Dispatches from the press room: Magnes’s Mailbag: And In The End Part 2/3/5: Sunday Mailbag Coming Down

Howdy folks. Elton here.

In the words of Bigfoot: “I not dead” [sic].

I was minding my own business down in the press room, trying to get this issue printed up after weeks and weeks of delays from those dopes upstairs. The editors–an incompetent bunch if I ever saw one–left Magnes to run the place while they all went gallivanting off into the sunset. And if the editors don’t know how to lick a stamp, then Magnes doesn’t even know what a stamp is. Which is funny, since he gets the mail more or less every week. And then wastes your time answering questions no one asked and clutters up your MyFace page and Twatter feeds with his inanity.

Anywhom, I was running the presses–because the magazine’s finally ready to go–when I heard this obscene ringing in my ear like a drill bit whirring into bone. My vision went black and I saw in my mind a red telephone on a rain-battered Ikea table (those Swedes can make anything, can’t they?). The receiver jumped with each ring and with each ring the drill bored deeper into my skull. On the third ring the black went white and the telephone vanished and when I could see again I saw the flesh melting off my own skull in the garbage-filled office of the Portland Review, an office that shuddered with each breath it drew.

What sorcery was this? I touch my face. My skin was still there, but it was my skull, unmistakeably bubbling in the corner, the rest of my body evidently incinerated into a pile of ash at my chin. But I was here. Was that body a creation of the Review or the occupiers or Magnes himself? And what of poor Patty, the tortured assistant to whom I never screwed up the courage to reveal my love? She was even more unrecognizable, reduced to rubble in the fray, just a scrap of her hair to reveal the body’s identity. Scraps of the occupiers decorated the walls and Magnes was locked in conflict with himself and the sentient office. The red telephone was there.

“Don’t answer it!” I yelled.

Magnes reached out his hand and I jumped for the wall and the phone line. Magnes’s hand shot back. His eyes were wild with terror and confusion. I pulled the cord from the wall and creaked my way upright. There was a full minute of silence save the sounds of the Portland Review’s labored breathing.

The phone rang.

The cord was still in my hand.

The phone rang again.

The drill worked deeper into my brain and I fell to my knees.

The phone rang again.

Magnes reached out his hand.

_ _ _

Until next time,

Elton Deacon: Portland Review Master Printer, President Local 442: IBLPOHHIWT, PhD


Mailbag! 11/17/2011

Due to lack of interest Magnes’s Mailbag has been canceled. There were two questions left to be answered. We here at the Review have outsourced the remaining queries to the lowest bidder as to not hurt our, now, skyrocketing yogurt budget.

Q: Will my daughter ever develop any common sense?

-Penelope Schotl, penelopeschotl@comcast.net

A: In soviet Russia, common sense daughters you!

Q: What is the Portland Review, really?

-Name unintelligable (something like Joy Pinstuff Dutl, pinktexasbutterfr@yahoo.com)

A: Portland Review, what is? Good. Answer. Destroy you. Now know. Okay? Buy issue. Print now. Print print. Out soon. Please go a-way.

– Man Pretending To Be An Over The Top Russian Man

Magnes’s Final Mailbag!–11/16/2011–And In The End Part 4 “Taking Mail To Make Posts To Write Mail To”

Note: Parts two and three can be found earlier on the site. They continue the story of the last mailbag from Elton and Patty’s points of view.

The decomposing head of Elton Deacon winked at me. His fleshed drooped and leaked into a down spiral so that in a few minutes nothing but his neatly polished skull would be left. It was encased in a beam of light that zoomed down from the ceiling of the Review.

Patty, the long suffering secretary whose yogurt we all enjoyed much to her chagrin, was propped up in the corner–a lifeless husk of lifelessness who was sucked dry by the very office she had loved ever so much. Her life was pretty awful. She had a lot of dreadful cats. And yogurt. She loved yogurt ever so much.

The Occupies had all been reduced to piles of ashes, neatly swept up by the Review itself.

The room creaked and moaned.

It had been three hours since the office’s sentience had come online and decided to fight back. The roof ripped itself off and was replaced with a jelly-like substance. It was opaque with small animals floating inside of it. I guess. Fish? I cowered under the desk and screamed out, “What do you want from me!”

“You,” a pleasant voice said. “You. Are the reason.”

“What reason? Why do you vex me something awful?”

“Literature must be preseved. Like jam.”

“What about jelly?”

“Aren’t they the same thing?”

“I don’t know. We should Wiki it.”

I tried to but the computer was reduced to wood chippings, what I understand all computers to be made out of.

“The issue was late. The issue was terrible. Therefore it stood to reason that you all were late and terrible. Literature had to be preserved. You had to destroyed.”

“But what about the editors?”

“They are never here. It is you. Just you.”

“Why have I been spared?”

Reality tore open–a portal appeared. There was a small desk with a red telephone on it. The phone rang.

“It is for you,” the Review said.

I stood up and walked toward it. Gentle readers, my time here has passed but I want you all to know that Magnes will someday return. When the time is right. Look for me coming at the like of the fifth day. When the battle is at its darkest. When Franzen has prevailed. When mediocrity–stories about gay Nazi’s from New Jersey–won I would return. Look towards the north. I will be there.

On the other ham, look inside your heart. Where I am pointing. I will forever live there. As long as you whisper the name “Magnes” I will live on. In your heart. Inside the secret garden in each and everyone of us.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a telephone to answer. DESTINY CALLS!

Due to lack of interest Magnes’s Mailbag has been canceled.