The Everybody Company

We're Back?! Episode 9000

2011-02-15T23:38:00.000-08:00

Oh yes. Setting up hand coded websites is SLOW business, at least for Karl, it seems. You remember him, or maybe you don't. It has been almost a year. Do we even have any fans left? Well, it doesn't matter, because we're back, motherfuckers! At least for now. We fully intend to transition our operations to everybodyco.com, but until certain members of our web development team actually finish college, we're just going to have to conduct our business here. So, give us a hug, roll out the welcome mat, and prepare for more of the Everybody Company.

Introducing the brand spanking new, 2011 staff:

El Savel - Overseer, grand poobah, and resident expert in defenestration.

Bjorg Sundance - Second in command, grovel monkey, and avid aquaculturist.

Baguette - Me, the guy who narrates everything and keeps track of the condiments.

Minerva Wallace - Our new editor in chief and 100% resistant to the Gaze.

Yogi Blackheart III - Chief of complaints, writer of letters, and eater of bacon.

John "Go Fuck Yourself" Jones - Chief of anti-complaints; we're not really sure what he does but we're not going to tell him that.

Zhu Yi - Our new creative director; he's kind of shy but we like him.

Bertolt Ipswitch - Director of pie-in-the-sky ideas, which means he gets paid to be ignored.

Various editing temps - They don't earn their names until they slay a level 5 monster.

??? - Embarrassingly, we still don't know his name, but he's the janitor (very important to us).

Karl A. Fischer - Owner of the company and amateur scribbler; he's not around much.

Priscella Gogo - The One Foretold

Okay, well, that's the crew. We'll let you get back to your bongs and beer kegs now. Keep us in your hearts as you troll the internets for pornography and don't forget that we're a real company with real needs. So if you want to send over some food or something or maybe help spruce the office up (which is really more a condemned building by this point) just drop us a line.

everybodyco at gmail dot com

Last Episode: We Refuse To Feel Bad About It

2010-05-11T22:01:00.001-07:00

As we began to say, we refuse to feel bad for our long and unannounced absence and we are not even going to offer any excuses because we have none. All in all, we've been far too busy until now and, frankly, have nothing to show for it except for a few lobsters and this mysterious box.

Now, we know we've said this before but we have plans, big ones, including a bit of relocation. That's right, the Everybody Company is moving. Here is where you can eventually find us in all our glory: www.everybodyco.com. Currently, there isn't jack to be found there, but all in good time.

As for what we'll be doing once we get there, expect more comedy, more reviews, and a lot more to do with the writings of Karl A. Fischer. That's right, that one incredibly distant relative has bought out our little company and we will be forced to conceded to his wishes, which means discussing his achievements (few as they are). We hope that all (six of) our fans will be able to cope with this transition, but none of you really have a choice anyway, so deal with it.

In closing, we just wanted to say that it's been a lot of fun and we hope to have even more, even as we attempt to revive our business and get used to a new location. None of us here have ever been good at goodbyes, or hellos for that matter, so we'll just say: "see you on the otherside." We hope that you'll follow us there.

Episode 3: Busting Out

2010-01-12T22:12:00.000-08:00

We apologize most sincerely for the long wait. Despite the rigorous advice of African magic and German diplomacy alike, we have done a miserable job of sticking to our schedule. We offer no excuses, unless you'll believe us when we talk about flying squids and machete-wielding fitness instructors. We didn't think so. There is a new schedule in the works but it won't be ready until we've done placebo testing. In the mean time, we'd like to present one of our favorite publications currently out subverting the market. Say hello to: Bust Down the Door and Eat All the Chickens.

Here is our sexy new set up for reviews:

Name: Bust Down the Door and Eat All of the Chickens
Head Honcho: Bradley Sands
Official Genre(s) of Choice: Surrealism, Absurdism, Bizarro
Publication Style: In-Print, with some archiving.
Is It Good?: Hell yeah it is, but you'd better like your fiction weird with a side of bizarre, because you won't get much else.

Praised by a few sources (Horror Scope and The Dream People are all we can think of right now), we've come to add our voice to the growing din of murmuring, approving nods, and hand waving. Printed in a clean and arousing format, BDDEAC offers such wonders as: scuba diver rapists, psychic Jesus blood, chicken monsters, and otherworldly secret shoppers. Some of our favorites include "I am the Dictator" by Sam Pink (Issue 8) and "A Recipe" by Stefani Nellen (Issue 7). So what makes it so good? BDDEAC exists somewhere between the quiet kid in the back of the class and that beautiful drug user slouched over in the front, casting strange glances at the teacher and playing with her nipple. It's Allen Ginsberg meets Flannery O'Connor meets Kafka meets the Internet Hate Machine. It's weird fiction that doesn't settle for being only weird. And why is that valuable? Because these are crazy times we live in and everyone wants to be the interesting weirdo on the box, spouting off-beat-and-all-too-accurate imperatives about today's apocalypse. The trick is to not lose track of your humanity in the process, (academic buzz word) even as you subvert yourself through copious amounts of anthropomorphic waffles. BDDEAC will do just that if you give it half the chance.

Currently, the publication is taking a bit of break. You can still buy issue 9 and check out some of their archives but submissions are closed and news has been scant. We sent a spy to infiltrate Sands' organization and we've been told someone might endorse the publication, wherein, operations will recommence with a new layout and possibly a new direction. While this may put a damper on the unique nature of BDDEAC, it shows that Sands is doing something right.

So if you're on the hunt for something off-the-beaten-path of literature, presented in the form of a neat chapbook and filled to the brim with bite-sized stories, we highly recommend Bust Down the Door and Eat All the Chickens.

That's all for now. Stay tuned for more.

Alert! Alert!

2010-01-08T08:06:00.000-08:00

Alright, so we said that we would be doing Project Phantasmagoria every Thursday and we totally will. However, you're not going to believe what completely random and entirely unforeseeable event just occurred that prevented us from making our deadline. Even we don't believe in this event, so much that we're not even going to tell you about it because it's simply too unbelievable. You'd think we were fucking crazy if we told you.

So yeah. Stay tuned for Project Phantasmagoria later on and make sure to get plenty of vitamin C while you wait.

The First Day of a New Decade

2010-01-01T11:02:00.000-08:00

Ladies and gentleman, welcome to the second decade of the century, the millennium, and the bimillennium. That's right, ten years have now passed since humanity was supposed to suffer computer/zombie apocalypse at the hands of Y2K and it's only another twenty eight years until we have to deal with it again in 2038. We'd like to take this opportunity to remind you of the realities of your universe.

You know how so many movies either pan out or pan into a shot of the Milky Way, as if it were some overpoweringly colossal entity that is supposed to make you feel insignificant? Well forget the Milky Way, let's talk superclusters and filaments. A supercluster contains clouds of thousands of galaxies and we estimate that there are about 10 million superclusters in the observable universe. These superclusters appear to be arranged in sheets or walls that surround massive voids of nothingness (by this point we're dealing with hundreds of megaparsecs, which is 2×10¹⁹ miles a unit) and the collection of the superclusters is called a filament. As far as individuals galaxies are concerned, they're nothing but pinpricks of light in a vast spiderweb. So you think the Milky Way is scary huge, that the stars in the sky are far away? Compare all of that to Bootes Void, and suddenly, the Milky Way seems like an insignificant cloud of dust. Forget about whether or not you matter, wonder about whether our local galactic realm even matters.

With that cheerful little reality check out of the way, we'd just like to say that we plan on continuing our operations (regardless of their cosmic and local insignificance) and that we're looking forward to a new year. We thank the people that have supported us and kept us going all through the year. Honestly, it's for you people that we write, read, and splatter ketchup all over the walls. Happy new decade to all. May your non-frightening dreams come true in one recognizable form or another.

Episode 2: New Age Obscure

2009-12-29T10:10:00.000-08:00

After consulting a witch doctor and several clones of Henry Kissinger, we have come to discover that Thursday evening is the optimal time to publish internet reviews, as well as offer sacrifices to Ogun. So, with the recommendations of Ombutu and Henry 3 through 8, Project Phantasmagoria will now be regularly published every Thursday. Some might point out that this current publication is coming to you on a Tuesday, but we're paying them to keep quiet.

In this week's episode, we want to talk about something that Everybody Company is quite familiar with: obscure talent. Think of that finely crafted statue of a goblin fellating itself in your neighbor's garden (look in the weed patch to the right of the tulips, it's there). This is not to say that our subjects do not have their fans (your neighbor is certainly a fan of her goblin) but that their popularity is not vast. Just remember, if any of you are reading this, it means we like what you do. Our subjects are one Neil McCormick (aka LongForm) and the erotic stylings of Steamy Punk.

Anyone familiar with U2 or the music writing scene may immediately ask: "Are you talking about THE Neil McCormick?" The answer is: probably not. The world's a big place and people are known to steal each other's identities, but we're just not sure. The Neil we're talking about goes by the alias LongForm and we've only ever found him in one place: Illiterate Magazine. Illiterate Magazine, by the way, is an endeavour worth its own episode, which we just might give it later on. As for Mr. McCormick, he has submitted only three pieces, which are short, sweet, and somewhat unfathomable. With allusions to things like "If I Had a Hammer" by Peter, Paul, and Mary and the use of hypertext, LongForm is an artist of the new age. His shortest piece, "FANTASTIC OPPORTUNITIES FROM HOME OLD MAN!!!!" seems to be an experimental cross between poetry, prose, and email spam. One might look at it and say, "WTF, I could do that," but we would counter with the question "O rly?" There is a certain magic to LongForm's work that is difficult to identify; it stays in your head even though you're not really sure what it is you just read. We encourage you to look him up and scour the interwebs for more answers.

Our other subject will provide a brief foray into the steampunk subculture, its sex life in particular. Steamy Punk is a small website with only a few authors to its name, but it has very recently published some stories in paper and it seems likely to do so again. Steampunk, for those of you who only ever saw the movie adaptation of "League of Extraordinary Gentlemen," is not just about kick-ass retro-futurism. The word 'punk' is a key factor, expressing varying degrees of social discontent and a drive towards counter culture. Steamy Punk makes no bones about punkishness with its anarchistic connections to Strangers in a Tangled Wilderness and its progressive mixture of sexualities and situations. We don't know what turns you on (though you're welcome to share) but we find dominance and sodomy to be very interesting and we wish they were more widely displayed in the garden variety historical romance genre. We're not fools of course and we understand that you can find ANYTHING you want on the interwebs. But Everybody Co. is not interested in fruit porn or Twilight fan fiction. What we are interested in are well-written stories with vibrant settings, encapsulating sexual interactions as they actually occur. Steamy Punks arousing authors do just that. The content may not be for everyone but if you like punks, steam, steampunks, or sodomy, check it out.

Well, that's all for now. Expect more later.

Happy Holidays, Assholes

2009-12-25T11:04:00.001-08:00

Merry Christmas to anyone who celebrates Christmas and a happy new year to everyone on the Gregorian Calendar. As for the rest of you, happy whatever, whenever it is.

Presents have been opened, songs have been sung, and disparate family members have gotten drunk and brawled on the porch. There's nothing quite like the holidays, nor is there anything quite like workings during them. Oh, but don't worry, only myself and the janitor have been left here, so misery will be minimal. We plan on defenestrating most of El Savel's office supplies and writing crude memos to Hannah with his signature. Vengeance is sweet.

More important announcements will follow.

Public Service Announcement 2.7

2009-12-21T10:28:00.000-08:00

Since our last PSA was rather small and not particularly useful for anyone outside of cyber land, here are some things that all of us on the streets of America can relate to.

Yogurt is delicious when eaten with strawberries and granola. We encourage the lactose-intolerant not to indulge in this practice as it will cause civilization-ending flatulence.
Cnidarians, such as jellyfish, corals, hydrozoans, are ANIMALS. Quit calling them plants (you know who you are). They all have animal cells, nervous systems, and something like anuses. In fact, the turritopsis nutricula is biologically immortal because it can indefinitely revert back to an earlier stage of development after reproducing. Can you stave off old age eternally? We didn't think so.
Mass transit drivers are not to be trusted. Yogi was recently riding his unicycle up Swanson Street when some low life, baby-sodomizing, piece of civil service shit almost hit and killed him with a bus. And yes, we know that it would have killed him because we checked out some of the bubble universes produced by the event and witnessed his funeral in several variations. Avoid anyone working in the mass transportation industry who shows signs of moral dispassion, fetal alcohol syndrome, or just generally seems like an asshole.
Pay your bills on time and don't take out loans that you can't pay back. Financial negligence hurts us all.

That's all for now. Here's a quick look at what's coming up within the week: other various rants and raves, emails of the damned, and of course, Project Phantasmagoria. Stay tuned.

Episode 1a: Phantasmal Beginnings

2009-12-17T20:12:00.000-08:00

Welcome to the very first edition of Project Phantasmagoria. Before we get started, we'd like to announce our recent freedom from the sweatshop. That's right, our contract expired and we're now free as newly fledged birds with fuzzy little wings that don't work. Granted, that's not very free but it's better than spending fourteen to sixteen hours a day hosing off toothbrushes covered in fish guts. We are all very excited and our emaciated bodies shall soon return to the fatness of modern American living that they once embodied.

Our plan is to present Phantasmal episodes every week. This first episode concerns a little publication called Space Squid and the work of Matthew Bey.

Space Squid is an interesting little publication based out of Austin, Texas, distributing for free both online and in print. So far it's only published eight issues (with seven of them available on the interwebs) but it doesn't seem to be showing any signs of slowing down and we're glad for it. In Issue 8, which also published Carl's extremely distant relative, we were treated to such wonders as the world's smallest choose-your-own adventure, a guide to killing zombies with ordinary household items (such as katanas), and a whole variety of quality speculative fiction staples: fairies, robots, dragons, more zombies, and severed eel heads. In all honesty, this is a great publication, full of fun and cheap thrills that you can't get in any other context. We hope they keep going and we intend to stay fans for as long as it exists.

Matthew Bey is Space Squid's main man and he maintains his own blog where he brags about his literary achievements and all the various things that he puts in his mouth. It's actually quite thrilling. As for his fiction, the man is equally good at that. Granted, we haven't read all of his stuff but we have heard him read about monkeys with clown faces (via the Squidcast) and read several tales, including A Natural History of the Pancake Badger, published on the now defunct The Town Drunk. With straightforward prose that is neither ornamental nor minimalistic, reading Mr. Bey is like reading a cheesy horror movie with all the playful skill and little of the cheese. That probably doesn't sound half as complimentary as we'd like it to but Mr. Bey, if you are reading this, we'd just like you'd to know that we wouldn't be talking about you if we didn't like your stuff. Keep at it man and keep working on Space Squid.

Public Service Announcement 2

2009-12-17T19:57:00.000-08:00

Here's a quick announcement for the public at large. Karl Fischer, that oft-championed and extremely distant relative of Carl Flesker's, is apparently starting up his own little web project, a site called Ninnies and Cretins. We've no idea what it's about and it doesn't seem to be doing all that much with itself yet, but Carl assures us that it's going to be bigger than sliced bread. Carl has also intimated that Karl will be starting up another online endeavor very soon, possibly about his pathetic writing career. I can't think of a single soul that's going follow it but I'm sure Carl will force us into doing so the very instant Karl gets around to it. Sounds absolutely dreadful. More PSAs will follow no doubt.

The New Project Phantasmagoria: Now With 25% Less Sodium

2009-11-29T21:47:00.000-08:00

Life still blows utterly here at the sweat shop but Hu Wong is sick with explosive diarrhea so it's hard to complain. In the meantime, we'd like to share with you what the new Project Phantasmagoria will entail when we finally get around to it. We can't recall what our old goal was (and let's be honest, neither can you) but starting now we're making an outline.

What is Project Phantasmagoria?

Despite the name, it will have nothing to do with phantasmagorias, but rather, the undiscovered wonders of the interwebs in the world of fantastic fiction. The fiction itself may be readily available in print, but perhaps it is heavily tied to the interwebs and/or can only be ordered from a website. Digital publishing is the wave of the future, and though all of us enjoy a good bookstore with a convenient coffee shop attachment, how much of said bookstore do you actually peruse? How much of said coffee do you actually drink? But much more importantly, what about all the offensive, strange, offbeat literature that no self-respecting national chain would ever pick up that you desperately want to read? That's what the web is for and we want to show you around some of the "gems" we've found. Of course, said gems may resemble semi-precious stones or scraps of feldspar to others but subjectivity is the spice of life. Project Phantasmagoria wants to regularly and accurately showcase/promote/degrade/exploit some of our favorite bits of digital fiction for your potential enjoyment. All you have to do is tune in and waste your time reading us.

Whatever happens, just know that we've always loved you.

Episode Nine: The Mega Episode

2009-11-18T10:12:00.000-08:00

We've never had many fans in the bleachers, and after a straight month and a half of non-content (academically known as anti-content), we expect that we have even fewer. But as they say in the fjords of Sweden, what goes around is probably stuck in a rut, and that's where we've been for the last seven weeks ladies and gentlemen. In case any of you had ideas about running away from home and joining a sweat shop in search of simpler, more fulfilling life, we're here to say that it's not all that glamorous. True, having been stripped of the many affectations of modern life and forced to work in horrifying conditions for the most exploitative wage imaginable, we have all come to better appreciate the value of life and living. Some have even rediscovered their faith in God. In retrospect, however, it's a degrading and thoroughly confusing lifestyle. At the middle of the fourteenth hour on your standard Thursday, you find yourself sitting on the same rickety stool, a half-dead fish in one hand and a slimy toothbrush in the other, and you think to yourself: "what am I doing, where am I going in life, why are these toothbrushes even mixed in with these fish?" The existential torment is palpable, lush like a summer grapefruit. It infiltrates you and seeps down into your bones, making them wet and heavy with sorrow. The bottom line: it's just not a good way to go about doing things.

After this and many other cathartic revelations, we've managed to crawl out of the mud and finally start the generators back up . The office has turned into something of a lavatory/barracks but it feels good to be writing, announcing, editing, and making unsavory demands again. Those faithful to our cause will notice that there's been some changes to the employee directory: El Savel is no longer the Grand Poobah, instead we answer to a higher authority, that of a nasty little Chinese slave driver named Hu Wong and his nine-tails called Precious (thank God he can't read English). We've also recruited a few new people from the work floor to fill in as editing and creative temps. They're a swell bunch, they really are, and we appreciate their dedication. All in all, we've become fairly optimistic about the future of Everybody Co. If we can work in a sweat shop and do this job, we can do anything. However, we've also come to realize that perhaps our future lies in another field. Does anyone remember Project Phantasmagoria?

If you don't then take a look at this: http://blackbirdsblackbirds.blogspot.com/2009/06/introducing-project-phantasmagoria-our.html

This was our original mission until El Savel sold us out to the Psychic Egg. We thought they were corporate evil, a giant conglomerate consuming smaller companies right and left for the sake of paper profits. Turns out they were more like that band you formed in high school: they met once, tuned their instruments, played some shitty covers, and then dispersed, never to do anything else again. But where they've been long dead, we still remain, so now we're taking up the torch and marching boldly into the future. Project Phantasmagoria lives again!

With our contract at the factory set to expire and a new sense of purpose buried deep in our breasts, Episode Nine will mark the last of its kind. It is with a heavy heart that we present you this little tidbit but we anticipate great things to come.

The Fate of Tyrants
by Carl Flesker

Bjorg Sundance sits before his waffle, eyeing it, his concentration divided between the brown edges of the cooked batter and the nearby window. Beyond the glass, the sun begins to smear as it slides off the horizon, wiping pink and gold all over clean, white clouds. The diner is a spacious little dive, the creaky chairs covered in green upholstery, a salad bar rotting away quietly in the corner. The kitchen sizzles audibly but waitresses seem to be sparse. Customers are sparse as well.
The waffle vibrates on its plate and Bjorg glances at his watch. The rains have been getting heavier, along with the advertisement storms, and there’s been a lot of talk of puppet shows and mimes. The mimes don’t bother him so much; it’s when the musicians start to come out of the woodwork that he knows things are getting thick. The Parades will be coming soon. Bjorg can taste it in the air. He’s always had an excuse to be out of town by this time of year, ever since 8184, leaving just when the trees grow back and alcoholism spikes. But it’s started early this year. The buds haven’t even bloomed yet and already the street performers have grown rampant. No one’s had any spare change for a month.
Bjorg looks at his flatware, his reflection a mere parody in the lackluster metal of a tarnished spoon. The cheap lights of the diner glint off the teeth of his fork while a group of Up Class businessmen, dressed in triangular suits, laugh obscenely over at the next table. He can’t understand a word they’re saying. That’s another sign. Soon the town will be crawling with mummers and juggling men.
“Do it,” whispers the waffle. “Do it. Cut me.”
Bjorg glares at his meal. “What did you say?”
“Cut me, slice me open.”
Loud chortling noises cause Bjorg to wince and he drops his fork.
“Do it you sonofabitch.”
“Maybe I don’t want to.”
One of the men laughs so hard that his shoulder pads slip.
“Why did you buy me then?” demands the waffle, its surface creasing. “Why would you even come into a waffle diner if you weren’t going to eat any waffles?”
Bjorg grabs a spoon. “I will not be coerced. I will do this my way.”
Laughter almost drowns him out.
“Beat me,” gushes the waffle huskily. “Pound me into patty cakes and then tear me apart with your teeth.”
“I will not.”
“Do it.”
Laughter.
“Shut up.”
“Do it.”
Laughter so loud it makes the walls shake.
“Where are you going?”
The businessmen pound their table, holding their sides in fits.
Bjorg jumps from his seat and brings a death gun to bear, the barrel pointed right at the nearest man. Their laughter fades and the click of the hammer fills the diner.
The men look back at him, uncomprehending. “What?”
“What?” he screams, bearing down on them. “What? What is so fucking funny?”
The one with the gun to his head frowns, his silk suit glistening. “Knock, knock.”
“Shut up, do you hear me? Shut the fuck up!”
Bjorg vaporizes their table, the repercussion loud enough to make the rest of the diner drop to the ground. The businessmen continue to sit where they are, unimpressed with the devastated table.
One of them looks at his friend and shakes his head, a white, curly wig swiveling back and forth. “Poor idiot. He must not have a good job.”
“A musician, no doubt. The trench coat says it all.”
“He doesn’t have any manners either,” calls the waffle.
Bjorg breathes deeply, slightly calmer without the suffocating laughter. The other diners peer at him from underneath their tables, terrified. They’re Down Class people, like him, so they understand just what a death gun is capable of. Up Class people have no conception of danger. It was bred out of them for God knows what purpose.
The silk suited man jabs at Bjorg’s side. “Now look here. You can’t just go around making trouble like this. It’s not proper. Not to mention, we’re from the Tower.”
“I don’t give a damn where you’re from,” says Bjorg, snatching the waffle off his table. “ Now give me your money. I need to pay the bill.”
“Why? You won’t kill us.”
Bjorg glares at him. “Perhaps, but I can follow you. I’ll find out where you live, and then I’ll come to all of your parties. I’ll even bring my friends over.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“I would. And we would speak to all of your guests in loud voices and shake their hands, every single one.
The man sniffs, the curve of his mouth like the spout of a gravy server. “I bet you don’t even have friends. Balvish midori, kyro padameiso fep.”
Bjorg leans in closer to him. “Crimeccan. You think you’re better than me because you can speak Crimeccan?”
“Yi, sholinkin is tatmadeen.”
The sound of sirens can be heard in the distance and Bjorg bears his teeth like a dog. “You Uppity bastards. How is that the cops always know when one of you is in trouble?”
“Zerav oomil potchmen is yidit. Rogorok tahachi, bu san sonsunoos.”
Bjorg sighs. “There’s just no pleasing some people. Of course, it’s the same story. The giants always miss the ants.”
The waffle screams as it is crushed into the man’s face. At first he does not react, but then he starts twisting about, trying to get away. Bjorg holds his head until the waffle morphs on its own accord. It grows exponentially, turning molten and encompassing the man’s body in a wriggling, tentacle-covered mass of batter. He flails like some wild creature caught in a pit of quicksand, but the weight of the growing entity tips his chair over and pins him to the tiled floor. Only his feet are visible now, twitching periodically. His friends do not even move; they just look on in horrified fascination.
“You tricked me,” the waffle complains as the sirens grow louder. “I was supposed to get eaten.”
“I told you I would do things my way.”
The waffle grows a face and frowns at him. “This is not how I wanted it to end.”
“To want is to live,” says Bjorg callously. “If you were to fulfill all your desires then you would die.”
“At least I know who I am,” the waffle mutters, its surface hardening. “I’ve come to terms with that. I have no regrets.”
“You’re a hedonist,” says Bjorg. “I hate hedonists.”
“I don’t mean to be rude,” says the businessmen with the wig, poking at the waffle mass. “But do you think he’ll be all right?”
“No, he’s dead.”
The man frowns. “How uncouth. Who will pay for his part of the tab now?”
A fleet of police vans roars into the diner parking lot and relinquish squads of heavily armored men, guns bristling from heads and forearms. Bjorg grabs one of the businessmen and, using him as a shield, runs for the kitchen. Gunshots blow out the glass and ripple across the diner. Bjorg fires several shots at random before dropping his shield and storming out the back door.

Episode Eight: The Last Rose of September

2009-09-30T21:43:00.000-07:00

Those of you devoted to our work will note that we have been absent for awhile, a common occurrence as our track record would suggest. But we have a good excuse this time. Everybody Co. has not been making very much money. In fact, after all expenses considered; paychecks, rent, repairs, electricity, lawn maintenance, lawn parties, ceramic gnomes for the lawn, booze, and other frivolous idiosyncrasies; the company has managed to save a total of $9.54 for future growth. Needless to say (though we will happily say it) El Savel took matters into his own, extravagantly incompetent hands and turned us towards the glowing industry of indentured servitude. Mind you, this wasn't much of a transition for us, but after two weeks of separating raw fish from the raw toothbrushes that came in on the same conveyor belt, we decided enough was enough. No, no, we didn't bust out of the factory in a fire and brimstone uprising. In fact, we're still here. We moved the office to the factory where we will continue normal operations while attempting to meet backbreaking quotas for the next few months. It's a thankfully short contract, but the point is, our operations may be slim for the time being. But if you bare with us, or better yet, come down to the factory and help (email for directions), we'll do our best to keep putting out the same content that a strange, rather small, fanbase enjoys.

One of our new coworkers wrote a steampunk-based, revolutionary poem. We think it's quite a fitting piece and happily publish it here today. We'd pay him for his contribution, but then we'd be whipped for bribary. Trust us folks, working in a sweatshop sucks. Here comes the poetry:

Starving in a Mechanical Whale
By Hao Yu Xiaoling, translated by John "Go Fuck Yourself" Jones

Clockwork men and clockpunks punch time clocks and begin
The new day gleams like everything else
Varnish and grease on all the little vanishing components
Hidden elevators in the towering pipes elevate the upper crust
They go to higher places where they will stare down with eyes of glass
Petri dish experiments beneath their towering industrialization
“All for the greater good,” says the god emperor president comrade man
Enacting vital plans ten handspans in name
Factory lines unloading, foreman shouting, “every man must break quota.”
It’s going to be one hell of a night

Brass fittings and leather belts feed the bullets
Feeder tape looping, a constant soundtrack on cage speakers:
“Kill the interlopers and you will be rewarded.”
Picks and shovels over by the corner, they pick up guns blazing
Firearms and factories smoke like orgies aplenty
Elaborate wheelocks and flint rocks clicking, golem legs whirring
An army bought from the bread lines and the slum soups
An army belching steam, coal smoke, and sulphuric ash
Falling like rain amongst the wheat fields, war engine irrigation
It’s going to be one hell of a night

Now me thinks its not what it seems
Uneven seams on the clockpunk’s jeans, uneven thoughts divide the work floor
The foreman’s in everyone’s face: “pick up the pace, faster goddamn you.”
But a man can only take so much
Even the gears need grease, even the engine needs oil and fuel
Hungry mouths, too long shut, turn into hungry hands that starve for violence
And everything is brought to a shuttering halt
A black evening even monocles can’t penetrate
No one’s breaking their backs tomorrow
So release the steam, deadbolt the doors, light the lamps
Lock up and get the chains
The gas burns as they take up rifles and sabers
Hush hush even as the streets crack, skulking through gutter vapors
Cannons blast and sirens roar
It’s going to be one hell of a night

The boilers scream with pressure while the cage speakers crackle
No one’s listening as the roadsides teem with treasonous bullets
Clockpunks rip their clock cards, falling to rubble
It’s only ash and smoke for breakfast
It’s only airships and bombs for dinner
But at least it’s not “every man must break quota”
At least it’s not “all for the greater good.”
The glass eyes are the interlopers now
Black armbands and black bread for the march
It’s going to be one hell of a night

Episode Seven: Good News From Elsewhere

2009-09-14T13:38:00.000-07:00

At long last, our subscription to Agonizers Quarterly has been processed and, after weeks of agonizing, our first issue has arrived. Its glossy beauty sets our hearts on fire, so much that we haven't even dared to open it yet. But that isn't why we're making this announcement. It's somebody's birthday today, in fact many millions of someones all across the globe, but there is an individual in particular that Carl would insist upon us recognizing. That's right, our faithful readers might have guessed it, Carl's excruciatingly distant relative, Karl Fischer. According to our calculations, he is now twenty winters old, two complete decades that have passed since he was pushed forth into a this baffling world full of bright colors, loud television ads, weather patterns, and oxygen. At gunpoint, Carl demanded that we relay some of Karl's achievements as well. After many hours of brainstorming and threats, we came up with this:

Karl has lived many times longer than the average frog baby.
Karl has never needed corrective dentistry.
Karl can do that thing with his tongue.
Karl has been published (as covered in the post "Far and Wee").
Karl has not done heroine.
Karl once had a dream in which his penis was bitten off by a large insect.
Karl was voted "most likely to correctly utilize sarcasm and satire" in high school.
Karl lives with a beautiful woman (most likely his mother).
Karl has been to the land of nod, drank with all the chinamen, walked the sewers of Paris, danced along a colored wind, AND dangled from a rope of sand.
Karl once killed a bird with rock (no, not a stone, a rock).

That's as far as we got. An impressive list, of that we're sure, but time is getting shorter and so is our patience. So, with Carl now subdued and locked in a closet, we will shall leave you here to consider this wondrous man named Karl Fischer. Happy Birthday to you sir, wherever the hell it is you live, and please don't ever come out to visit your cousin or his workplace. Seriously.

Episode Six: Part 2: The Dust Settles

2009-09-07T15:06:00.000-07:00

Many of you might think that our recent hiatus in publishing was due to the titanic battle being waged between our Dream Team, consisting of Mikhail Bulgakov and the Beastie Boys, and our new favorite adversaries, The Killers. You probably imagine that we were busy taking cover behind our desks while Brandon Flowers matched psionic wits with Mike D, generating enough raw electricity to power the nation of Qatar, or perhaps running for our lives as Bulgakov went Super Saiyan and Ronnie Vannucci Jr. rode in on his cybernetic land shark.

Well friends, all of these things are true, but that's not why we're almost a month behind. Indeed, the duel was a terrifying spectacle to behold, one that would have surely made a top-budget action movie of the year, and we popped popcorn and watched its grandiosity all night long. The Killers were thankfully beaten by the battle's end, but they vowed revenge on us one day, so we kept the Beastie Boys' numbers and reburied Bulgakov beneath the parking lot, waiting and prepared for that cruel reckoning. But again, that's not why we're behind.

It turns out that all throughout this saga, our brave leaders, El Savel and Bjorg, were busy running an underground lobster fighting ring in Mexico. Apparently there's not much money to be made in whatever the hell it is our company does, so they went south and created Las Langostas Muertas. An interesting career move to be sure, and one that they probably would have excelled at, but those fuckers owe us money, and more importantly, they can't just up and abandon Everybody Co. like some cheap harlot at the alter. So we had to hitch hike down to Ciudad Victoria and drag those bastards kicking and screaming all the way back to good old Vociferousborro. If there's one thing we love more than running from Mexican ganglanders or beating up our bosses, it's a happy ending with a slight twist of ambiguity. Now all we have to do is rebuild the office, find a way to pay for the Beastie Boys' airfare, and change our names and addresses so that unsavory Latin men don't knife us in our sleep, and we'll be golden.

In order to commemorate our victory over impossible odds, our new creative department is publishing this little poem that they found scrawled in a public bathroom. We feel that it speaks to the occasion. It's good to be back on track:

Doth the Mackerels Sing
by Hugh G. Rection

"On a dark platform
floating above the burnt-out planet,
stood a lone figure
Clad in a chicken suit
he held aloft
in his right hand, a socket wrench
and at his side
in his left hand, a mackerel
And then he spoke,
in a voice that rattled the blood red rocks of the earth below
and shook the sky above
“I am all that is man, and ye shall bow to me”
But alas,
his reign would be cut short
for neither his voice
nor the mackerel he held at his side
could hold back the beast at his gates
The beast that was,
reality"

Episode 6, Part 1: The Dream Team

2009-08-19T06:22:00.000-07:00

Last night the Killers struck again, dismantling all the bathrooms and killing our favorite snack person. Obviously our sacrifices and pleas for mercy have gone unheard. But you know what? We don't care anymore. We are sick and tired of being the victims. First it was the czars of Russia, then the Moroccan slave drivers, then the ice cream vendors on Fairbank Street, and daily we have lived under the heel of El Savel, but now the Killers? It's gone too far. Oppression and enslavement at the hands of cute, twenty-somethings selling mint chocolate chip is one thing, but this is something entirely different. We're taking matters into our own hands, here and now, and they will be handled roughly and without regard for fragility.

We made some phone calls, did some high profile grave robbing, and paid an assload of money to a man whose name and specialities shall not be presented. The results are these two:

For those of you not schooled in the ways of kickassery, we have hired the world renowned hip-hop group, The Beastie Boys, and resurrected the body of the early, 20th century Russian novelist, Mikhail Bulgakov. The Boys, with their outlandish, rhythmic flair, and Bulgakov with his staunch refusal to cease writing satirical portrayals of the Soviet Union, even during Stalin's Purges, are sure to make a dynamic combo. The Killers may have soul but they are not soldiers. Bulgakov was a soldier and the Beastie Boys are the fucking Beastie Boys. If we can't win with these guys, we'll all give up and go back to graduate school or something. Please, God, let it work.

We apologize for the lack of products this episode but we have no production room. It was bombed by an alternative rock band.

Discovery

2009-08-14T07:02:00.000-07:00

The shells have stopped falling and the birds are chirping again. We're safe for now. It seems most everyone has survived, although our highest ranking officials are still nowhere to be found. That's alright because we finally found a spare to the lock on the armory. Rearmed and reinvigorated, we're working around the clock to refurbish the place and make it an impenetrable citadel of stubborn resistance while still meeting our production quotas. Our investors would thank us if we had any.

We are thankful for the temporary reprieve but our troubles have only just begun. Extensive reconnaissance has finally revealed the face of our enemy. Despite initial estimates of no less than two dozen cyber ninjas and at least three psychic mutants from the X-Men universe, it turns out that there are only four of them.

That's right. The members of the rock band, The Killers, are as skilled at their namesake as they are at making insanely good music. John reports that he saw Brandon Flowers rip an editing temp in half. Sheer terror had, at the time, convinced him that the rampaging rock vocalist was actually some kind of large, flightless, attack bird. Other reports of Dave Keuning wielding a flaming skull are prolific but we've yet to figure out which member was driving the tank.

Believe us when we say, we don't know what it is we've done to anger this group. Though their music is readily enjoyed in the office, our crimes must have been great to warrant such an attack. More information will be forthcoming. Right now we've got an effigy to burn and several pigs to sacrifice. Perhaps this will appease them.

No Time

2009-08-09T16:38:00.000-07:00

There's not much time to talk. Everybody Co. has enemies: pervasive, ingenious ones with street smarts and a large vocabulary. We don't stand a condom's chance in heaven. They hunt us like vermin and have driven our Grand Poobah into hiding, which may otherwise be fortunate, except he has the keys to the armory. We don't know who these people are or what they even want but we suspect the worse. Updates will appear as opportunities to leave the fortified broom closet present themselves. Pray for us; or mail us a semi-automatic. Anything helps.

Far and Wee

2009-08-02T20:51:00.000-07:00

It would seem that Carl Flesker is not the only talentless hack in his family. A distant cousin of his, a man by the name of Karl Fischer (don't know where people come up with these names), has finally gotten his act together and written something worthy of paid publication. Not a difficult feat, considering the amount of garbage that is published these days, but amongst all the filth and lies submitted to this publication, Karl's was apparently one of the best. Carl was reluctant to mention what rewards awaited his dear cousin, but he did threaten to castrate several board members in their sleep if we did not make a public announcement detailing the achievements of his unbelievably tenuous relative. So here it is, with great gusto, we announce that Karl Fischer will be published in "Space Squid Magazine," the link to which is thus: www.spacesquid.com. Look him up when Issue Eight comes out in a few weeks, or don't. No one except Carl really cares.

Episode Five: The Future Will Look The Same

2009-07-29T12:27:00.000-07:00

Not that it’s any of your goddamn business, but we’re all having a real bad day, or at least El Savel is. And when El Savel is having a bad day, he finds very creative ways of spreading it to the rest of us. Today’s tactic is a little more straightforward than we’d like: defenestration. So far he’s constrained himself to just inanimate objects, but after defenestrating all the desk chairs and then tossing the snack machine (you would not believe how strong this man is), he has moved on to dearer victims. Even as I type, he is taking my office supplies and the framed photographs of my family and tossing them out the third story window. I can hear the crunch of the my stapler smashing against concrete and the shattering of glass, the shards of which seem to cut and bounce through the ventricles of my heart as easily as they do across the pavement below. A pedestrian walks through the wreckage and steps over my wife’s smiling face without a second thought, a boot print covering her wavy hair and lovely but slightly misshapen teeth. I shed a small tear at the devastation done to my office, at my employer’s disregard for my fragile state of emotions, and then quietly resolve to one day take his life.

While we wait, there is other news afoot. In a strange twist of utter coincidence, Carl received a short piece of fiction in the mail today that resonates with the situation. The author claims to be a neo-leper from the year 8166 and sends us his work “in order to give [us] warning (references furnished upon request).” No one’s really sure what we’re is supposed to do about events that are more than six thousand years in the future, but we’re going to publish the story anyway and hope everything works out. Using the return address, we've sent him a check for five dollars and some grocery coupons. Hopefully it will mean something:

"Repent, For the Future Is Nigh!"
by John Jacob Jayjay III (References Furnished Upon Request)

“Welcome to your new desk," says the management cyborg, his reconstructed voice box like razor wire against sheet metal. "Until you receive a change of position, this desk will be assigned to you indefinitely. Congratulations on your promotion."

John M. Smarcs, Employee #18DDC7 looks up at the giant cyborg with disdain, but says nothing and takes a seat. The desk is exactly four feet by three and one quarter. It is desk #755, part of a floor that contains exactly sixteen thousand desks. There is no privacy and each person is allowed only a total area of thirty-six square feet, which doesn’t account for the room taken up by foot traffic. From his position at the front right corner of the room, John is severally limited in the number of coworkers that he can watch from behind, but it is less claustrophobic this way and he can at least see out the windows now. Beyond the massive, bulletproof panes of glass and radiation shields, City Five stretches out into the horizon, a fog of urban decay.

The management cyborg spouts a few more readymade lines about integrity and opportunity and then leaves with a whir of bio-circuitry. In practice, there are only two ways to be promoted, and both involve the death of the one who holds the higher position. In John’s case he is just the beneficiary. According to his desk tag, the murdered is one Ellis H. Osprey, (now ex) Employee #18AFA2. His things were supposed to have been removed upon termination of employment but, as usual, maintenance is behind schedule. John has become used to this now. He has been promoted five times and at every desk the paraphernalia of the deceased was still present, perfectly preserved. Despite the soul-crushing drudgery that he lives in, John cannot help but exhibit curiosity over the life of his fellow coworker. It will be one of the few pleasures in his fourteen-hour day.

The right drawer holds a nondescript bottle of pain relievers, a pair of candy bars, several medical-grade batteries, a ring of keys, and a mess of office supplies, including a rather expensive looking push pen; the usual artifacts. The middle drawer holds nothing but crumbs from lunch. The left drawer is the most interesting one, containing a small case and a stack of papers clipped together. Unabashed, John rifles through them. The papers are thick with text.
“A Walk in the Park” proclaims the title, by E. Harold Osprey. A cursory scanning reveals it to be a love story, a particularly obtuse one filled with strange soliloquies and something akin to erotica. John throws the novella in the waste receptacle without further investigation and opens the case. Its polished exterior lends the look of opulence, but the interior is only cheap felt.
Inside are more pages of text, a barren date book, and a stack of photographs. John throws the case, date book, and other stories away and then bends over the photos intently.

The first one shows two, well-groomed men in a half embrace and John assumes one of them to be Mr. Osprey. The next photograph is a bevy of attractive young women. Family perhaps. But the photos grow more and more diverse with each turn, depicting a larger variety of ethnicities, ages, and situations. Suddenly it dawns on John that these are not pictures of relatives but of clients. Turning one photograph over, he can just barely make out the chicken scratch signature of E. Harold Osprey. John inspects the photos more carefully now and quickly decides that he does not like them either. The poses are contrived while the natural settings in each give way to many aesthetic errors, such as tree branches coming out of peoples’ heads and glares from the sun. One photo is special though: it depicts a topless woman who smiles at the photographer knowingly. She is not particularly beautiful on her own, but she is candid and sensual. The photograph has been masterfully done, the errors of the other snapshots blissfully absent. John wonders at the lives of the model and artist for a few, brief moments before throwing everything away and taking out his own things. It is his desk now.

Public Service Announcement 1

2009-07-27T09:24:00.000-07:00

Despite our frequent and often flagrant disregard for social mores, Everybody Co. is a people place and we care very much about the health of society at large. Which is why, at the behest of several non-profit organizations and high school PTAs, we have assembled this public service announcement in order to promote healthy, daily habits.

Every day you should:

1. Floss and brush in order to prevent gum disease and other forms of teeth desecration at the hands of bacteria.

2. Have a good, strong bowel movement, wash your hands after each evacuation, and wipe thoroughly to prevent chaffing.

3. Drink a glass of red wine in order to acquire the many antioxidants found within grape skins. Either that or just eat a bunch of grapes.

4. Masturbate to the point of release. For men, this will boost one's immune system and help prevent prostate cancer. For women, it may alleviate menstrual cramps, chronic pain, and prevent yeast infections. In both sexes, it releases endorphins and can help you sleep. Please do not exceed more than three sessions a day.

5. Get some form of exercise. Tripping on acid and then running through the streets in a blind terror counts, but is not recommended. Running, biking, hurling javelins, and mining coal are all good alternatives.

6. Don't get hit by buses. We've tried it and it doesn't work.

7. Alleviate inner stress by making the most out of every day, perhaps by taking a relaxing sojourn into the mountains, writing a poem to a loved one, or slaughtering all who defy you in a bloody vendetta. It's your life, live it, and don't get caught by the police.

Episode Four: A Day To Remember

2009-07-26T14:20:00.000-07:00

Today is a very special day here at Everybody Co., for today we celebrate the births of some of our favorite persons to live between the 19th and 20th centuries. You may well know them, perhaps even seen or dated them if you’re a time traveler, super centenarian, or damn liar. In any case, they are: George Bernard Shaw (1856), the famous Irish playwright, political activist, and financier of Swedish to English literary translations, known for his dry wit in the portrayal of social ills; Carl Jung (1875), the famous Swiss psychiatrist, a touchstone in modern psychology to this day, and an unabashed adulterer, writer, and wearer of glasses; and last but not least, Jane Bunford (1895), a reclusive chocolate factory employee and the tallest person ever recorded in British medical history, measuring at seven feet and ten inches tall before her decay and eventual death at the hands of hyperpituitarism. This last figure in particular might never have been known to the world if Birmingham University hadn’t stolen the skeleton and sent a picture of it to the Guiness Book of World Records fifty years later. A remarkable list indeed. We here at Everybody Co. celebrate these historical figures for their many achievements and unfailing similarities to one another, proving the old Egyptian saying that great minds do in fact think alike and that all such minds are probably part of a global conspiracy to control the fate of mankind. These three were no doubt made from the same primordial ooze when the Great Earth Mother mucked them together and shoved them into their mothers’ destiny-laden uteri.

Episode Three: Liberty, Equality, and Free Danishes Goddammit.

2009-07-23T08:54:00.000-07:00

Missed us? We extend our languid apologies for the recent month of absenteeism but we’re back in business and better than ever. It all started with a rash of swine flu but then gradually evolved into an all-out revolution as deep-seated resentment intensified to the point of violence (all thanks to the efforts of Yogi and John, our little demagogues). As a result, the last three weeks have been nothing but rampant, social terrorism, of which we are not ashamed. After two hundred and thirty seven angry phone calls, ten pounds of exotic fruit, fifty rolls of toilet paper, a box of acid-laced pizza bagels, two black eyes, and the fateful keying of El Savel’s car, peace has been restored at last. We’ve won back our dignity (whatever that’s worth) and garnered a new benefits package that’s got everyone very excited, myself included. We are now the proud recipients of:

1. Biweekly paychecks (no more of this six times a year crap)
2. New roach traps in the bathrooms
3. Danish Tuesdays
4. Witch doctor HMO (we only had a horse whisperer before)
5. Equal shares of the lottery pot winnings (it used to be pirate rules)
6. Religious tolerance (Bertolt is apparently a Jedi)

That’s the good news. The bad news is that our workplace is in shambles and we have a month of content that needs to be caught up on. Our stocks are way down, bills are way up, and fan mail continues to be nonexistent. But all that aside, we are actually very happy to be back at work. Most of us didn’t know what to do with ourselves while on strike; some even turned to dark, godless hobbies. Carl in particular has developed a taste for translating and adapting ancient theatrical productions into modern day soliloquies of social injustice and racial tensions. We’re doing our best to ignore him. Unfortunately, he is the Creative Arts Director, and with most of the part time creative staff either dead or missing, our options are limited. Not unfortunately, his project isn’t quite finished, so we still have more time before something metaphorical hits something else metaphorical. In anticipation of such events, Hannah has prepared a “tantalizing” preview from her newest work of erotic fiction. We wouldn’t ordinarily advocate for the publication of such smut (yes we would) but desperate times call for desperate, gasping measures and we’re turgid with need:

“He looks her over, marveling at her body. Although perhaps not as robust as Natalia's, she is in devastatingly good shape. He can only imagine what those firm legs are capable of. His suit pants grow tight and he realizes that his erection is jutting firmly into the air. He feels like a schoolboy caught in the act of masturbation.

‘This behavior is highly unorthodox. My commander would kill me if he found out.’

‘And who is going to tell him?’ she responds saucily. ‘The robots? That’s dubious. Besides, when was the last time you had a chance to peer inside the mind of a terrorist? Especially one with such a sophisticated liquor cabinet and porn collection? All that aside, I’m not going to prison until I get some action.’

She winks as she gets up from the couch, turning to show her ass as she walks to the kitchen. ‘You never answered me. What would you like to drink? You are making me feel like a bad hostess.’”

Hot stuff. The title of book is "Cyberpunk Cream: Sex Extravaganza Five" and it's supposedly coming out in 2012 through Zero Moon Dog Press. We haven't heard of them either.

Episode Two: Recovery and Belated Paranoia

2009-06-23T13:38:00.000-07:00

We had a busy night here at Everybody Co., or at least we're pretty sure we did. It's the only reasonable explanation for why our heads hurt so much...except for Bjorg, that bastard. Our memories are all a bit foggy but everyone can decisively agree that jello shots and bacon cupcakes were involved, along with several magnums of champagne. And if what's left of the security cameras are any indication, the festivities didn't die down till about five in the morning. We suppose an explanation should be forthcoming but we'd all have to think of a good one first. Anyway, what are you, our collective mothers? If we wanted your lectures, the lot of us would have just stayed in Tucson and worked at the movie theater, so don't get cheeky with us.

In the meantime, another problem awaits: our creative team was too busy playing vodka pong and who's-touching-me? to finish their assignments, which means we have nothing for today. So, at the last minute, Hannah went through everyone's desks and pulled out random bits of paper, threw them in the blender, and laid them out in columns. We then threw it away and instead pulled this entry from El Savel's diary, without his permission. Fucking fascist:

"Undecipherable Scribble"

June 11th, 2009

I heard a rumor today that the others were planning to kill me. I suppose it's natural, but unacceptable nonetheless. How can I run a company when my employees plot against me? My revenge will come swiftly, starting with the toilet paper and the pizza-bagels.

Contraception is for the slothful. The poor are the gateways to salvation, aren't we supposed to be like them? So breed damn you, be fruitful as God said, and populate the Earth with your hellions, so that dissent might be drowned out beneath the crushing feet of a million, hungry, inbred mouths.

But yes, they have been more resentful than usual. The janitor does a good job, I just wish he'd get a nametag. That's it! I shall take everyone's nametag away from them and force them to wear the flesh of dead rodents instead. Once done, they will lose all sense of self and fall to cannibalism. The resulting scarcity will drive prices up, schmooze with investors, ???, profit margins, a little sic semper tyrannis, and we'll be swimming in money.

Hannah has the most beautiful tits. They're like little glass oranges, only you can squeeze them. Why doesn't she look at me? Maybe it's the glasses. Inferior people should never be employed.

Cheese, eggs, dog food, flowers?, lots and lots of baco bits.

Episode One: Abandoned Poetry

2009-06-22T08:55:00.000-07:00

While still recovering from our dreadful loss at the hands of The Psychic Egg, Carl went out on a walk to the city limits and happened upon an orphan, abandoned on the side of the road, a knife buried deep in the tyke's little stomach. Being a master of CPR and field surgery, Carl immediately ran over and attempted to save the boy's life. But the adorable, blood spattered creature held up a tiny hand and spoke softly, saying, "Nay, good sir, for I am spent. There is no more life left within me. Do not soil your hands."

"Oh but you are a brave one," gushed Carl. "I beseech you, what is it that I can do in your final moments of agony?"

Reaching into his rags, the boy extracted a filthy piece of parchment and held it aloft. "This, sir, is my masterpiece, a poem that I have labored all my short life on. It expresses everything that I feel, everything that I am, and my last, dying wish is that it be published for all the world to see. Please, will you do this for me?"

Carl could only gulp. "Well, that's not quite so feasible as you might hope..."

"Please!" shouted the boy with the last of his strength. "It is the only thing that I've ever wanted! You are a publisher are you not? Take my manuscript, bring it forth, show the world the artist that it has lost, the artist that it never got a chance to know. I, a lad of only five years, so much to write, so much to suffer, and yet so little time, could you really be so cruel as to deny me? I ask not for fame, only the chance to live on forever, somewhere, in some form. Is that really so much to ask?"

"Okay, okay," relented the beleaguered Carl, "I'll do what I can."

"Thank you," whispered the boy, his face shining, and then died, his bowels evacuating all over the ground.

Carl, of course, threw the parchment away as soon as he found a trashcan and came back to work. Later, when he told us his story, we beat him soundly and sent him back to retrieve the lost epic. Admittedly, it wasn't quite so epic as we might have hoped, but we kept Carl's meaningless promise and did as the boy asked. Published before you is a dead orphan's masterpiece, and while it may not rattle the heights of the literary world, it has certainly rattled our hearts:

"The God Machine," by Barnaby Welterweight

Deus ex Machina
God from Machine
God from a Toaster
your toaster?
The Creator runs on dinosaur bones
condensed fish
His salvation can be purchased
by the gallon
The machine of life vibrates constantly constantly
constantly constant
Making me
sick with the questions that
jiggle
Making me in His image
I am the toast on which things are spread
buttery goodness of creation
Taken down to a whole
new level

Project Phantasmagoria Cancelled

2009-06-22T08:11:00.000-07:00

Well folks, we've been bought out, or at least parts of our endeavors have been anyway. Those of us at the bottom of the hierarchy aren't quite sure what's involved, but it seems that our Grand Poobah and Second Asshole In Command have struck a deal with some foreign entity entitled The Psychic Egg Review. From this moment forth, they shall assume all the responsibilities of Project Phantasmagoria, as well as all other projects pertaining to out-of-house creativity. I can't say what PER had to offer in exchange, but you will note that El Savel is now driving a brand new Mercedes. Coincidence? Probably. Whatever the truth, over half of our project staff is now gone, along with the coffee maker and everything that was in the fridge. We're bloody, folks, but we're not beaten. Everybody Co. is still dedicated to bringing you the best of the best, and the best has yet to come, and we love coming, so sit tight. Now is not the time for sniveling or self-pity, now is the time to draw inwards, to cocoon ourselves, muster our own internal energies and focus our chi, so that one day, far in the future, when we finally awaken from a dreadful sleep and gnaw through our fibrous prison, we will emerge stronger than ever, like a butterfly armed with a shotgun, and take sweet revenge. Do you hear us, Psychic Egg? We hope you do because we're yelling at the top of our lungs, and we're slowly going hoarse.

If any treacherous swine are interested in this loathsome take over and wish to see what our enemy is failing to accomplish, visit psychiceggreview.blogspot.com

Introducing Project Phantasmagoria, Our Latest Excuse For a Hobby

2009-06-15T10:58:00.000-07:00

Here at the Everybody Company, we have a saying. We're not going to share it with you, but suffice to say we do have one.

What we will tell you is that we love reading fiction, more importantly, fiction that comes from outside the popular scope, which is why our first project, PROJECT PHANTASMAGORIA, will focus on bringing the world of off-beat, small press, and/or cult style creative writing endeavors right to your viewing screen of choice. Most of our efforts will go into revealing small, internet-based productions but we're not picky. And what's our fee for this vainglorious feat? Nothing. All you have to pay in return is a little bit of attention. How do we do it? None of us know either. Issue one is forthcoming.

First Thing's First

2009-06-15T08:23:00.000-07:00

Welcome to the grand opening of the world's first all-in-one, non-refundable, do-it-yourself, highbrow, all-star, song-and-dance, well hyphenated, producer of Bamboozlematrons, Mystery Cubes, and Wopperjaws. Our name is Everybody Co, our products are not sold in any store, and we are sure to provide you the sort of inner peace and serenity that your wormy little life has been lacking for quite some time.
In order to commemorate this auspicious occasion, we have here with us tonight a full assortment of misfits, c-list celebrities, and pedestrians that we grabbed off the street. Please welcome our Grand Poobah, Jose Guapo Domingo Horatioso El Salvador, otherwise known as El Savel. Standing rather awkwardly next to him is our Second Asshole in Command, Bjorg Sundance, and to his immediate right is the janitor, a man whose name I can't recall. We also have Chief of Complaints, "Go-Fuck-Yourself" Jones, and Chief of Compliments, Yogi Blackheart III. Finally, in order of importance, we have Hannah Dinglebaum, Main Editor; Bertolt Ipswitch, a jaywalker; several bongo musicians, all named John; and Carl Flesker, the Creative Arts Director. Oh, and I'm your poorly paid host, Baguette.
Now, before the Johns start performing, let's all give a big round of applause for these brave souls who have taken it upon themselves to be subjected to the worst sort of criticism, mindless bickering, and existential confusion available as they pursue a life of customer service and artistic dillydallying. I certainly don't envy them. Well, that seems to be all the time we have left; some of us have to go earn a living. Be sure to pick up a free mug on the way out and write down our hours of business. We look forward to your patronage.