The Isle of Wights
Byline: Gary LlewellynDateline: November 25th, 2017
Mind-blowing time. There’s no character named Igor in Mary Shelley's Frankenstein. Nor did Dr. Frank have an assistant. The hunchbacked assistant from the Karloff film was named Fritz. Igor is a what is known as a stock character, a fungible twisted lab assistant trope they give to villains in Gothic horror because some unfortunate twit has to do the dirty work, kidnapping the local damsel that the heroes can trip over themselves for the chance to bang after the harrowing event is over, because nothing gets the ladies hotter than experimental surgery or a close shave with death, right?
Somebody has to dig up the bodies. Somebody has to be hero fodder. Gothic villains are typically depicted as rich assholes who never get their hands dirty, so someone has to carry out the evil schemes. Why not the local gimp? You can make him do fucked up stuff and treat him like shit. No chance he’ll sympathize and team up with whatever bizarre creation you yank into this world screaming and also treat like absolute shit. And the name is sometimes written as Ygor, for those of you that enjoy the use of unnecessary ‘Y’s.
For Alwyn, this person is, Skippy. We have no idea what his real ID is, but we’re leaning toward Kevin Merchant, a grad student in biological sciences at Kent State. He hails from a suburb of Cleveland where Alwyn used to live and disappeared about a year ago without an even hair left behind. We’re thinking Alwyn killed and resurrected him as a thrall or, like Doctor Frankenstein to Fritz, got him hopelessly addicted to heroin. Thanks to our shiny, new raven spy network, we’ve cracked a pattern in Alwyn’s movements. Skippy always arrives about a day before to prime the local pumps, scouting out primo corpses and pre-corpses (as Alwyn has been heard referring to the living), finding the angriest graveyards, full of the most vengeful corpses. Do you have zombies, or the like, in your local folklore? Skippy will sniff them out. Did your pissy, racist grandfather just kick it? Keep an eye out for Skippy casing the funeral. Your cat that bit everybody? Alwyn isn’t proud. He’ll raise a cat if it’s enough of an asshole. Alwyn’s got an army of little Pet Cemetery motherfuckers following him around.
This week we’re in Newport on the Isle of Wight. Our ravens spotted Skippy skulking around a few days ago, so we mobilized the kobolds and made great haste to the fair island in an effort to stop Alwyn making the place a literal isle of wights. As it turns out, Skippy was just here pre-booking a hotel for the Isle of Wight festival. The species memory is strong with this one. That’s one more weapon in our ever-growing arsenal. Speaking of Arsenal, I’ve got tickets to match against Burnley tomorrow, so Gary out, son. See you at the riot, hooligans.
57 Channels (and Nothin’ On)
Byline: Stephanie Morgan
Dateline: November 26th, 2017
Heya, SEG-ers! I get to sit in the hotel room while Gary antagonizes soccer fans. Or football or whatever the heck it’s called. I’ve been tasked with the job of figuring out why Grampy Morgan ran screaming from me at Arlington. To be honest, I’ve spent most of my time watching an ‘Are You Being Served?’ marathon on some weird station that’s not even in the listings. At least it’s not showing a soccer game. I remember watching this show with Grampy Morgan when I was just a little girl. I didn’t get the jokes, but I liked the way they talked. Most of all, I liked sitting on his knee as he explained what ‘bloke’, ‘bird’, and ‘poof’ meant, or why they mentioned blood so much, or why the audience laughed whenever the funny-haired lady talked about her cat. Why is this show on now? On a weird unlisted station, no less. Is this Grampy Morgan’s doing? Is he keeping me distracted? We have far more questions than answers at the moment and time is running out.
Maybe, that’s it. Maybe, he remembers too. Gary doesn’t seem to think it’s that simple and maybe he’s right. Grampy Morgan ran in fear, not shame. But, why? Why is he afraid of his own granddaughter? Is he afraid I’ll talk him out of it? Could he even be talked out of his frenzied mission? All we know is that I’m some sort of Alwyn repellant, which would make me sad if the situation wasn’t so dire. I have my kobold scientists working, around the clock, to isolate, what Gary likes to call, my X-factor. Isolate and weaponize, he says. It sounds like he wants teargas canisters of my pheromones. I’m not sure that’s where this is going. I have a theory I’d like to test, but first I have to find an undead creature. I’m in England, there should be plenty.