Smoke if you got em'

Dearest Internet

As you are no doubt aware this temperature at depth has become a matter of urgency; my face is, as we speak, a hefty cheese, an arctic porcupine, my whiskers protruding like icy toothpicks crowned with chunks of frozen fruit. We have no warmth. We crowd around a single match, thrusting our toes into the solitary flame; scorching the pads of our leg-ends to at least keep the memory of heat alive. We are cold to the point madness.

Thus, my digital love, I have taken it upon myself to begin a hearth. After many weeks of rummaging in the ashen dirt, I have accumulated enough kindling to keep a flame alive. We have never known such luxury. Indeed, many of the older generation ran in fear at the ignition; their memory of fire having long ago been wiped by this constant, moist blanket of darkness in which we huddle together like a fleshy pile of soiled socks.

Thus, my sweet, we have fire, and where there is fire, there is smoke; a thin, misty stick, ramming its vapourous way into the unwilling rump of the surface world. I have discovered that one may communicate with this greyish thread by placing a blanket over the fiery mound and then removing it sending Morse like signals into the rumoured blue sky above. Using this ingenious technique, I have made contact with our Oregon counterparts and their dot dash tidings have been nothing but the sweetest of news. Our Brutish companions are to play a show! This Saturday, in Salem's own Space, our conquering combo will take the stage to debut new material and drunkeness. I myself have begun to burrow my way through the continental shelf, simply in to catch a glimse of this unique and ground breaking event.

Further to this, I have included an addition to the Talking 'Tache section charting the lip brow cultivation of one infamous guitar plucker. Plus, a selection of visual treats from across the pond. See below for details. Thank you for your time.



A trail of Mike.



Head first in 50's diner.



yours cozily

Barnaby Fudge