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June 13th - 19th, 2005
June 17th, 2005
Frutiger Fades to Black

In the fine tradition of 'the night we drank malt liquor at an art show and got bounced out of the Commercial', we present yet another night of serious drinking and rampant shitheadery. This time, we celebrate Frutiger Black's election to the rank of Dark Cardinal - just like in Uncanny X-Men #136. We are all excited for him, and wish him the best of luck in Rome. Benedict is a lucky fellow.

As such, festivities will implode at the Elephant & Castle on Whyte, starting around 8 or so. Expect the worst.

June 16th, 2005
The Rasp and the Wine Tonight...

Don't forget... 8 PM @ Remedy Cafe on 109th, across from the Garneau Theatre.

Feature followed by an open mic. Performers hoping to explore the most visceral & honest recesses of poetry. Guaranteed nakedness & no fakery. Calling out to all indie publishers to pimp their wares. Looking for likeminded writers to reveal themselves. Yearning to tell it like it is & do it like its done.


Mike "grout of a thousand busted midnights" Gravel
ct "shitkicking infinity with one broken shoe" staples
Michael "i like blueskies, beaches & your daughter" Applebe
Margaret "the arts are eating me alive!" Haugen

Will be a fine evening.

June 15th, 2005
Good Night, Doctor

In which Mingus Tourette relates the story of his last contact with former Breastfish lawyer, Doctor Law.

After the Russians cleaned out the compound with the Spetsnaz sweeper teams, Sweaty Charles and I watched the smoke drift from the roof of a nearby refinery office.

We had been testing the ballista earlier that evening. Repeated Air One surveillance passes had forced us to cover up between firings. As a result, we had run late and avoided the Soviet raid.

Sweaty was shaking with anger, but we weren't equipped for a counterstrike. The ballista had proven to be unreliable, yet again, and we hadn't brought any other heavy weapons. I kept the scope of my Remington trained on the action. Two of the cleaning staff had been handcuffed to a BRDM-1 Light Wheeled Armoured Vehicle, but no other personnel were visible. Two dead guard dogs lay beside them. At this time of night, it was likely that Terrible John was at the downtown brothel with Tracy, and Rorschach's replacement had gone home. Doctor Law was alone.

Half of a tactical unit was searching for him in the biological research facility, their shadows hovering around the entrance. Piles of RealDolls lay nearby, strewn outside the chapel. The smell of charred rubber and pesticides stretched across the parking lot. We had paid police to ignore us, so there were no sirens - only an unexpected rush of Uzbekistani, followed suddenly by a single gunshot. Without hesitation, the tactical unit streamed inside the facility.

The biological research facility was Doctor Law's favourite building on the compound. He enjoyed genetic research, strictly as an ethical pursuit, and spent countless hours there. After negotiating the compound's initial purchase, he had drawn up the facility's blueprints himself; installing go-karts, fumigation equipment, and subterranean bunkers to fit his personal tastes. The Russians had complained about the budget overrun, but Law had ignored them. He would not be denied his ethics research.

Sweaty stared at the compound over my shoulder. It had been our home for almost two years. He knew its capabilities as well as I did.

"They're in the bio fac?" he asked, his voice muffled.
"Yes," I said. " And no sign of the Doc yet."

I turned and looked up at him. He was wearing his M-15 Israeli gasmask, his fingers nervously rubbing the chinstrap. Neither one of us had brought full bio-warfare suits.

"Maybe we should leave," he said.

I nodded, and stood up. As I picked up the Remington, an explosion blew the roof off the facility, sending a white fireball spiralling into the night air. A split-second later, the shock wave knocked us off our feet and shattered the windows of the refinery building. A support beam on the compound's reserve tanker collapsed, and ignited when it struck the ground. Half the compound was on fire.

We picked ourselves up slowly. Sweaty's mask had been compromised in the blast. He sniffed the air nervously, but I didn't bother. Any scent of biotoxins would be overwhelmed by the smell of burning oil. I snatched up the rifle and we ran for the spiral ladder.

As we reached the ground, I could already hear the wail of the fire engines. Inevitably, they would drag the police with them. As Sweaty ran back to start the ballista trailer, I turned and took a hurried look through the rifle's scope.

The compound was ablaze. The biological research facility was gone, and the chapel had been flattened. The LAV lay on its side, and there was no trace of the cleaning staff or the dogs. No Spetsnaz were visible, though somewhere a radio chattered panicked Russian. Oily smoke rolled over the barbed wire fence, and as I dropped my scope, I paused. Officially, there was no alternate route to the surface.

Someone on the radio barked Russian and screamed, and it went silent. And after that, as the sirens rose, so did Doctor Law.

June 14th, 2005
Retirement Plans

I've decided on my future path. I will give up the lucrative poetry career and begin robbing banks. Poetry is just like robbing banks, but without the money - widely disrespected, living on the run out of the back of an ambulance, mating with senior citizens and drinking while heavily armed. Might as well have the cash to go with it all.

HAGEN, Germany (AP) - Three men dubbed the Grandpa Gang because of their advanced ages were convicted Friday of robbing 14 banks of more than $1.23 million, sometimes using guns dating back to the Second World War.

The oldest, Rudolf Richter, 74, was sentenced to nine years, while Wilfried Ackermann, 73, received a 10-year sentence. Both confessed to taking part in the robberies in Germany over a 16-year span when their trial opened last month.

The third defendant, Lothar Ackermann, 64, who is not related to Wilfried Ackermann, did not enter a plea. He was sentenced to 12 years in prison.

"It's unbelievable how easy it is to rob a bank once you've done it a couple of times," Wilfried Ackermann said during his trial, adding that fear of having no money and spending the rest of his years in a nursing home drove him to commit the crimes. Full Article

That last bit is my favourite - how easy it is to rob a bank once you've done it a couple of times. No shit, Wilfred. No shit.

June 13th, 2005
The Rasp and the Wine

Beatiality! Extreme Acts of Thermal Detonation! The Concrete and the Blood! This Thursday, June 16, The Edmonton Small Press Association and a bunch of anarchist yahoos present...

An ungenteel evening of poetic high-wire assembly with Michael Gravel, ct staples, Michael Appleby and others.

Four featured readers; 10 reader open mic to follow.

Thursday, June 16, 2005.
Remedy Cafe. 8631 - 109 Street, Edmonton.
8:00pm, upstairs. No cover.
For more information - hit the DirtPuppy. Whoo.

Also, free sex.

But What Happened Last Week? By God, Find Out Here!