An orphaned, terrestrial planet rests cradled in the cupped hands of a dying God, neighbourless in an empty cosmos. Slouched in the vast, abandoned heavens, a slack skull stares down upon one-eighth of this humble globe; His tangible gaze emitting visible light in two tangential fields of almighty yellow. In tandem, they pierce through an atmospheric barrier of mirror blue, blooming phenomenal malachite skies. Only in the fastened sights of Godking Pantakratos can the Folk Beneath thrive, for the remaining eighty-seven percent of the habitable world has undergone monumental cryoformation. Landlocked by continental glaciers, these simple Folk live out their stub lifespans in disparate townships; some seeking meaning in the constant menial work, empty praise, and hollow awe.

At large, the Folk disregard the meandering question of 'why?'. All, from the first breath of hot air to the dry cough of finality has been laid out before them by the designated caretakers of this realm; in death comes the meaning of life, to them, for 'death' is to be chosen for a higher purpose. In His weakened state, Pantakratos can only be so kind — if the Folk wish to remain in His good graces, they must prostrate their souls for his daily consumption. They, though they live, and toil, and feel, and hurt, are but a cyclical, self-replicating biological fuel widely regarded as 'nutrition' for the quasi-eternal Godking but more accurately could be described as a cosmic propellant for the Dying Engine; the invisible heart that beats somewhere within Godking Pantakratos.

This is a veritable fact implored by the Stokers of said engine; blessed beings bestowed with His impossible task. His chosen-first, Eldan'o, the fabled Messenger Beyond, comes abrupt and without warning to collect the willing, the late, and the needed by hand, leading them from this tragic realm to a final, fulfilling freedom awaiting 'neath the gaze of a kinder, and older God.

A promised reward for boundless labour and infinite patience.

So, if it's coming, and you know that it's coming, why not spend some time at THE CASINO @ GOD'S RIB!?

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WELCOME TO THE NEW STINK; THE BONE ZONE HALF HOUR - NIPPING AT YOUR CHEEKS ONCE A MONTH LIKE THE GHOST OF A FLEA!

ONE BIG STORY THIS TIME! NEXT TIME? NOTHIN'! WE'RE TAKING JANUARY OFF TO MAKE MORE STUFF!

IF YOU LIKE THIS, SEND MY REGARDS TO YOUR MAMA AND THEN SEND ME MONEY ON PATREON.COM/SBDA

STAY SAFE, OR DON'T! x

Private Detective Frank Uture stepped out from behind his privacy screen with a bloody mouth and tremors in his steps like they'd installed all his bones upside down and the wrong way around.

The corpse; my corpse, not my corpse but the one that I put there, lay on the brown-washed pavement not breathing — a sure sign that I'd done what needed to be done. As a junior detective, I didn't have much to do at the time. I hadn't worked a scene like this before. I didn't think I'd get assigned to it, but I had to show up for there to be any chance of my getting sleep without a lead suppository. As a general rule, the cybo-brass always call in private detectives when a cop has been found dead, since it's almost always another cop that's done it but I didn't realise they had staffers on the sidelines too.

Frank opened his mouth, stuck out his mangled tongue with all the sharp little shards sticking out of it like he'd just sucked on the end of a fibreglass cigarette, and went "ahhhhhh!" to prove he had, in fact, swallowed a whole clock — hands and all. I was then instructed to wail on him with a big metal stick to, quote, "ring in the dang ol' new year."

💀 💀 💀 💀

WELCOME TO THE NEW STINK; THE BONE ZONE HALF HOUR - NIPPING AT YOUR CHEEKS ONCE A MONTH LIKE THE GHOST OF A FLEA!

TWO STORIES AND A JOKE IN THIS ONE, AREN'T YOU A LUCKY LITTLE GUY?

IF YOU LIKE THIS, SEND MY REGARDS TO YOUR MAMA AND THEN SEND ME MONEY ON PATREON.COM/SBDA

STAY SAFE, OR DON'T! x

I'M YOU, FROM THE FUTURE

a boy wakes on christmas day to find an intruder in his smart-home that looks just like him, and if you can't tell just from the title what's going to happen, then there's no hope, is there?

WOULD YOU STILL LOVE ME IF I WERE (A) WORM?

how many times will my wife ask me this question? many, many times because this tall tale cannot be considered an answer. angular tommy, third-generation bumpkin, turns into an earthworm whenever he looks at the moon day-or-night, and that's no good considering his whole job is keepin' birds outta corn fields.

ALL THE SWIFTNESS OF THE DAY ITSELF

having cheated death twice, punishment is endured; they are forced to live through the myriad deaths across time, and there is only one way out.

💀 💀 💀 💀

WELCOME TO THE NEW STINK; THE BONE ZONE HALLOWE'EN HALF HOUR - ARRIVING ON THE DAY IT'S SUPPOSED TO FOR THE FIRST TIME IN FIVE YEARS x

IF YOU LIKE THIS, SEND MY REGARDS TO YOUR MAMA AND THEN SEND ME MONEY ON PATREON.COM/SBDA

STAY SAFE, OR DON'T! x