Outré: Special Adar Issue!

Started by Fabulous Secret Powers, December 02, 2024, 02:44:39 PM

Previous topic - Next topic

Fabulous Secret Powers


Adar 1, IY 7788                                                                  Price 15 dinars

OUTRÉ







Peculiar Polis Picks Palatial Pooch!

by Oya Onaral, Editor-in-Chief



Frequent readers of Outré are intimately familiar with Ephia's Well, the saddest of satrapies claimed by Osman VI. After all, many of our queerest news come from that strange slum, in which every day is anything but ordinary. This disease-riddled rathole is the testing grounds for democracy, a curious alternative political system invented by a jolly old man with a big bushy beard. Please subscribe to our book club to receive your copy of the Complete Works of Asterabadi today!

Under democracy, the people of the Well, whom are referred to as "Wellfolk" by genial souls, or as lunatics by those more honest, are able to choose their own leaders. Asterabadi outlies this peculiar system in his Complete Works, which, as mentioned, is available from our book club. Get your Special Adar Coupon today! It is obvious that Ephia's Well has not subscribed to our book club, as it has already proved itself unworthy of Asterabadi's teachings. Why? For they have chosen a dog as their leader! Yes, you read that correctly. A dog!

The Palatial Pooch, also known as "Dan", represented the "League of Gold" during the election. This "league" is a peculiar political hodgepodge, established by former gold prospectors afflicted with megalomania, and tinnitus. Today, it consists of further maniacs, whom devour liquid gold each and every night in hopes that it would grant them immortality. Thankfully for our sakes, it doesn't!

The Palatial Pooch is reported to dine on a diet of golden bones, dug out from the vaults of the ancient giants. This ostentatious dining experience has caused such a dent in the sadrapy's treasury, that people can no longer afford to wear clothes. Instead, they don potato sacks upon their form, as witnessed by one poor tourist, whose experience in the Well was so horrendous that we shan't print it here, in interest of protecting our readers with weaker hearts.

Dan himself has no such problems with his wardrobe, as he wears a scarf woven out of pure gold, rumored to have been a custom order from our very own Big Bash. A most honest witness attests that one of Dan's rivals in the league, a crazed warlock known as the "Tarragon", attempted to devour the scarf in his quest for immortality. When reached for an interview, the Palatial Pooch had this to say about the spat: "Arf."

This is another piece of evidence that for the sake of common decency, Ephia's Well should have remained a mere bivoauc, a crazed glimmer in the eyes of some drug-addled outringer. Yet for the sake of entertainment, it is a gift that we can all thank the Wheel for!



Fabulous Secret Powers



Big Bash's Famous Column

by Bashir "Big Bash" Khatara



Adar truly is the coming of new things. I never expected to receive such a barrage of spiteful scorn and slander, as I finished my previous column.

After all, it was about shampoo. Shampoo. A topic that I considered as something that we could all discuss in a dignified fashion, like the fashionistas that we are! I mean, fashion's right there in the moniker...

Yet it became painfully obvious, as I read through the pile of disgraceful dreck, that some folk hold truly repugnant views on this most basic of hygiene products. I won't refer to them as "you", as they undoubtedly are not part of my readership, all of whom are people of good taste and tact.

Each petty letter acts as evidence of folk that are truly lost, both in their hygiene, and in what they should be reading. "I refuse to partake in the 'poo," said one of them. Well, people also refuse to partake in your company, for obvious reasons, so, you should probably reconsider that. Bitch.

Others scoffed at the notion of coconut-based shampoo being the absolute best. "I cannot believe that you chose the nut, when papaya's right there!" I won't deny you the chance to question my rightful belief, even though you're absolutely and completely wrong. Papaya's a fine fruit. It's just that coconut's much better. For you unbelievers, I can merely implore you to try it for yourself. You'll learn to simply love the nut as much as I do. There's also a bunch of really boring theses written by a bunch of academicks, but I didn't bother reading those, because who would?

Yet focusing on such hatefulness brings forth a most unpleasant imbalance of chakras! So, I'd rather address something more pleasant. Some of the letters, thankfully, were more rooted in reality. "I can't afford shampoo. What should I use instead?" In such cases, you should opt for dry shampoo! Your ancestors used its most basic form... Sand! Yes, I know, it sounds absolutely crazy, but believe you me, it works. It is simply lacking in the wondrous exuberance brought forth by the grandiose aroma and feel contained within coconuts... But for the sake of beauty, you have to make a lot of sacrifices!

So, scrub some sand in your hair if you've nothing else. Just make sure that it's clean, first! If you happen to live somewhere with plenty of clay, like Alkab, you could opt for that, instead. Unless the clay is sacred... Then you shouldn't use it, for obvious reasons. Like, really, don't do that. If you do, it's your own fault, not mine. My publisher says that I can't be sued by people that don't finish the entire column, so, nobody should even try that, either, because it's a waste of time and money!

I hope that with this column, we can finally lay the topic at hand to rest, at least for this year. After all, beauty undergoes many a revolution with each passing year! What changes will we see in 7789? You can expect me to cover that most diligently, with each and every column! As always, feel free to send me letters with questions, and suggestions for topics. As long as they're not inane drivel, like the first example addressed here...

Now, it's time to wash my hair! Guess what I'll be using to do so?



Fabulous Secret Powers



Gnome Goes Gaga gor Geezer!

by Kağan Kut



Marcellus Saenus, mostly known for his work in war, as well as for being the father of infamed debutante and debauchee Ricky Saenus, was enjoying a quiet stroll through the dunes one fateful night, when disaster struck. A portly gnome, foaming at the mouth, leaped at the pensioner, and claimed to be one of the long-forgotten Cactusfolk.

The mad mossback was so taken aback by this, that he leaped on his fateful steed, "Burger Time", and began to trot away from the hefty gnome. Very slowly. Our reporters were unable to determine the exact cause for this lethargy, but one of them speculates that this was brought upon by the severe senility that Lieutenant Saenus suffers from.

As the curious chase continued, the gnome kept shrieking that he was going "consume" the lethargic Lieutenant. A truly bizarre statement, showcasing a complete lack of understanding of Cactusfolk behavior. As everyone knows, Cactusfolk make their pilgrimages four times a year, to sites of sacred waters, such as the ever-blessed Al-Nafura, in order to sup the holy dew of Mother B'aara. Also, they consume camel manure. As such, they have no need for the "consuming" of senile geezers.

Witnesses report that the maddened gnome had to be put out of his misery, as his mind was completely gone, without a chance for recovery. Lieutenant Saenus buried the deceased, while tears poured down from his wizened eyes, dripping upon the hamburger that he was stressfully eating. The anonymous gnome is mourned by a family of eight: six gnomes and two sandcaps.



Fabulous Secret Powers



Shoulder Gators?! Latest Fad Chomps through Desert!

by Shadi Remezani



Ephia's Well, the biggest exporter of weird, has brought yet another dangerous craze to the Great Ash Desert: shoulder gators. These miniature crocs sit down right by your neck, ready to chomp anything that they see... including you!

A terrible idea? Most likely. Yet perhaps we should not be so hasty to judge. After all, in a previous article, we covered another curious use-case of animals in Ephia's Well: monkey engineers. As Ephia's Well has not yet exploded, perhaps the peculiar potential that they see in animals is, in fact, correct. Yet this reporter must question if the monkeys merely happen to be less inept than the average Welldweller.

Our team attempted to find the first shoulder gator, "Sven", yet were unable to do so. One professional "worminger" – a hunter of the endless worms that infest the shabby satrapy – suspected that the croc was tiny enough that it might have fallen through the cracks of the city, of which there are many. For the sake of poor Sven, we certainly hope such is not the case!

This reporter cannot help but wonder why the Welldwellers did not use their strange animalistic powers to create a miniature groknak. Such a creature would be a creature of calm demeanor, and a most affordable-to-feed pet, sustaining itself entirely on mere pebbles. Yet the people of Ephia's Well do not opt for the sensible. Quite the opposite! What horrid monstrosity will they create next?



Fabulous Secret Powers



`I Married an Orcan Warlord'

by Mahdi ibn Mahdi



Outré does not typically cover war stories, due to the sheer depressing nature of the topic. However, when fan favorite Sawsan Tafweek contacted us about her most recent marriage, we knew that we had to make an exception. If you have read our previous coverage, then you are undoubtedly aware that in the past, she has also claimed marriage with Osman VI, the Masters of Alkab, and Velan Volandis, among many others. The interview below details her relationship with her latest beau: Iakmes, "Chief of Chiefs".

Q: Good evening, Sawsan. I understand that you are now married to the foul orcan warlord, Iakmes, Scourge of the Desert?

A: Yes. I is.

Q: How did you meet your latest husband?

A: Well, I was vacationing down in Arslan, I was, when these orcs surrounded them walls and started slaughtering most everyone. T'was there that I seen him, first. His purty eyes, full of hope... and bloodshed! Fancied him in that very first moment, I did. He jumped down from them walls, got on his knee, and set a desert rose upon me hand... "Yer the most beautiful woman I dids ever see," he said! T'were love at first sight, for us both!

Q: Lovely. How did your latest husband court you?

A: Well, he immediately brings me to his hometown... "Orctown", they calls it! Is a lovely place... Did you know that orcs live in treehouses? Is the truth! He took me upon his brawny arms, he did, then grabbed one of them jungle vines, he did, and we rode it through the jungle, while the moon dids glimmer upon our unattired forms... Ah, what a lovely eve t'were!

Q: Horrible. How did he propose? What was the latest marriage ceremony like?

A: Oh, my Ikky is a humble man, he is. So, obviously, t'weren't no fancy eve in Baz'eel, with them silky pillows or them horse devourers... Why do them fancy folk call such wee sorts that? Ain't eating no horse, if y'be so wee! Anyhoo... Instead, brought me on a gondola ride, he did, which is far more modest. Y'know, can't have no braggart, me, no, learned me lesson with me Velly... Anyhoo, got down on his knee, and set a torc around me neck! Imagine that! A torc! But t'weren't a torc, t'were a giant ring! From them giants that used to roam around these here sands... No diamond, 'cause that's just too fancy, y'know? T'was an emerald instead. Not a fancy boy, my Ikky, no! And the ceremony...? Real modest, real modest... Only had ten thousand guests! Nine thousand of which were his side of the family... Nine hundred of which were his friends... Rest was mine. Be a busy gal, what can I say? Plain cooking, too... Like them fatty livers! I loves fat.

Q: How do you find married life, in your most recent marriage?

A: Well, it is simply grand, it is. I loves him so much, I does. Cherishes me so much, my Ikky... Always brings me pressies, he does. Things like pretty baubles, decorated skulls... and meat pies! I loves me some meat pie. Salted. Just salt. Ain't having no fancy herbs or spices in my meat pie, no, got to be salt, and just that. Anything else ruins it. My Ikky, he understands, he does. Ain't bringing me no foul fancy meat pie. Just plain old meat pie, just the way I likes it.

Q: You do understand that these "pressies" are spoils of war, looted from his countless victims?

A: Well, he is an orcan warlord, he is.



Fabulous Secret Powers



Prized Prizefighter Prizes Fighting, Fights for Prize, then Fights with Prize

by Elvio Bezzi



Infamed boxer, Sally "the Schauzer" Santoro, caused yet another scene last week after claiming victory in a championship match, in some settlement somewhere which nobody cares about. We talked with Alan "Al" Prince, noted boxing consultant, who had far too much to say about occurrence, yet we only paid enough attention to get the juiciest details. Here's what old Al had to say:

"Oh, ol' Sally was happy... for a moment. Then he read what was written on that there belt. 'Champion'. Now, Sally, being Sally... he didn't like that. Ain't no champion in the room but him. So he started clobbering it like there were no tomorrow. Kept on going until you couldn't read the damn thing. Only then and there, he was satisfied. Then, he took out some liverwurst, and shoved it right down his gut! Then, he farted. Was awful. Smelled like a retirement home for horses. Goddamn!"

Our team attempted to reach Sally himself for a comment, but could not manage, due to his obnoxious tendency to shadowbox at all times. Sally "the Schnauzer" Santoro - truly a sore winner.



Fabulous Secret Powers



Hunting for the Snorf
Part I


by Lord Ethelbert Westcott the Third

edited by Mahdi ibn Mahdi



Adar 1st, IY 7787.—Ensuing the dropping off a most comprehensive assortment of luggage at the local hostel, I made a chancey commitment to learn more of the insular "culture" of Frostport. I made my way to the local pub, a ramshackle affair which was completely lacking in spirit. With guard of course, as one can never feel themselves safe amidst these hirsute barbarians. As I sat upon the wholly odious stool, a native, whom I mistook for the Snorf itself due to his disproportionate body hair and mouse-like face, offered me something to drink. Yet it was obviously some sort of jape, intended to make a fool of any distinguished foreigner unfortunate enough to be lost in this hyperborean hamlet. Such was made evident by the tankard's contents; a foul, grayish liquid, the stench of which brought to mind the most spoiled of milks. After the lad finally understood the meaning of privacy and left, I immediately poured the disgusting libation upon the moldy floorboards. Such gunk is ill fit for human consumption.

Adar 2nd.—The "bed" that I am paying for out of my own pocket — thanks to a generous grant from the Academy — reeks to high heaven, due to the curious habit of these primitives; throwing bearskin wherever they can. I could only sleep for a mere nine hours, and as such, shall not be partaking in the expedition today.

Adar 3rd.—There is a most fierce storm outside today. To leave this atrocious room would mean to place oneself at the mercy of the many maladies infesting the hellscape outside. As such, I shall be partaking in the light reading for today's entirety. Asterabadi's ideas are naive, yet one must still cultivate themselves in the flawed as well, in order to formulate responses in advance for the countless shindigs that I am invited to.

Adar 4th.—One of the natives posed a most graceless question. Would I like to "pet" their horrid, rabies-infested mutt? I was so taken aback by this, that I shall be spending the rest of the day within my room, as arduous of a task as that can be. Only with plenty of repose can one recover from such a mortifying shock.

Adar 5th.—The "cuisine" here is most foul. Fish, fish, and more fish, next to unknowable slatherings of disgusting red sludge, and brown bread baked from the sickened weeds that the natives manage to glean from beneath the snow. Bread should not be brown. My tummy is so upset that I shall have to forget about the legendary Snorf for the remainder of today.

Adar 6th.—It is said that the Snorf is deeply fearful of the number six. Due to this beastial superstition, I shall not be seeking the beast of legend today. Instead, I shall be committing the entire day to the worthiest of pursuits: devising new strategies for chovgan. Naturally, this means that I shall be laying in bed, focusing my mind and soul upon the horse and its very nature, to become one with it.

Adar 7th.—These accursed barbarians! I have contracted a most diabolical ailment from them. Their utter lack of proper hygiene is to be blamed for this. Now, I cannot help but sneeze; a grave offense, as the Gods did not intend anything to come out of the nose. Thankfully I am able to balance this with the opposite, as I brought many a prescription with me to ensure the success of this momentous occasion. The Snorf shall be discovered. Yet it shall happen after I recover from this malady, and the copious amounts of slice spice that I just inhaled.

CONTINUED IN PART II...



Fabulous Secret Powers



ADVERTISEMENTS



Dr. Diddle-dee Dogwood's Medicinal Spa-tulas! A Fantabulous, Miraculous, Supernaturalous Cure-All!

The end of the world got you down? Disappointed in your love life? Lost your job at the retirement home for horses? Try Dr. Diddle-dee Dogwood's Medicinal Spa-tulas, carefully formulated for your armpits! Simply place one Medicinal Spa-tula under each armpit, and let Dr. Diddle-dee Dogwood's patented formula work its magick on your chakras, dantians and humors, uplifting your spirit to new heights! In the evening, before bed, place a spa-tula under your tongue, and wake up to the new dawn with superior moxie! It's a uplift-or, not a depress-or! The essence of a day at the spa in each — truly a Spa-tula!



Dr. Diddle-dee Dogwood is not responsible for the loss of any armpit hair, blue-tinted tongues or any allergic reactions caused by heavy metals. Dr. Diddle-dee Dogwood's Medicinal Spa-tulas are not to be used by the Elves of Spring's Gift, or the Cactusfolk of Glochidia. Dr. Diddle-dee Dogwood is not an accredited doctor of medicine.




Now Available from Pariah Press... Illustrated Editions of Detective Jo Hardacre's Steamy Investigations!

You've pictured him and his immense beauty in your mind... Now see it for real! Ingeniously llustrated by the famed Lauro Sabatino ("Larry of Il Modo"), these sensuous editions are simply the best way to read about Hardacre's curious adventures! Each illustrated page allows you to rest your mind, and witness what Hardacre's exploits could have looked in actuality. And what's that in the middle of each tome? Why, it's what we call a "centerfold"! A portrait of such alluringly detailed beauty, that you'll simply have to see it to believe it! Order your copies today!



Illustrations may cause hysteria. The stories and the men contained within them are pure fiction; Ephia's Well will disappoint you. The third part remains unfinished — we've asked Big Bash about it multiple times!




Wo-man sought.

Gronk wants to meet wo-man. Gronk said to look handsome, have great sense of humor, be symp-at-hick. Gronk not hobgob. Gronk man of great passion. Wo-man sends reply to Gronk, if interest.




Eat Like a Groknak... Live Like a Groknak!

Groknaks live for thousands of years. What's the secret? Their diet! The latent, life-giving energies contained within stone are something that geomancers have studied and known about for countless aeons. Yet they've never shared their secrets... Until now. Mu'allima Aamaal ibn Husam ibn Idir at-Marudeen imparts the greatest revelation of our lifetime... The Groknak Diet! Under the Great Mu'allima's tutelage, you too shall know what rocks to eat for a long, vigorous life! Each book comes with a free hammer and chisel!



Aamaal ibn Husam ibn Idir at-Marudeen is not an accredited doctor of geomancy. Price of book adjusted for expenditures accrued by included hammer and chisel.




Cursed? Haunted? Lonely? Call Upon the Hexorcist!

In today's multifaceted society, one has to navigate the maze-like morass of social circumstance. Rivalry rises from even the slightest of ill-chosen turns of phrase, and the pettiness of said rival could very much set you upon the path of lamentable fate. They could curse you. They could summon a foul spectre to haunt you. Worst of all, they could ruin your reputation and doom you to a life of loneliness. Worry not! The Hexorcist — Faysal al-Nishapuri — is here to help you. I'll unhex you! I'll unhaunt you! I'll even listen to you talk, for hours on end, as you lay upon the comfiest of couches! Call upon the Hexorcist — Faysal al-Nishapuri!



Faysal al-Nishapuri is an accredited doctor of the consecrative arts, medicine and the philosophy of the mind. Outré has no idea how this happened.





Fabulous Secret Powers



On the Nature of the Fat Father

by Professor Fikret Kinali



As the Wheel turns to Adar, we find ourselves amidst many a tradition, juxtaposed against a constant barrage of the nouveau. In Ephia's Well, a quaint little settlement of inconsequential consequence, we can find perhaps one of the strangest Adar customs of our time: the Gift-giving of the Fat Father. It is an extraordinary tale; a man whom is identified by his overweight frame, yet at the same, is able to move at such ludicrous velocity that he can seemingly manage to be in multiple locations, all at once. He delivers presents to those whom he deigns worthy, yet nobody ever sees him. All the same, they know that the gifts came from him. How is any of this possible?

It is exactly this absurdity which makes me question: what is the quiddity of the Fat Father? It cannot be mere rotundity. Many are fat, even in our time of scarcity. It cannot be mere fatherhood, as such would be quite absurd. Is my father the Fat Father? Nay, of course not! In their desperation, some may look to the synthesis of these traits for guidance. Yet such cannot sufficiently answer the enigma, either. There are many fat fathers, yet only the Fat Father is the Fat Father, without his fat fatherhood defining him for whom he is. The moniker seemingly describes the most notable features, yet they do not manage to lift us from the mists of vagueness in the slightest.

It is my vastly learned and critically formed belief that instead of being defined by what he is, the Fat Father is instead defined by what he is, despite being unable to be so. In other words, the Fat Father is defined by his paradoxical nature, which simultaneously embeds him in our reality, and keeps him away from it. The Fat Father is, for one, whom he is exactly because of his conjoined  omnipresence and nonpresence. The obviously impossible enables his possibility. If it did not, we would not perceive him!

And it is in this paradox in which we find the Fat Father to be a most curious creature. For one, despite being ontologically dependent on the Wellfolk whom believe in him, the Fat Father is still not an ontological entity. He is something in-between! He is a pseudo-ontological entity! The paradox demands this! It demands for him to simultaneously exist, yet not exist! The phenomenical shroud brought on by our feeble understanding is the womb from which the Fat Father sprang forth! To be, to exist, he must remain vague! If we fully understood him, he would not be!

And to those whom hold the ridiculous belief that in actuality, the Fat Father is merely one of the Chosen of Warad, creating a false pretense of adiposity by sliding a pillow beneath their sark, I have merely one word to share... Camelshit! Your brain has been infested by the foulest of toxins leaking from the accursed teats of the Sabotage! You are blind! You are a fool! You are a moron of the lowest sort! You are a discarded tumor from a camel's rear! May Izdu's eye provide the illumination to guide you away from such tommyrot!



Fabulous Secret Powers



Confessions of a Sin-eater, Part LII

by Anonymous



Another letter landed on the desk. Fancy lettering, fancy envelope, fancy crest. Stinks of my favorite kinda dosh: old. Got a curious contradiction there. You see, the dotipoles tend to believe in tradition. Thing is, they don't actually know what the tradition is, so you get to dictate it. Nouveau? Bunch of pretentious yoofs, think they know everything. Pass on by a bunch of gobshite your way of how it's all going to go down. Shite business.

House call. Preferred, don't have to clean, don't have to decorate. Shake hands, get a good look of their mush. Inbred, look like a terrier that ran right into a brick wall, snout first. Perfect. Hit them with the usual. "Her sin of dipsomania calls for the fattened liver of a goose". Like ordering off a menu, really. Finish with the good ole "cross my palm with silver". They love that crock.

Like to tell them to nab me a real stink-dog, too. Not just 'cause that's how I prefer it — also keeps them away. Get my mate Javad to mutter cobblers while I eat. Muttering cobblers? Pure mysticism. And you know Javad, he's a real spiv. Bisht or frock, it's all like your weekend best: there to sell something. Javad? He's a true salesman.

Granny were a right down dirty sinner. List as long as the beard of Izdu. Some, like these scuts, want you to eat it, 'cause pure symbolism ain't doing it — got to meet them halfway. Ain't doing that. Got something in its stead: edible paper. Fancy that. Don't know who fangled that out, but bless their soul. Crumple the genuine article, stash it your pocket, eat the sugary sheet. Real moreish.

Javad and me get a free meal, and granny's progeny get to think that the Wheel ain't going to grind her to dust under its weight. Not too roughly, anywise. Win-win, really. I love my job.



Fabulous Secret Powers

THE TWINK THAT STOLE WINTERMOSS


A SEASONAL "HARDACRE INVESTIGATES" DETECTIVE MINI-NOVELETTE


WRITTEN BY BASHIR "BIG BASH" KHATARA


EDITED BY I. IMPETUOUS


PUBLISHED BY PARIAH PRESS, IN COOPERATION WITH OUTRÉ


"WE'LL PUBLISH ANYTHING, AND WE DO MEAN ANYTHING!"


PARIAH PRESS UNDERSTANDS HOW IMPORTANT SUSTAINABILITY IS IN A DYING WORLD. THEREFORE ALL OF OUR PUBLICATIONS USE PAPER FROM THEORETICALLY RENEWABLE SOURCES. IF YOU ARE SOME SORT OF CRAZY KULAMET, DON'T BOTHER SENDING US ANY COMPLAINTS! YOU ARE WASTING VALUABLE PAPER BY DOING THIS, YOU HYPOCRITE!


THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION, AND ANY AND ALL CHARACTERS, EVENTS AND PHENOMENA DESCRIBED WITHIN ARE PURELY FICTIONAL. RESEMBLANCE WITH REALITY IS PURELY COINCIDENTAL, UNLESS INTENTIONAL. ANY SIMILARITIES ARE NOT ADMISSABLE IN ANY COURT OF LAW. OUR LEGAL TEAM KNOWS WHERE AND HOW YOU LIVE.






For all the men in my life, of which there are too many.



CHAPTER I

In a bountiful boutique filled with curious curios, the most adorable current-detective-and-former-Nadiri power couple of our time, Jo and Agatino Hardacre, were engaged in the most sacred of Wintermoss traditions... incense shopping.

"Honey... Look... This dhoop looks exactly like the current Legate..."

"Blimey! It does! Bloody peculiar! It also looks like dogshite."

"Sugarbun... Please do not speak of such things... Even though you're completely correct of the fecal resemblance..."

"Would you two hurry-a up-a! As Average Modini Man, I have-a to go home to my loving family for-a the holidays," squeaked the Average Modini Shopkeep, rudely interrupting a most enjoyable bout of shopping. Hardacre squinted at him dubiously.

"Mamma mia! What I mean to say-a, is that as Average Modini Man, I need-a to hurry-a to my mistress to cheat-a on-a my spouse! A!"

"That's what I bloody thought! Anyhow. We'll take these two packs of benjamin dhoops and one mandarin coil."

"Cupcake... I wanted the eucalyptus..."

"Fine, we'll take that shite too."

"That'll be-a ten thousand dinars!"

"Feck! That's bloody expensive!"

"You-a telling me! Priority job inflation is-a killing my business!"

The handsomely beautiful detective dropped a Lot of Money — his weekly allowance given to him by Agatino —  into the Modini's greasy palms. The couple then left for their magnificent manse. The Average Modini Man, on the other hand, hurried off to disappoint his mistress.



CHAPTER II

As the comely couple neared their front door, Jo made a sudden stop. He could hear the tiniest of knocks. He could do this due to his education at the Tablet School of Hard Knocks, where he had also minored in the tiny knocks. The duo looked down... and saw a most adorable sight! It was the Tiniest Nadiri, Sandys Yum. You had to squint a lot to see them.

The Tiniest Nadiri bounced up and down, making a lot of buzzing sounds, but neither Jo or Agatino could make any sense of them. So, Jo lifted Sandys up on his finger, and brought them close to his fashionably pierced ear.

"um... help, hardacre! someone kidnapped the fat father!"

"BLIMEY! Thas some bloody horrid shite! Who could commit such an atrocity?!"

"um... they say that it was..."

"Yeah?"

"a twink!"

"Feck. In this town, that could be anyone. It's just fat fecks, hunks, twinks, twunks, and nothing in between. Sounds like a real challenge, but..."

"but?"

"I'll take ta case!"

"teehee! i knew you would... by the way, you're quite handsome!"

"I'm married, and I ain't dating no pipsqueaks, even if I weren't. Sorry, not sorry."

"fuck! shit! piss! every guy i crush hard on is either married, engages in the heterosexualities or is some brooding asshole with a massive assortment of personality disorders, which is deeply attractive to me for some utterly baffling reason..."

"Thas rough. Anyhow, I'm off ta solve ta case," Jo replied with complete and utter sympathy, and headed off to solve the case.



CHAPTER III

The labyrinthine passages of the Stockade were so utterly perplexing that not even a minotaur could find their way in them. Which was a common problem, because the poorest of minotaurs had to live here, because they couldn't afford a maze of their own. If there ever was a place to find a dirty, deplorable and/or disastrous twink, this was is it. Jo walked up to the Stockade's bar. He actually had to walk up, because the bar was on the ceiling. It had been one of those snap decisions.

"Yeah? The fuck you want," asked the hunkly bartender from behind the counter. His tattoos, masterfully inked by a true virtuoso, accentuated his raw musculature, which, in turn, accentuated his tattoos. This sensation is what academicks refer to as a "feedback loop".

"Yeh? Ta feck ye want," retorted the twunkly detective.

"Wait... Jo!? Is that you? How's it going, you old queen?!"

"I'm married ta ta hottest guy in ta world. Ta. You?"

"Shit. I'm only married to the eleventh hottest guy in the world. You sure showed me, Jo. I should've never slightly teased you when we were younger. I've learned my fucking lesson."

"I'm sure yer husband's given ye plenty of such. Anyhow. Seen any twinks?"

"Yeah... A couple thousand of them, Jo! Where the fuck do you think we are?"

"Oh. Right. Right. Well... Seen any particularly low-down, scummy, outright scandalous twinks?"

"Shit. That narrows it down. Yeah, I seen one."

"Blimey! Who?"

"Ranius 'Ray' Spurius. Was carrying the Fat Father on his shoulder."

"Shite! 'Queen of Drama' himself, huh...? Well, uh... That was easy. So, uh... Huh. Was prepared ta spend more time here. Huh... Uh. Sooooo... Didcha catch Trai's one man show?"

"Oh, I absolutely hate him! Yet I hate that crow's nest he calls a hat even more! Looked like something the homeless shit in! And well, I'm painfully familiar with what that looks like, considering where we are... And it isn't like anything under that stench trench was an improvement, either! Black on black on black, real fucking imaginative! Tacky ass bitch! As for the show itself... I simply loved it. Real poignant, truly captured the zeitgeist and brought it to the stage for all to see."

"Yeah, that kit was some minging shite, for sure... Embarrassment ta ta entire community, really. Show was bloody brilliant, though! Uh. Well, enough faffing about... Time ta solve ta case," and began trailing Ray's trail.



CHAPTER IV

The blistering heat of the Scald struck Jo like a fiery arrow. Even amidst such hellish hotness, it had all managed to get even worse as he had neared the Immolation. That lone volcanic hermit stood as a warning to all those whom would make the mistake of undertaking such a perilous journey. However, the heat was, thankfully, the only real challenge involved in tracking Ray. His excess hair oil, which had demanded the massacre of a thousand Modini eels, had left quite an evident trail behind him. In the Scald, the track of oil had been set ablaze, transforming into a singular line of flame, leading straight towards the Immolation.

Jo shot his grappling hook upwards, towards the peak. Success! Partial, at least. The hook had landed on something... yet it sounded quite jiggly, and mushy. Fat, even. With a single pull of the trigger, Jo yanked himself towards the peak. There, he discovered what the hook had struck... The Fat Father's rear!

"Oi! Sorry, pops. Had ta improvise."

The Fat Father simply shrugged, as if the hook up his patootie was no big deal whatsoever. Next to him, stood the Queen of Drama, himself... Ray Spurius. Taut of pecs, flab of ass. Seriously, those magnificent pectorals were the only reason anyone would even consider dating this bitch-made loser. They pushed against a hot pink crop top, straining the fabric to its very limits. Across the chest, were written the fateful words... "#1 Party Boy". Across his face, lined an assortment of tacky piercings. It was as if he had fallen asleep against a cactus.

"Hardacre! So... You finally came. Took you long enough. Disappointing... Boys around town tell me that you usually don't have problems with that. Problems with... coming. Coming early."

"Oi, shut ta feck up. Why'd ye snatch ta Portly Papa? What's yer game? Ain't tennis, obviously, what with yer flabby arse."

"Hey! Hey! I do, like, a thousand chest dips, every single day. EVERY. SINGLE. DAY. So fuck you, you has-been bitch. Wait. You're like, totally still an absolute bitch, you're just a has-been... Oh, forget it! As for my game... Should be obvious," Ray screeched impotently, pointing to his tacky shirt.

"Yer committing crimes against fashion, by forcing Chunky Charlie to mass-produce gaudy crop tops, via debt bondage?"

"NO! I'm preparing the party of the century... By blocking the flow of the Immolation with the Fat Father's chunky carcass, I'll give the Disc a real fireworks show... The fireworks show of the century! No... the millennium! It'll simply be to die for... in a most fiery fashion!"

"Oi! Oi! Thas crazy. If yer plan is so bloody brilliant, then tell me this... Why didn't ya just use yer flabby arse ta block ta flow?"

A crowd, which had been following Jo around to hear his brilliantly witty retorts, began hooting and hollering upon hearing his brilliantly witty retort. Then they were caught ablaze, and burned alive. While hooting and hollering. At Jo's brilliantly witty retorts. The immolation wasn't because of the mad science of his fiery flow. It was just Immolation-induced immolation.

"Oh, all of you bitches shut up! Just shut the fuck up! It wasn't that sharp... Real cheap shot! Just repeating the same thing, really... Besides, some guys love a real barrel of eel oil or two in the back, you know what I'm saying? Anyhoo... Wait. Wait... Wait! Actually, that's a fabulous plan. Like, totes no sarcasm involved. It's pretty smart, really. Why didn't I think of that? Wouldn't have to have lugged this Fat Fuck around... Shit! This bites."

"Yeah, yeah. Never were ta thinking type, were ye? By ta way... Catch this," Jo sassed sharply, deftly loaded former Nadiri Slight's incorporeal voice into his pocket crossbow, and shot it straight at Ray's swollen cactus face. Yes, Slight was there. After all, she was always with Jo. Always.

"Booooooooooooooo it's scarier because you can't discern my foooooooooooorm!"

Slight's ethereal voice truly was startling. So startling, in fact, that it spooked Ray to such an extent that he slipped clumsily, and fell off the edge, right into the crater!

"Aww shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit screw yooooooooouuuuuuuu you incorporeal biiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii–"

Ray's ineffectual shrieking was interrupted by a hot date with some lava. Thankfully, Ray always kissed on the first date, because he was a slut, so, he fell in face first, and the Immolation's flow wasn't blocked. Because of physics. Butt physics.

Despite Ray's befouled soul and pathetic demise, Jo began reciting a prayer. There was honor among twinks, and twunks, and twinks and twunks. It was a most catty and spiteful sort of honor, but honor it was, nonetheless. The prayer was a secret one, shared only among the members of the international twink cabal. Jo was now a beautifully handsome twunk, but once, he had been a handsomely beautiful twink. It was a transformation that you were forced to undertake eventually, unless you wished to die amidst loneliness and shame.

"Aight. Case solved. Let's get ta hell outta here," Jo murmured conclusively, and started sliding down the volcano's side, dragging the Fat Father behind him by the hook. Suddenly, in their wake, there was an abrupt eruption! Yet it was one of those safe-enough sort of eruptions, which simply made Jo's sliding look even more awesome than it already was. The orcs of the Scald were so impressed by the sight that they started reconsidering their life decisions. And so it came to pass, in that momentous occasion, that the first orcan crocheter was born. And a few orcan volcano surfers. Truly, history in the making.



CHAPTER V

In Casa Hardacre, a most cheerful crowd was gathered around the traditional Wintermoss dish – a colossal serving of sticky date pudding, complete with fixings! After all, ice cream could fix anything. The Hardacres were forced to get two colossal sticky date puddings, because the Fat Father was now their honored guest. True to his name and form, he was a real pig, and had proceeded to go hog wild on that extra pudding the moment he had stepped inside the magnificent manse. Jo's attempts to ignore the corpulent cacophony were failing.

"Ain't ever heard such nasty shite... Well, at least it's a happy ending. Ain't having no ancient volcano exploding on my watch. And there's puddang, too... Blimey!"

"Oh, pudding, please do not pronounce 'pudding' like that..."

"even i get a happy ending! teehee! i met the man of my dreams... he has a steady job, looks handsome in uniform, and treats me like a queen," Nadiri Yum yelled into an ear trumpet, while hopping up and down in a nearby ash tray, a real desert of their own. Sandys then grabbed their fresh beau by the hand tenderly... Their beeau. Because the man was a bee. Not symbolically. He was an actual, literal bee. Like, a bumblebee, complete with wings and pollen-laced fuzz. The duo locked eyes lovingly. The love was truly abundant, because bees had five eyes. The beeau then proceeded to shovel some royal jelly straight into Sandys' mouth. Yum.

Soon, the room echoed with ever more good cheer, as everyone began dining on that tasty pudding. Everyone. Even Slight had some, which was a rather disturbing sight, as it basically looked as if the pudding was simply vanishing into thin air, piece by piece. Slight also refused to close her mouth while eating, so it sounded really fucking disgusting. The mouth that she would've had, if she had had a corporeal form. It's complicated. Yet the pudding was so delicious that most could, thankfully, ignore such blatant disregard for the laws of nature and social mores.

The good times were suddenly interrupted by loud gasps. A big ol' pillow had fallen out of the Bulky Baba's shirt. It was soon followed by another... and another, and another, until at least a hundred pillows laid upon the beautiful Alkabi rug. Each and every pillow drop was accompanied by a series of surprised gasps. After all, the average fat guy shirt could only fit in about a baker's dozen of pillows. This fabric's endurance was most impressive. Soon, no Fat Father could be seen... only a Lanky Lad remained. Agatino's gasps had been the loudest – and cutest – of them all. And, as shrewd as he was, he also managed to summarize everyone's thoughts in that curious moment with a simple murmur.

"Wow... I can't believe that the Fat Father was ■■■■■ all along..."

THE END








Do you know who the Fat Father is? How about a guess? Send a letter to Pariah Press, and let us know the truth about the gift-giving fatso! The best answer will win a complete illustrated collection of Hardacre's investigations... now with the newest classic, The Twink That Stole Wintermoss! It's a real collector's edition! It even says so on the cover! Send us a letter now for a chance to win, win, win!