The Gene Project, a multinational cooperative dedicated to sequencing the genome of every animal, living or dead, that has ever existed, has announced the results of its first genetic analysis of Himalayan yeti fur. After arefully comparing and cross-referencing the DNA with other genomes in their collection, The Gene Project released a press statement claiming that the fearsome yeti is actually a high-altitude giant sloth, closely related both to the extinct giant ground sloths and the extant two-toed, three-toed, and recently discovered seven-toed sloths of South America.

“I’ve heard people in the news media saying that this discovery means that yetis are giant sloths,” says Dr. Nate Lamonda, chief sequencer for The Gene Project. “Frankly, though, it makes more biological sense to say that sloths are tiny yetis. The yeti is taxonomically senior in every way. It’s the same thing you see with dinosaurs: it makes no sense to call a tyrannosaurus and a bird different things. A bird is a small dinosaur just as a sloth is a small yeti.”

This discovery has sent shock waves through the pop culture fandom for the yeti and its American cousin, the bigfoot. “My yeti is a fast, dangerous, voracious predator with cunning intelligence and the soul of a poet,” says Lada Montane, one of the lead administrators of the cryptid fan website cryptids.co.nt. “This is just the sort of thing we saw when those eggheads decided dinosaurs had feathers or that Pluto wasn’t a planet. They are pedants acting out power trips, and these poor, unfortunate creatures are to blame.” Another member of cryptids.co.nt, posting anonymously on the site’s message board, is more succinct: “They can take my Gigantopithecus when they pry it out of my cold, dead hands,” they say, referring to the fragmentary giant orangutang that is often considered a likely suspect for the true species behind yeti sightings.

Dr. Lamonda dismisses such concerns. “Of course people are going to be disappointed,” he says, “but fantasy often simply cannot hold up to the cold, hard light of fact. We didn’t set out to ruin anyone’s day, and yetis are still as majestic, elusive, and possibly mythical as they’ve always been.” He compares the current furor to the times people proved that geese do not grow from goose barnacles, and the outdated idea that mice are born from dirt. “The idea that a hominid of that size could survive in such a harsh climate is ludicrous–only the slow, deliberate lifestyle of the sloth makes sense.”

Despite Dr. Lamonda’s self-assurance and the unambiguity of The Gene Project’s results, many remain unconvinced. “You’ll see, this is just more foolishness that they’ll go back on in five years,” another anonymous commenter on cryptids.co.nt says. “Why, I remember when my old high school textbook said that giant pandas were really big old raccoons. Haven’t heard that one in a while, have you?”

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When she swept into the city’s social calendar, Mercedes Ryann was an explosion in furs. Cultured and intelligent but with a flair for the wild and flamboyant, many of the social register scions found themselves inexorably drawn into her orbit. The Ryann clan had been on the outs for decades, since Mayor Ryann had ended his life in a bathtub with his mistress, and the titular head of the family, Mercedes’ uncle Wilhelm, was all to happy to let his niece rebuild the family. There may have been the occasional dolorous whiff of scandal in the way Mercedes comported herself, but her wealthy suitors and the sudden, volcanic reemergence of the Ryanns into the discourse meant it was a net gain.

Naturally, there was more to the story than that.

When a young woman had managed to make it up to his permanent suite in the Royale Hotel without being noticed by porters or stopped by his own bodyguards, Wilhelm Ryann had taken notice. She had proposed a simple idea: pose as his niece in order to help bring the Ryann family back to local prominence. She asked for no money, no furs, no jewels, only pemission–and made it quite clear that she would proceed with the scheme whether or not it was granted. Wilhelm was the most sober-headed of the five Ryann brothers; that was the reason he alone was still alive with what dregs were left of the family fortune. But something in that mysterious woman’s eyes had convinced him, and when she turned up at the Society Ball in an appropriate outfit brandishing cards of introduction with the Ryann name, Wilhelm knew he had made the right choice.

Their agreement was thus: in exchange for use of the Ryann name and some of their assets, she would bring the family back into the fold and share half of what she earned.

And, were it not for Liliane Harkness, the plan might have proceeded without a hitch.

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People once marveled at the fact that Liliane Harkness’s mother Margot had consented to marry Edgar J. Harnkess, Jr. After all, Harkness may have been the most eligible bachelor in the city and a financier worthy of the Harkness & Co. name, but he was also notoriously ugly, with a port-wine stain birthmark and a bad case of rosacea to go along with his legendary temper. Margot Harkness has been one of the city’s preeminent beauties at her coming-out, courted by everyone from captains of industry to starry-eyed bellhops, but she had chosen perhaps the unpleasantest man in the pool to become her husband.

But their daughter knew differently. “That isn’t your real daddy,” Margot would whisper sweetly to Liliane during their long walks through city parks, “but don’t tell him, okay?” She saw a parade of suitors, undiminished even after years of marriage, coming and going to her mother’s room. And young Liliane learned the value of absolute discretion in those stolen moments.

For his part, E.J. Harkness Jr. doted on Liliane, and associates remember her visits as the only time they ever saw the man smile. He arranged for only the finest tutors and schooling for his daughter, sent her on tour to European capitals, and generally tolerated her whims and occasional affectations. If Margot had any illusions about how the old banker felt about her, they were shattered when Harkness died of a coronary thrombosis just short of his 70th birthday–leaving his entire estate to Liliane, then aged only 19.

As if to announce her arrival in the select sorority of women wealthy in their own right, Liliane’s first act of business was to have her mother taken away. A state board certified Margot Harkness as “dangerously insane and hysterical” less than a year after her husband’s death, and she was remanded to the upstate House for Invalids and the Mentally Ill by court order. There, she was treated with the newest and trendiest cure-all currently making the rounds: a total frontal lobotomy.

Freed from any and all restraints, gossip expected Liliane to move into a dissolute and spendthrift lifestyle, and her regular appearance at society balls in expensive furs and with an ever-rotating cast of handsome but vapid young men did encourage such an opinion. However, she also took an active role behind the scenes at Harkness & Co., running it through a figurehead president and board of directors. Growth was through the roof, and there was some whispered talk that J.P. Morgan & Co stood to buy–or be bought by!–Harkness.

That is, until Liliane Harkess’s feud with Mercedes Ryann got out of control.

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Of the humans, what can one say about this youngest of all peoples? It is said that they arose spontaneously in the far-off land of Daqin, and their presence disturbed the great symphony that had up until that point dictated the harmony of peoples. Unlike their elders, it is said that the humans arose fully formed and set to organizing their society and empire immediately through war.

The account of Admiral Chao Ban, who spoke to the elves of Seres on behalf of the human empress Ying Gan, was for many years the only information on this people, in their own words, available to the elder cousins.

“Filled with sentiments of awe and thanksgiving, at the welcome I have enjoyed in this, the land of Seres, I wish to speak of my home, the land of Daqin, home of the humans. Firstly, I must speak of my liege, the Empress Ying Gan. Unlike you elves of Seres, whose kings elect from among their number a High King, our Empress is selected by the heavens themselves to rule over all men. Thus she resides in the great city of Eo Oc, my home, where all my kinsfolk pay her homage. Of course, should the heavens wish to withdraw their permission, they may do so–at which point our Empress may find herself replaced.”

Upon being asked about towns and population, Admiral Ban replied:

“Our towns are larger than yours, with strong walls to guard them against attack. This was especially crucial during the years–now thankfully ended–when an Emperor of the North and an Emperor of the South fought for primacy. I understand that two worthy elvish claimants fought over the title of High King but a generation ago, so this may be another place where we are in common. But our cities are large, walled, and teeming; not nearly so pleasant as yours, but with magnificent cuisine and artisans to make up for it.”

Pointedly asked who would win a war between the humans and the elves, Admiral Ban was diplomatic:

“I think that it would be a hard-fought battle. For while we do not want for troops under arms, our numbers mean we must fight in large groups–vulnerable groups. Your jaegers could defeat any but our most skilled, and were the battle in a wooded area, surely you could prevail. But upon an open plain, my countrymen would surely triumph. Let us hope that it never comes to thus.”

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On the night of August 11, 2010, a cargo steamer was struck by lightning on the Nile river south of Memphis and sank with all hands. An area with a huge concentration of Nile crocodiles, it was assumed that everything was lost–including the steamer’s precious cargo of foam Crocs™ shoes destined for laborers in the Sudan.

However, what the authorities failed to predict was that the lightning strike would impart a charge to the many foam sandals bobbling aimlessly amid the river waves, drawing in and binding the mystical essence of the crocodiles as well as the ancient river civilizations. For just a few hours, the Nile south of Memphis was charged with an incredible and mystic power.

And it was during those few hours that Dr. Omar Ghanem, vice-head of antiquities at the Memphis Mueseum of Cultural History, happened to be kayaking along that same stretch when he was upset by a massive Nile crocodile known locally as Firawn. Omar survived, but emerged from the reeds with incredible powers: the strength and resiliency of the Nile waters themselves, the brute cunning and toughness of the Nile crocodile, and the imperviousness and lack of fashion of Crocs™ foam footwear.

Thus began both the legend and the crime-fighting career of THE CROCONILE, mild-mannered professor by day, and avenger of fashion and footwear related crime after nightfall!

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Is YOUR car was possessed? Are YOUR brakes screaming in ancient, dead tongues no sane being may utter? Has YOUR timing belt had been invaded by demonic forces? At Headley Automotive Exorcists, we know that demons inhabiting silver or lead are easy to disperse, but automotive-grade plastic is another thing entirely. These modern plastidemons are not biodegradable in the least; long-chain polymers make them strong and resilient to old-fashioned interventions. And don’t even get us started on tempered steel and automotive enamels as homes for the unholy!

That’s why we here at Headley Automotive Exorcists are ready to give you the FULL force of our 17 years’ exorcism experience and FULL authorization from the Pope in matters spiritual and automotive! Whether it’s a simple banishment or our full $1000 exorcism package with included engine fluid blessing, Headley Automotive Exorcists stands ready to serve YOU.

And while many of those “cut-rate” exorcists will allow the demons to escape to other areas of the car, leading to an evil tire blowout or worse, Headley includes a full cloistering of your car, and imprisonment of the demons in the pure salts of evaporated angels’ tears, with every purchase!

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Kia Eurydice
Slogan: “Never look back.”

Toyota Catbus
Slogan: “Your neighbor Toyotoro.”

Hyundai Icarus
Slogan: “Fly high.”

Renault Vichy
Slogan: “Never surrender.”

Mercedes Oedipus
Slogan: “The mother of them all.”

Mitsubishi Lemming
Slogan: “Take a leap of faith.”

Chevrolet Steer
Slogan: “One ballsy ride.”

Ford Black Widow
Slogan: “Love at first bite.”

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The foyer was muck like the exterior of the manor, shabby but elegant, a potent echo of a golden age that must have been a sight to behold. Codswallop walked in purposefully, politely clutching his umbrella. “Hello?” he said. “We mean you no harm, master or mistress of this house! We pray you take pity on a pair of poor put-upon travelers and forgive us our trespass, that we might have a bit of shelter for the night.”

“Is it really a good idea to go in shouting?” said Rags.

“If we came quietly, they might think us thieves or worse, cowering behind a door with an axe or a loaded blunderbuss,” said Codswallop. “I’ve always said that, if you’ve intentions, it’s best to announce them unless you’ve a very good reason to do otherwise.”

“A wise counsel, my friends.”

The voice came from atop the grand staircase at the far end of the manor’s foyer, where a lady had appeared. She looked at the low end of middle age but was attired in a grand outfit of lace and spun gold. In that raiment, and clutching an ivory cigarette holder besides, she would have fit in at any grand society ball within the last quarter-century.

“As I said, we apologize for intruding,” said Codswallop. “But I’m afraid you have us at a disadvantage.”

The woman began descending the staircase slowly and luxuriantly, each click of heels on marble echoing through the grand hall. “You find yourselves in Exiki Hall, my friends, and I am its lady, Marquess Nyartha Exiki. Formerly of the noble Atege lineage before my marriage to my late husband, keeper of these grounds–such as they are–and sorceress of the fourth order.”

“A sorceress!” Rags said with a mixture of excitement and trepidation.

She paused, smiling. “I forsee your questions. Don’t let that sorceress bit alarm you, my friends,” Nyartha added. “As part of the terms of my marriage to Lord Exiki, I agreed to be bound here, unable to exercise my powers if I leave the grounds and unable to affect the wider world thereby.”

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“You’ve led an interesting life, haven’t you Codswallop?” Rags said.

“Oh, I never much cared for prattling on about the past,” said Codswallop.

“Why’s that?”

The manservant cut through a fresh swathe of the torrid growth with a machete swing. “I’ve known men–good men–who did nothing but sit around looking back on what they’d already done. Their spyglasses were firmly fixed aft, to give an old expression from my navy days a bit of currency. I find that limiting prattle about one’s past keeps one looking forward.”

“But what if it comes in handy?” said Rags.

“Then, and only then, is a little prattle permitted myself, young sir,” Codswallop said. “But for the moment, I think we’d better concentrate on a few more essential things.”

“Like food?”

“We can go without food for some time, yet. But shelter and fresh water are essential.”

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With the small but deep cut made by the incision bleeding profusely, the man pressed his hands together and then brought them apart. In between, formed as if it had been flash-frozen, was a keen-edged blade, all one piece and falchion-bladed, but entirely of blood held in place by sorcery, uncoagulated but solid.

Rags could see a bright and devilish light in the man’s eyes. “I am the weapon,” he repeated, “and I will cleave your head from your shoulders for Her sake.”

“Look out!” The warning came from Codswallop, the manservant that Eyrie had shackled Rags with. In an instant, he was upon the sorcerous attacker, pulling a sword from his umbrella with the same nonchalant urgency that one would deploy the bumbershoot itself against a squall. The steel rang true against the assassin’s blood-blade even as the airship pitched downward at an alarming rate.

“Hang onto something!” cried Codswallop. “Try to go limp when we hit the ground!”

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