[at ten o'clock, Concrete Blonde's rendition of the now-familiar Leonard Cohen tune comes BLASTING out of the journals, at full volume, as loud as Harry can make it go. no one's ignoring him, this week. even if you've got your journal closed and locked in a drawer, you're probably going to hear him.
yes, him - not just the music. as the first verse really starts to get cooking, it's cut off by a loud, pronounced, mechanical whine... the only warning the residents get before their resident shock jock and newshound starts hollering into a megaphone aimed straight at the journal]BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP! HEY, EVERYBODY! THIS IS NOT A TEST OF THE EMERGENCY BROADCAST SYSTEM! YA KNOW WHY NOT?! 'CUZ WE AIN'T GOT ONE! That's right, folks! If this had been a set of first-generation fuckhead assaults on the castle itself, and not just a few outposts, we'd ALL BE ON VACATION RIGHT NOW! And to top it all off, one of the crazy violent asswipes we had locked up down in the basement? POOF! Gone like rum balls at an Al-Anon meeting!
So, no, hey, you don't get any happy little list of new people, and you don't get to hear all the quaint, crazy shit we comparatively sane people got up to, and even more, you don't get to hear what I've found out from the folks who went wandering out into the Great Beyond. No. No, you don't. And you know why?
Because this is fucking unacceptable. With the exception of a handfulla people whose voices I heard pipin' up over the last couple've days to help out? YOU ALL FAIL. Yeah. Even those of you who went on the expedition. Even me. Yes, EVEN ME. You know why we're all sucking on a six-foot long, foot-wide faildick right now? Because NONE OF US have an emergency plan in case this kinda shit goes down. We're all so wrapped up in our little crazy "Oh, my friend's a cat" lives that we don't stop to think how fucked we are if we actually turn our backs for too long.
And believe me, I've talked to a few people who just came back with rock-solid, titanium-plated proof of just how utterly dry-boned on a paddle-less raft in Shit Creek made outta swiss cheese we could be if we don't watch it. So LET'S GET TO IT, Paradisa.
I wanna see some fucking initiative. Let's all get some kinda fucking plan worked out. I wanna hear from each and every ONE of you about what the HELL you intend to do with yourself if shit like this happens again - because let's face it, it will. As much as we all wanna stand around with our heads up our asses, enjoying the smell of our own shit and the castle's jizz, we gotta GET WISE. Somebody - or a group of somebodies - needs to step their ass up to the line and help getting our mutant ducks in line.
And before you ask, wisenheimers, don't even look at yours truly. Think about it. Do you REALLY want a teenager on a Irish Spring Diet to tell you where to go in case of emergency? Because, if you do? Well, sorry, I'm just gonna tell you that you can take your unprepared ass right on down to hell.
[he switches off the megaphone, finally, and sighs. the journal picks up one last grumble:]Jesus motherfucking Christ, what a bunch of puke-guzzling
sheep....
[before he turns on the stereo again, still at full blast. happy post-expedition, post-raid Monday, Paradisa.]( Filtered to Hermione Granger; written )