Bulletins from Ellie Mae Anderson, our Midwestern correspondent.
Dear friends and unauthorized-access members of “THE FACTORY:”
Ah, my dear readers, if there is any place close to the great beyond, the immense cosmos from whence we all have come and will all go, HAIL THE VOID, (caps lock in accordance with the voids commandment for complete and total worship), that place is indeed the lovely province of Kansas. The rolling fields, the singular hill. Ah, reader, there is no province to compare. As I drove through this great expanse of fields, farms, and erroneous tractors, I became aware of a startling blight on the landscape. There, at the edge of a particularly tantalizing field was a beast of a building. The gray concrete stretched into the still air that surrounded the arching levels of smokestacks on stacks. There were men in sight, slaving away at large boiling pots of black, festering liquid. The stench of anise pervaded the otherwise peaceful prairie-scape, and I began to think I had imagined such a horrid place, for truly, only a restless mind can imagine such a monstrosity like late-stage capitalism.
I turned to the pilot of the vehicle in surprise, and questioned the reality of the putrid building, saying, “What is that abhorrent building? What such evil has prevailed there to make such an appalling sight?”
To this questioning, the entity driving the vehicle responded, saying that the wretched beast was, in fact, THE FACTORY. To this, I shuddered; many people had warned me of this place, and the pervading sense of unease that overtook the car was just as had been foretold to me. As the smell of anise overtook my senses, a black blur crept into the edges of my vision. I could hear as strange whispers began to invade my senses, and a vision overtook my mind.
In the macabre sequence that then played out before me, I saw the innermost room in the factory, lit from within like a malevolent cathedral. There was a long table, with chairs that seemed to be built entirely of black licorice, the most nefarious candy in the world. The twining, inky, sugared vines stretched to form decadent chandeliers, casting a blood-chilling ambiance onto the black masses below. This reader, this horrid candy is the only export that comes from the factory, contributing heavily to the villainous atmosphere. At the long table sat various old men in jet-black suits of increasing severity. Then I saw him, one man to rule them all; there at the head of the table stood Lord Licorice Lucricious Leprosy Langford, the owner of the factory. His tone was grating and intense, and his countenance became more and more animated until all that I could hear emanating from his gaping maw was the bubbling of black licorice. The other men at the table nodded their agreement, mindlessly obeying their commander. I overheard the plan he laid out, and I was terrified. But not because I understood the plan. Because as he spoke only the sounds of molten licorice boiling could be heard.
As I revived from this vision, we were far past the factory, only the faint smell of burnt licorice and the herby anise to remind us we’d been there at all.
With this, dear reader, I leave a warning. Be aware of THE FACTORY. Beware. It could be anywhere; maybe it's everywhere. The licorice king will rise again and… and… and….
Readers… I am with you now only in spirit. The licorice king rides at dawn. Be aware. Be prepared. Deny the licorice king. Defend your homes and farms. Depose the licorice armies.
Goodnight, dearest reader, and of course, remember the corn and the pop!
- Ellie Mae Anderson
Dear Friends and long-awaited heavenly vigils,
I am at long last ready to share with you all the harrowing events of the past 3 months of my life. It is rife with remorse, whiskey, several banjo-playing bank robbers, several sea journeys, and the ceaseless yearning for love and companionship. I am not a young woman for in fact, the nature of timeliness does not affect me or my ability to age. I am a constant in this timeline, a sojourner from star places of my distant, if ever, youth. But despite this fact, I am still a woman, and with that itself comes many struggles that have left me sore and with far too many eyes for any normal being to function with. I have prevailed thus far, but since my banishment to these distant mid-west lands, I fear my ability to cope has been hindered. For crimes I have committed, I pay daily, and yet, for this punishment, I have no end in sight.
I start this story by telling you it may take several parts for the full tale to be told. I start my story with the burning of my commune. Our cult leader, Mystic Joe, was burnt to a crisp. Perhaps if he had consumed more than chocolate-covered corn squares, he may have survived the flames. I was a refugee then, tracking the scent of a far-off hay field through the mountains and valleys of Missouri and Arkansas, when I spied a beautiful state to be sure. Oklahoma. It rested on my tongue like a pearl between my teeth. The only drawback of this state was the fact that one had to cross the mighty Mexico Sea to enter the mystical land of OK. I set out with my own two hands, building a fleet of ships. It was for this purpose I earned the name “Builder” from the locals. They too had been dispersed from their homes in the middle country due to the fire wind that had swept across the plains. In a massive fleet, we all sailed across the Mexico Sea, only to discover that the only port in Oklahoma was guarded by angels. These astral beings were sent from the father behind the stars to protect the people of the state from direct annihilation by the fire winds. Not to bore you all with ling tales of angelic battles that may or may not have permanently altered our timeline for better or worse, I will pick up my story as it were, at the time when I finally entered the great promised land of Oklahoma.
I found a cave and dwelt by a lake on the cusp of the earth. The fire winds ravaged the plains all around me, and after a month or so of complete solitude, I met the true owner of my cave by the lake, a sorcerer named Melvin. Mel and I began a clandestine relationship, and he admitted to me after a passionate night of chess and a hallucinogenic banjo, that he knew a way to cease the great desecration of the Midwest. As he told me of the solution, I began to mourn, as he told me the only way to save the world was to permanently erase the great franchise Taco Bell from existence. I knew that one day that great empire would fall, but to see it now as the world burnt, I gave my sweet sorcerer permission to end the misery of the fire winds. So, after 3 months of great destruction, Taco Bell was vanquished and the fire winds left were extinguished forever.
Now my dear readers, I fear this tale is far too long for me to tell you the next saga at this point. However, who am I to deny you the joy of reading the newest adventures of me, your favorite Midwestern sojourner-turned-refugee? The next installment of my journey through the mountain passages of the west, that eventually led me to discover a coven of bigfoots, and the fountain of youth thereby, will be available soon. For now, dear readers, you know the drill:
Remember the Corn and the Pop! (but forget Taco Bell, that never happened)
- Ellie Mae Anderson
Dear Friends and Dearly Departed,
The winter has melted into a vicious springtime here in the “Midwest.” The amount of pollen is criminal but the serotonin from the aching sun could make me believe in love again. This month, my commune has been spending time frolicking in the meadows and harvesting the mid-spring bones that are just starting to peek up through the topsoil from the burials last November. The Bone Harvest Festival™ was set to occur during the last weekend of April, but there was quite a stir when we were out in the west pasture, harvesting the bones of our dear Mystic’s sisters.
The Sisters™, as they were known to our little commune, were dancers and singers for the commune events and festivities. They were buried after their annual death dance on the first day of November last year, as happens every year. But when we were trying to harvest their bones so that we could build them back again at the Bone Harvest Festival™, we could not remember where we had laid the tiny dancers to rest after the last festival. Mystic was growing anxious as the shadows began to draw close, but almost as soon as he began to get frantic, one of the undercover government operatives found an ivory-white femur sticking up from a pile of dirt. We rejoiced greatly and gathered as many of The Sisters™ bones as we could before the daylight was gone completely.
Back at the commune, Mystic worked tirelessly, with only short breaks from his work to chomp voraciously at the piles of muddy buddies that the virgins had laid out to sustain him. Mystic’s work was too great for us to understand, and yet he knew he would have to be left alone to reincarnate The Sisters™.
Soon, the day of the festival dawned clear and hazy. I left my tent early with my secret government operative close behind me. I was called to Mystic’s tent to help him as his trusted aide on this ceremony day. When I got to the tent, I was met with a silence so still that it unnerved me. Usually, Mystic would be chanting and howling as he greeted the daylight, but today, I found him curled up in a ball under three translucent ghosts that hovered around a dreamcatcher made of the bones we had found. I almost screeched myself, but I found my vocal chords of no use to me here.
The ghosts were next to the bones of The Sisters™, but the ghosts did not look like the little dancers we had lost at all. These were burly old lumberjacks, with mean, twisted moustaches, and each held a handle of Titos™. They swigged out of the bottles aggressively and made unfamiliar gestures to each other. I knew for the safety of my commune, and the sanity of the many secret government operatives, that I would have to release these unruly ghouls from our commune. My eyes quickly beheld the darkness of the tent, and I knew that only the purest ray of late April sun could make these men flee our commune for good.
I snatched the Titos™ from one of the ghouls and flung it quickly out of the tent. Silent outrage came from the spirits, and they all flew at me with a speed I would not have associated with saggy-assed ghosts. As they flew at me, I flung the tent open, and they were turned to dust in the early morning sunlight.
With a YIPPEE™, I shook Mystic awake. We collected the dust into vials and buried the glasses deep under the commune lawn. Mystic thanked me for my bravery and with a hint of remorse said that he would have to postpone the festivities since the bones were the wrong ones, and now we would have to find the correct bones for the festival to happen.
Then, from over the hill, three young women riding glistening horses rode into the summoning circle at the far end of the commune lawn. It was The Sisters™! Mystic ran to greet them and asked how they had come back; we hadn’t even found the right bones yet.
Well as it would turn out The Sisters™ were just on vacation to Florida, not buried in the ground. They told us that was what they did every year and we had been eating too many muddy buddies. The commune rejoiced greatly that night and we held a festival that would rival the ones from the 1960’s.
Now remember The Corn and The Pop™.
-Ellie Mae
Dear friends and mortuary cheese sellers,
Ah friends, my adventures this week have been so keenly Midwestern it may be my greatest accomplishment at blending into these flatlands past the mountains. My commune and I were sojourning towards a retreat past the mountains, where civilization is slightly more active. My comrades and I continued east with our fearless leader in the front of the pack. We chanted the ancient songs our leader, Mystic Joe, had taught us back home. As we sang and moaned and chanted across rivers and streams in our Jeep Grand Cherokee, there was suddenly a dark black smoke on the horizon, and Mystic cried out with an immense joy that we had not seen him use before. Our usually demure leader yelled from the front seat:
“MY BROTHER APPROACHES”.
We in the back seat, we all looked at each other in a strange way. Our leader had never mentioned a brother.
“Oh rejoice my little children, my brother, the great cheese seller and mortician extraordinaire, we approach his place of business, dear ones,” Mystic said with great anticipation.
Soon we had cleared a small hill and the large smokestack of the mortuary and the small storefront of the cheese emporium came into sight. The sight was strange indeed. and as we journeyed closer, a certain fear rose in my stomach, unsure of the consequences of eating morgue cheese.
We pulled into the gravel parking lot and there to greet us was Mystic’s brother. Our leader was a short, slight man, and thus I could hardly believe my eyes at the sight of his brother. weighing in at about 500 pounds, with shoulders the size of a 2 by 4, this man was the staggering opposite of our leader. The only family resemblance was the cone shaped head and the deep pupils that seemed to go into the realms beyond. This huge man wore a common mortician's robes, deep black with formality and grace to them, the only nuance to the outfit was the tie and shoes, both appeared to be made out of solid cheese.
The Mystic’s brother introduced himself as Clyde, and soon we were led into the store to see the cheeses maturing. After a rousing lesson on how to cultivate the perfect mozzarella and the best methods for stoking a good body burning fire, we were led into a dining room where a great feast was laid out. To my lactose intolerant horror, the whole spread seemed to be made of cheeses of various shapes and sizes. There was fruit-shaped pepper jack, bread-shaped mozzarella, fish-shaped Havarti, and not to mention the roast-shaped parmesan.
We were led to our seats and began to sup on the feast. I could feel the bloating almost immediately and that was when………
---
Dear readers,
My name is E.T. Hefforford. I have found the young Ellie Mae in a state of great distress, and so I have offered to take her back to the commune for her well-being and peace of bowels. She asked that I send this letter to you all with this warning:
"Beware the mortuary cheese. It’s much more severe than you would think. That is all."
She also asked that I tell you all to Remember the Corn and the Pop.
- E.T. and Ellie Mae
Dear Friends and Cult Leaders Extraordinaire,
I write to you from the bioluminescent glow of my newfound cavern solace under the library here on the campus of the cult commune I’ve joined here in the fabled “Midwest.” As most people have heard, the urban legends of monstrous cults and terrifying religious outbreaks are based solely in the region of this great nation where the crazed and power-hungry individuals gather with their followers to live off the land. I have been displaced in this wasteland of cults and those infected with religious ideals. However, as I am paying my penance, I too have joined the ranks of those disillusioned. The leader of our cult is about 4”2’, with a slight build, almost like a corn husk. His top hat is taller than most normal hats I’d seen before, it sits on his pointy head like a raccoon on a fence. His head is pointy like a cone, I suppose that’s why he’s the leader. They say that the cone is a direct antenna to the gods. His greatest weakness is a sort of sweet mix, called muddy buddies. It's concerning how slight he is as compared to how much of the mix he eats. Many of the young virgins serve the commune slave for hours in a hot kitchen making pounds and pounds of the stuff for him to consume. And despite that one flaw, he serves our savior and muse of the ages.
I personally got to have a session with him last week, where I sat in his tent on the main lawn of our commune, where a fire was lit, and its smoke filled my nostrils with the scent of burning chocolate-covered corn squares. He spun for me a very interesting narrative of the purpose of our little solace here in the hills of Missouri. He told me of the old gods, the dim, and the distant lands where the idea of all of us was born. He told me of his time in the wastes of denial when he denied his priesthood from the holy lords of the night. drew so close to him to hear his faint, wispy voice, that I could see the chocolate smeared on his royal robes.
As I left the tent, at perhaps half past midnight, I carried the weight of the universe on me. I saw the fires from the kitchens, where the youth still carried out the production of our leader's only food source. I wept under the stars, as I dreamed of the taste of chocolate and corn squares, which I would never know the delight of.
This brings me to the end now Friends and Remember the Corn and the Pop.
-Ellie Mae Anderson
Dear Friends and Reality Pawn Brokers,
Ah yes, another week passes with the wind out here in this strange land I reside in. News of the world outside reaches me slowly, so I live my days rather blissfully unaware of all the issues past the Missouri River. This quiet life leads me to seek forms of interdimensional entertainment for enrichment outside of these straw and stover hills. On my quest for more fulfilling sources of quality television, I found myself in the presence of one Milligan P. Oddessian, a reality pawn broker for the Russel and Strathmore Inter-Reality Telecommunication and Oddities Corporation. This 7'6’' midwestern specimen, dressed head to toe in leather and cowboy accessories of various severity hailed from east Texas, but had come to settle in the Ozark area around his rise to fame in the interdimensional media industry. His expertise in interdimensional entertainment was little doubted, and thus, he was my first choice when it came to procuring the little-known fancies I wished to behold. However, he scoffed at my requests, as surely, he was used to dealing with far older and wiser clients. This attitude did not dissuade me, however, and I was able to procure some of the finest Jeopardy! and The Price is Wrong copies from the dimension nearest ours. These may not be high quality or exactly what you'd think of in interdimensional entertainment, but it was the best they have out here in the heartland. I cannot tell you now, but I think that the broker and I might be falling in love out here in the middle of the continent. This landlocked prison makes a person want to settle down, that’s for sure. Many of my commune mates have gotten their rings before the spring has even sprung! I’ll let you all know if it works out for me and Mr. Oddessian. I’ve been warned about these interdimensional cowboys before.
Well, my time runs short among the corn, so I’ll leave you all with a quick pronunciation guide to the most interesting Midwest word I’ve found so far.
Bag: (Bee-Au-Gh) Beeaugh, a plastic or paper container for food, other bags, or other miscellaneous items found in this strange midland.
“Remember the corn and the Pop!”
- Ellie Mae Anderson
Dear Friends and Federal Agents,
As I awoke this morning to a blanket of snow covering the Missouri landscape, I began to reconsider my forced relocation to this middle-country abomination. I suppose I should say it is not all so bad as that, but this land barely has e-pay options, let alone flexibility on their religious beliefs. Missouri is a strange land, and for this city girl, the wonders out here never cease to amaze me. The mountains that surround this little town cast large shadows in the noon sunlight, and at night the lights from unseen cities shine brighter than the stars. I say unseen, for as far as I know, I am in the most remote location that our lovely Feds could find. Here they are, hiding beautiful cities, and they call it “a federal offense” when I commit several large-scale crimes of various severity. But as I am beholden to the laws of this timeline, I’ve decided to make the most of my retreat to the Bible belt. The community I have been placed in has a staggering mix of good and bad sides, there are so many sides out here, that it’s confusing to look at the buildings as they twist and turn around this community. However, for all these flaws, there are things to rejoice in. The Sun! she shines most ardently. Sonic’s popularity was not unknown to me, but I too have fallen under its mozzarella stick charade. If only these Midwesterners knew the true nature of Sonic Corporation. But alas, that schpiel is for another letter. I will leave you with this midwestern saying that people often say when greeting each other, whose meaning is unknown to me, but I’m sure I will understand eventually:
“Remember the Corn and the Pop!”
Sincerely,
-Ellie Mae Anderson