Turmut Hoer

@4u5t0.bsky.social

Now zum deloights in 'aymakin' an' zum they vancies mow-w-w-win', but of all the jobs as Oi loik best gi'e Oi the turmut 'oein'

"Today is August 4, 2026," said a second voice from the kitchen ceiling, "in the city of Allendale, California." It repeated the date three times for memory's sake. There Will Come Soft Rains, Ray Bradbury's melancholy obituary for a dead world, is set today.

A search engine called Ask Doctor Lecter which knows everything, but patronisingly answers in taunting riddles and makes a mental note to kill you later if your question is too dull.

—Yes, you're right. You were deceived. I did make another ring. In the land of Mordor, in the fires of Mount Doom. I forged in secret, a master ring, to control all others. And into this ring I poured all my cruelty, my malice and my will to dominate all life. I was wrong—I'm glad you called me out.

Goodnight from Alan Lester fixing the change machine at the Starman Amusement arcade, spooked by its Vulcan Bomber cabinet activating itself despite being unplugged. Goodnight from Ann Day, wondering if her resident Hob will accept teacakes in lieu of its usual biscuits. Goodnight from Hookland.