already handling that stuff. She's culpable.

Where he went was deep and where he is now ain't any mind to this Minnie, not since I saw the bare dusty footprints strutting up on the walls and on the ceiling.
I got faith in freak.

Good ole' naw naw's UH numbwhere. 

UH ANYWHO 

Come on sisters and brothers, Trans, daddies, mamas, nanas, num nums. Get close and send your monetary gifts in form of checks mixt with lil' presents to our new PO Box mailing address (COMING SOON). Mail Art and Friendship Peace Gangs are cool with us. Let's be pen pals, but above UH all pals, asshole. I accept nothing but love and likewise my love is rough as sandpaper, but true as sweet rain.

The printers are humming hot, more news coming soon. We might have a subscription-based bargain with the devil that will be made available soon for new works from TELEVISION FOR GHOSTS and our MUTANT BOOKS projects - POST-VALLEY - fathoms deeper than death. Shalo P wanted me to personally convey that- Wait. Wait. Wait. UH.

Just got an urgent fax from Hungry Times Press:

WHAT COMES BEFORE ZERO?

QUIET COUNTRY

 

QUIET COUNTRY, 
our books will return. & we're looking to formally release more rad music soon

Read all about our weird little books.
They come and go like tiny flames!

"Out in the dark / there's a beckoning candle."

We're also setting up a soundcloud or bandcamp something.  

Things got derailed to get to some Issues. Issues came before Issues. It was a busy week in the workshop, with a lot of energy hopefully following through to moody melt the melody we strive to sculpt from history's ripples and reverb

From the Desk of Shalo P :
Somewhere in this haunted house a wizard sits in a pentagram of flower petals killing a Casio.

THE FAX
WHOA. These odd faxes have been filling the gray little tray for the last week without anyone noticing.
There's a lot of music around, listening to the "mix-down" material from the new VALLEY albums Shalo P is working on (WILDERNESS & FROWNY FROWN). BB is also running around talking to the publishers...
No one noticed that wheezy little fax buzz. Usually, the boss just leaves the week's updates beneath his door and nary a word is said.

NOT THIS TIME. I dunno. I'm just a temp so I'm not explaining shit. I'm a little unsure which to post first, but don't think it really matters if they're posted out of order either. I won't post the boring ones that just have "HELP" smeared all over them. I didn't even know that old fax machine was plugged in.

Anyway, they're all dripping in sticky burnt maple syrup or something. It smells like sweet and oily.
Well I'm putting this one right... here:

From the Desk of Shalo P :

NO WAY OUT. I'm sure that there was a door to this room. I'm unabashedly unamused by its disappearance. At first, I thought that maybe a stack of paper fell over to hide that old-fashioned doorknob with the crude silver chain of porcelain puppies dangling like cute clunky chimes, but when afternoon came and went with neither hide nor hair of escape I suspiciously eyed the little door beneath my desk, remembering the landlord's warning concerning the peril in its use - something vague about inexorably losing a vital part of one's self mayhaps, or even, gulp, the security deposit.

I'm sure the big door will turn up someplace. After a dinner of boiled letters, and spiced chocolate crumbs, I found a few extra screws and a partial keyhole behind a filing cabinet - totally close. I'll keep my foot blocking that creepy little door just in case though.

Once, I misplaced a window that looked out onto a trash bin in the alley. It took two weeks for me to stop compulsively throwing fruit peels at the particular spot on the wall the dang thing vanished from. Seeds dried in gross shades, sticking to wall where once patiently yawned a prim lily-white sill. The good news was that when I resorted to using the building's incinerator, I also became privy to mingling with my really interesting neighbors.

They seemed utterly charmed by the bright furnace light burning through its grill, shimmering on their black aprons, glowing the faces behind dark oily hair worn down in knotty clumps, as they casually stood over bags smoldering in the crisp bright flickers, mumbling soft: "Just die dammit. Just die. Just fucking die god-dammit." 
They were certainly pretty neat.

ANYHOO, if I were indeed trapped within the grip of the Colossal Cosmic Void then I'm happy to report that it has free wifi and vital communications are forthcoming. I think I almost have it worked out. SHEESH, I was terrified that I would have to resort to exhuming that dusty fucking fax machine in the closet.
Oh yeah, and there's something awful and angry trapped in the walls.

Hell Prevails,

K.
Television For Ghosts
San Francisco, California

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