Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

“Look, I don’t know what’s so hard about this,” the angel said. “You got mine and I got yours.”

The demon cast a laconic look at the two souls in question, one in black leather with a mohawk and the other in modest white head to toe. “So you’re saying no one who’s a little punk can possibly make a pact with celestial powers?” it said. “Now, that’s just putting folks in a little box.”

“He SAYS it was a mistake,” the angel retorted. “He meant to contract with the dark powers, and all the good works we require of him are, and I quote, ‘cramping his style.'”

“Standard buyer’s remorse,” the demon responded. “If I tried to trade every soul with you that claimed they wanted celestial instead of infernal powers, we’d never get anything done.”

“What about your soul?” the angel cried, exasperated.

“Oh, they use the power of their position to enforce their own moral code on others,” it said. “Clearly a case for infernal affairs.”

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” The angel pulled at its hair, wings beating in frustration. “Me stuck with an obvious heavy metal demon fanatic while you take my nice white-collar soul.”

“What I’m enjoying, my friend, is that our respective souls are surprisingly well-suited to their predicament and that we ought to perhaps regard the circumstance as a happy accident.” The demon beamed. “And also watching you squirm.”

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As customers at LexBank LLC know, we pride ourselves on the accessibility of our menu options at our drive-thru ATM. This is why we offer, at customer request, options not only for English and Spanish, but also Vietnamese, Somali, and more.

As such, you will notice a new option beginning the week of May 9: chuk’Kuhn, the holy script of the chameloids. For those who are unaware, chameloids are alien imposters from beyond the moon who infiltrate other societies to live among them. Chameloid language options will be available from that date to service this new and important demographic.

LexBank LLC has been asked why this is the case, as surely shape-shifting aliens can read and write Earth languages if their goal is to blend in here to avoid the Omnipurge. Our response is the same as when we added the Basque language option: it is more important to be inclusive, even if that language option is only for a single chameloid battle-thrall whose linguothalamus is damaged.

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CRAWFISH LIVE OR BOILED the roadside stand said
Baskets on the curb, waterlogged, laden with those who await their fate
Excess water, in rivulets, running down the gentle slope of the hill
But in that weak flow, movement. An escapee
Pitched over the side and finding refuge in the flow
Inching downhill to the drainage ditch, and safety
A moment’s notice will doom it
A customer’s tires will crush it
And yet as I sit there, transfixed, waiting at my light
I am in its corner, rooting for the impossible escape
If it can persevere despite the odds, and win
Perhaps there is hope for us all, yet

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Q: Why can’t STØR deliver to Asheville, NC?

A: An ancient Swedish troll named Gvir Gnashbone lives in Asheville, and by ancient law we at STØR may not approach within 20 leagues of his abode.

Q: I was able to get a STØR order delivered to Asheville years ago, what has changed?

A: At one time, it was possible to cast a rune of banishment at Gvir’s feet to exile him from the mortal world for a month and a day, provided that this was done by someone that had no affiliation with STØR. However, changes in STØR’s management structure that led to all employees being reclassified as independent contractors, in order to deny them health care and basic constitutional rights, means that this is no longer possible.

Q: I really need something from STØR delivered to Asheville. May I banish Gvir and request a delivery?

A: For liability reasons, STØR cannot allow customers to attempt banishment. After one customer’s bones were ground by Gvir to make his bread, and another cast a rune incorrectly and banished a FedEx employee from the mortal plane, STØR ended its “free shipping with proof of banishment” policy.

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It has been decided that having alien xenembryos removed is no longer legal for a variety of moral, ethical, and procedural reasons. As of this publication, removing an alien parasite will now constitute a crime of murder with all the penalties that entails.

Why this sudden change? Well, firstly, xenembryo parasites inflicted on unwilling hosts are living beings too. They were created by God, and if in His infinite wisdom and divine unknowable plan they need to be implanted in a host, then His will be done. The startlingly high rate of death from harboring this parasite, and of having it burst forth, is immaterial to this holy duty.

Second, exceptions will of course be made for the worthy. If you are wealthy, or well-connected, you can simply travel to a country that allows xenembryo removal. It should take no more than a month and a few thousand dollars, an easily bearable cost. Remember, if you are not blessed with the prosperity to indulge in this recourse, it is because you’re not holy enough!

We also want to make sure that there are consequences for actions that people have to face. Sure, an alien throatjammer may have used its proboscis to implant a potentially fatal xenembryo without your consent. But really it’s your own fault for provocatively flashing your throat around town and frequenting large swaths of Earth’s contaminated surface.

Some have asked if this new policy means that medical care for those who survive xenembryo implantation and torsoburster explantation, or if this represents a new policy to combat alien implantation attacks. The answer is no; we simply don’t have the budget for all that. Pray harder and ask for prosperity if you really want it!

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“This is it,” said Loam, leaning over the guardrail. “They’re twitching.”

“Careful!” Moore said, grabbing a handful of trench coat and pulling Loam back. “You get too close, them scatterbrush’ll shoot a thorn or blast you with blisterspores.”

“I know that!” snapped Loam, shaking Moore off. “This ain’t my first scatterbrush race. I’ve just got a good feeling about this one.”

The eight scatterbrush seedlings, each germinated and planted within seconds of each other, lay on the starting line. Each had a colorful ribbon tied around its thorny stem, and a straight route ahead with smooth high walls that the seedlings couldn’t surmount. As Loam and Moore looked on, the yellow seedling tentatively pulled one of its taproots out of the Laysan Prime soil and tapped it on the ground, like a blind man feeling his way forward.

“This is it!” Loam hissed.

“I thought you bet on green?” Moore replied.

“Green’s in it to win it, I’m just glad to see some movement!”

As if on a prearranged signal, the other scatterbrush seedlings uprooted themselves, pulling themselves erect on foot-long taproots. They then began feverishly skittering to find a favorable spot to grow and spread further, toxic, spores. If they had not been on the racecourse, true to their name, they would have scattered, but the design of the track funneled them in a straight forward line.

“Go! Go green!” Loam whooped.

“Looks like it’s falling behind,” Moore drawled. “Hell, it looks to be taking root. I do declare that it may be getting ready to root itself right there on the racetrack.”

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Hi, I’m Daniel Hoakes, the owner, founder, and sole proprietor of Hoakes Plunder Barn! Friends, are you aware that state statute 616 § 12 prohibits prosecution of store owners for selling ‘plundered, pillaged, or grave-robbed goods before the age of the pilgrims?’ It’s a very specific law, dating back to the policy of Indian Removal and the mass desecration of native burial sites, but we here at Hoakes have put it to work for you!

Hoakes Plunder Barn is YOUR place for illegally obtained antiquities, plundered artifacts, robbed graves, and more! Are YOU a local, state, or federal agency that has seized any of the same and find yourself unable to dispose of them in a seized property auction? Come on down! We routinely liaise with law enforcement to help them dispose of illegal plunder.

Come take advantage of this century-old legal loophole and shop for the artifacts of your wildest dreams of avarice!

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The archaeologists of the future are not going to want to know about the wealthy and the powerful. The 1% will see to their own monuments for eternity, and there will be plenty to choose from. No, what the future needs is information about the common, average folk. And that’s where Valley of the Things comes in.

Valley of the Things is an initiative of the Squibbler Foundation designed to preserve common things and common people to be uncovered by future archaeologists. From our camppus in the Mojave Desert, we maintain an elaborate mortuary complex inspired by Ancient Egypt. Built to the same standards as long-term nuclear waste storage sites, our tombs are rated for 100,000 years of afterlife, and incorporate 3000 years worth of anti tomb raiding technology.

The best part is, Valley of the Things is free! Simply submit an application when you or a loved one is near death, and if you are accepted, you or your loved one will be ritually embalmed and buried with all your worldly possessions. We even have allowances for up to two embalmed automobiles and five pets!

Donate your body to the future: apply for a Valley of the Things tomb today!

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Keeping watch at the cemetery at all times is darn expensive, in shotgun shells if not in man-hours. And all the folks rising up was older folks anyhow. So we killed two birds with one stone and put the new community center right there in the graveyard for the risen dead to use.

I’ll grant you that the smell can sometimes be a bit much, but most of the old-timers are happy just doing the usual community center things like bingo and playing cards. All that stuff about eating brains? Hurtful stereotype.

And hell, folks go there all the time to play with them, least until the smell gets to be too much, anyhow. We keep the door heat-locked so only folks that are alive can get out, and the odd bad apple we have gets put down by Dr. Winchester with 60 CCs of buckshot.

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“Who did you call in?” Intern Madison asked.

“Everyone,” Dr. Meyer said. “Every kind of cop show we’ve got.”

Agent Burrows of Medical Examiners: Hollywood rolled up first, whipping off his sunglasses as he stepped out of a sports car with police running lights. His assistant, Missy Desirée, tottered beside him in suspension-bridge heels.

Next was Capt. Andrews of the Navy Military Police Investigative Branch (NMPIB), who brought with them their own CSI team that immediately began to clash with Meyers’ people.

“Why a navy investigator?” Intern Madison asked.

“The victim was found within sight of water, meaning the Navy can claim jurisdiction.”

Hubbins and Jabowsky were the next to appear, emerging from a beater arguing like an old married couple. They wore no clothing identifying them as police and flashed no badges, but were admitted to the scene anyway.

Meyers pointed out Inspector DuPont, arriving via limousine, as well as Police Commissioner Dobson, who seemed rather out of his depth.

“Is it because he’s a desk jocky who doesn’t do fieldwork?” Intern Madison asked.

“No,” said Dr. Meyers. “he just isn’t used to crimes that take place in broad daylight. He’ll be fine once it gets dark and Mole Man, the Dark Knave, arrives.”

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