The Clap of the Pack

Fake Bunky Was Just A Turkey

Classic City Triple: 0717

Mother-in-Law on Blast

Rest Easy, Private Giacobbe

On his daily summer treks to Lac des Cloches, young Malinconico would often take a shortcut on foot through woods and brush off the Gant Town road. Right off the roadway, he would notice some sort of arched sign that was rusted and slowly being encroached by the growing foliage.
  Upon inspection, it mentioned a man’s name — a self-professed memorial of sorts.
  As he further pawed his way through the thicket, he noticed a rusting swing set, apparently forgotten through the decades.
  Even as a nine-year-old, it troubled him — this was something built in memory of someone, yet it was obviously becoming forgotten.
  And yet in reality, the context was not that of ‘decades’ past, but of a mere five or six years most recent. Remember — these were the years when the louche mores of shifting times took precedence over tradition and observance.
  And as the miles distanced themselves from young Malinconico through the years, this disrespectful image remained a stone in his shoe.
  With the advent of the Internet Crystal Ball, Malinconico dug deep enough to uncover the actual story:

  Local boy gets drafted to go to war, only to be killed by Friendly Fire within three months.

  Poor devil.
  Jeez, [local] folks, how much effort does it take to maintain a remembrance of a fallen son?

  Fortunately, years later, with the help of said Internet Crystal Ball, news came forth that some township folks made the endeavour to clean up, spruce up, enhance and maintain the young solder’s memorial.
  It gives one hope.

  Rest easy, Private Giacobbe.

Pungladeshi Placitum Sanjak

It’s there if you want it

The terminals glowed seductively with images of playing cards and lewd smuttage. Drawn were the eyes of the indolent and lascivious with both jaws and spines a-slackened.
  Vices aside, were these beings the downtrodden or those denied opportunity?
  For the sake of argument, let us posit that they are.
  What could such hapless souls do?
  They might seek knowledge and edification through the printed word. A library, perhaps.
  Books on almost any available subject. The classics. History and maths. Self-help books. Vocational guides.
  Any of these would be a positive first step.
  But the savvy or cynical reader can see where this is going.
  For this room, in which these wretched sorts stare at screens filled with poker hands, penii, and pudendae, lay beneath shelf after shelf of book after book.
  One million books over their heads. Literally.

  It’s there if you want it.