Old Blood, New Body_Leave it to the Experts_Haight Ashbury and the Red Picasso_Exchanging Secrets
Catalog Guide:
Old Blood, New Body
TW: Swearing and Violence.“Facial recognition software matched the image from this Instagram post to that of Cedric Sliabh. Last seen during the apartheid in South Africa, Sliabh was one of the immortal sponsors of the regime there. Big racist piece of shit basically.He’s wanted for multiple counts of murder there, extrajudicial killings, torture. His reputation goes back further than that. Rumours say he ended up in South Africa when the Nazi’s lost World War Two. That’s hearsay but there are photos of him with Himmler and some of the occult obsessed freaks in the Reich.” Detective Inspector ...
Leave it to the Experts
“Come on boy, this way. I cannot see,” lead scientist Professor Vlviro Vlkbrzok of the fourth Spoolorean Expansion, called out to his assistant.A younger Spoolorean by name of Glorp Gleever, a research assistant working under Professor Vlviro scuttled closer to his superior. He lifted his kalfagver and gave it a refreshing shake. Inside the hollowed out tube of vegetative matter, thousands of skarl bugs flittered about, emitting a bright pink glow from their abdomens. The immediate area of the ruins was bathed in a warm wash of light.“By the stars, this place is enormous,” Glorp remarked as th...
Haight Ashbury and the Red Picasso
If you have been to the Haight Ashbury District, you may remember seeing the neon shadowed Amoeba Music sign, coupled with a slightly larger sign towering next to it that read Bowling. I saw that brightly illuminated sign off the side of the road, and I couldn't help noticing the homeless who were also lit by its broad reach. Across the street from the record shop was a small gift shop owned by one of the counterculture rebels, now old but still flying the wave of psychedelic discovery and promise. I noticed that Marvin - the shop owner, didn't care much for religion and began sending curse wo...
Exchanging Secrets
Harriet paced her living room floor, pausing every so often to glare at the glossy department store carrier bag sitting on her dining table. It contained the dullest, frumpiest sweater that she had ever seen, a birthday gift from her son Edgar and his wife, the prissy church-going Madeline. She wondered what had possessed them to pick it. Goodness knows but she wouldn't put it past them to choose it for her burial outfit. She made a mental note to specify her funeral wishes. Harriet wanted to take it back to the store and exchange it for a snazzy royal-blue dress that she had seen there. Her p...