A Clan of Fudd moment awaits us

 

You ever notice how certain scripts just keep repeating? I recently happened upon an old newscast from the CBS Evening News (with Dan Rather), from early 1983. There was no particular reason that prompted me to watch this. There was nothing about the date of the program that was memorable for any reason. I just decided, "what the hell? Let's see what was in the news back then." I know I was alive at the time, though I am quite confident that I was not watching when this originally aired. Given the year, I can say that time was devoted to the destruction of brain cells.

For those who can recall Dan Rather, and really from any stage of his career, there were certain signature inflections in his delivery which meant that, at least in his mind, what he was telling you was very important. True to form, in this 1983 broadcast, Dan delivers that sickly-sweet scent of mock gravitas at about one minute in. The central theme of this entire report was simply this: Because we are telling you this, you must be concerned that these events may "touch off a dangerous new round of complications in the Middle East". Just think how many times we have all heard that exact phrase in the last forty-three years. In this story, the characters were Qaddafi, Mubarak; the principles Libya, Egypt and Sudan. The Nimitz carrier group was dispatched to sit upon the Gulf of Sidra. Other than these distinctions, the story remains the same today. We are still in the Middle East up to our asses. Maybe higher.

 The whys and wherefores for this may be debated ad infinitum, but not here, not today. We seek not those answers, only a recognition of the pattern. Because once you recognize the pattern, the whys and wherefores are meaningless. Knowledge of the culprit only satisfies the public curiosity, provided there is any. Knowledge of the culprit does not correct the condition or the damage done. Recognition of the pattern prepares you for the next iteration.

Our regular readers are most likely familiar with the reference in our title today. For any new readers, or others who may not know, the Clan of Fudd is a reference to The Fall of Otto, King of the Carnivorous Rabbits, a short story originally published here 6 August, 2024. You can find it in our August '24 archive.

Without telling the whole story, The Fall of Otto chronicles the final collapse of a corrupt and moribund line of rulers, the House of Otto. It is the personal tale of it's final Monarch, King Otto the Just, the seventeenth of his line. Otto the Just was thrust upon the throne with little preparation, in much the same fashion as Tsar Nicholas II. He was meant for the throne someday, just not when his ticket came up. But Otto the Just, in his idle days before being burdened by a crown, had learned some things about the House of Otto's statecraft. At the age of fourteen, five years before taking the throne, it was accidentally revealed to him that their nemesis, an alien band of monkey creatures called the Clan of Fudd, was in fact a fraud. The Clan of Fudd were imperial soldiers disguised in monkey suits. After this startling revelation the young prince began to avail himself of the family's vast archives. He discovered many more skeletons in the family closet and thus assumed the throne with a mind toward reform. 

The point in this narrative is, of course, to shine the light upon the conjuring of bogeymen. The ridiculous lengths that some will go to in order to maintain the long con. One is cautioned to remain incredulous at this exposure, yet there it is, plain to see time and again. As the world continues to shrink, it's growing more difficult to sell the script. When villains are everywhere there are none to be found, except in some vague and unsettling suggestion.

There is a movie coming out soon, maybe you've heard about. Disclosure Day, a Spielberg feature. I have heard some chatter around this, tagging it with what has become a cliche du jour: psyop. I'll not use that term, other than to make this mention. Is the movie part of a psyop? Maybe? It could be, I guess, but think about this. How many times, especially in the last ten years let's say, has this term been assigned as a means of discrediting any critics of something which does not desire scrutiny? Don't be too quick to embrace that term. Now, that having been said...

If there is to be a real disclosure event surrounding alien life visiting this planet, then I suspect that it will come in a fashion akin to the young Otto's enlightenment to the fraud of their rule. We'll be sold half-truths and hype, designed to scare or distract us. Probably both. Don't be a dumb rabbit. Don't be fooled by fools in monkey suits.

 

A Further Explanation

 

It is the Janus hour; it looks back at the day done, and forward to the day anew. It is an end and a beginning. It is zero, the start and finish. Midnight.

I remembered an olden tale, in which we were instructed that the "beasties" come out after midnight. Well, beastie is rather arcane, isn't it? Or maybe Scottish... Yeah. Could definitely be Scottish. Anyway...

So, I thought about it. Not real hard, but for a bit of a while. It occurred to me that if the beasts (it's just easier than beastie) come out after midnight, and midnight is zero hour, then the beasts never really leave us. Right? Tell me I'm wrong.

In that olden tale, the determining factor may have been more about daylight and darkness. But then why "after midnight"? Why not "the beasties only come out after dark"?

While we're around topic, another thing about midnight. Clocks that chime the hour. The only time a clock should chime twelve is at noon. It announces the beginning of the twelfth hour of the AM. But it isn't. It's the beginning of the PM. So, shouldn't the clock strike one time at that hour? And just remain mute at midnight? Because midnight is the zero hour. I still contend that no one knows what the time really is.

So basically, Midnight and other beasts just means this: this is zero hour and all the beast(ie)s that float around it. We start at zero and spin the dial. Clockwise, counter-clockwise... doesn't matter. It's just where we are.

I know this still doesn't actually define what Midnight and other beasts is. It just tells you what the name means. Or at least it's origins.  That's the closest you'll come. Some say "you know, it would be nice if you just produced one cohesive statement, something that pins down the site's whole ethos". Or words to the effect. That would be a... manifesto? Oooh... bad connotation, that. Best to stay away from them.

Alright then. Enough of that. Were you around in 1992? Did you know that was the year that cool died? Yeah, it happened. In case you missed it, from The Death of Cool, 1992, Kitchens of Distinction...

Gone world gone...

You can't go home again... and maybe you don't really want to

That town's not a number, it's simply gone numb

They'll finish you off there before you've begun

 

It is Sunday morning. Well, it is here. It's whatever time it is where you are, and we hope that your day/night is going well. Seems like a good time to dive into the vault...

Today we travel back to 1987. Not literally, of course, but... if only we could. I have invoked Thomas Wolfe's title because it dovetails nicely with the message Verlaine is sending with the song A Town Called Walker.  It's the same message, just with a different flavor.

Some in our audience may be familiar with Tom Verlaine and his work. I suspect that many of you may not be. 1987 was a year that saw a veritable plethora of film and music releases. Not all of it was good, in fact much of it was dreadful, but at least there were a lot of choices available. Among these was Verlaine's Flashlight LP, a release that was sadly lost within that great volume of material. Released a decade after Verlaine's debut with the band Television (1977's Marquee Moon), Flashlight garnered little commercial success or critical acclaim. Others are free to argue the contrary, but it is often true that popularity and critical approval have no bearing at all on artistic merit.

As the front man for Television, Verlaine solidly established his bona fides within the burgeoning music scene of late '70s New York. There was a legacy forged there by The Velvet Underground, and later Lou Reed as a solo artist. The family of artists to carry that tradition forward, were among others, Talking Heads, Patti Smith, Blondie and Television. They were considered the darlings of CBGB, the club that was the hub for the punk scene of the time.

Television distinguished themselves in this environment with their punk inspired energy, while demonstrating an artistry atypical of the genre. Lyrically they were literate and prosaic. They were a unique sort of art-punk; not the quirky, rhythm driven variety as Talking Heads, but something all it's own. Both of these qualities were driven by Tom Verlaine. With their 1977 debut, the band received much critical acclaim and the admiration of their peers. They followed with a disappointing sophomore release in 1978, then proceeded to disband. Verlaine's solo career that followed was sporadic; thus, he never became a household name. He nevertheless continued to hold a widely respected status from fellow guitarists. 

I once owned a copy of the album, on a cassette tape I picked up out of a bargain bin, only about a year after it's release. At the time I recognized the name, and almost wondered aloud, "what has Mr. Verlaine been doing since Marquee Moon?" At that moment in time, I had to honestly say that I had no idea. So, for the paltry sum of $3.99 or thereabouts, I decided there was no harm in checking it out. I ended up doing, as I've often done, playing it to death for a while. Then losing it into a pile of forgotten media. And dust.

There were three or four songs from Flashlight that I had particularly liked, A Town Called Walker being the foremost of those. I would recommend that you find the album, by whatever medium, and give it a listen. Other tracks to recommend are Annie's Telling Me and the almost bluesy, At 4:00 AM. The album bears Verlaine's distinct vocal and guitar signature in every note. If you are someone who appreciated Marquee Moon, I could not imagine not liking this album. If it is new to you, let us know what you think.

When I learned of Tom's passing a few years ago, I went back and revisited Flashlight for the first time in a number of years. As it had years ago, this particular song, A Town Called Walker, stood out from the others. Well, the long-term consequence of this is that the song now shows up in playlist rotation. You know, the friendly algorithm at work. And listening to it with greater attention, for reasons I do not understand, I gained what is perhaps a deeper understanding of the story related in the song.

The song opens:

Janey's going back to Walker, says folks
There are happy bees. I said you remember Walker
You lookin for some misery? It's not their
Tricks that I mind... it's just the way they say
"we" all the time.
That town's not a number, it's simply gone numb.
They'll finish you off there before you've begun.

I don't know who Janey is. Maybe a sister, maybe an ex. Maybe an old classmate. She says that she is going back to Walker and paints a happy face on it. "Folks there are happy bees". The party that replies has a familiarity with the place. "...you remember Walker. You lookin' for some misery?" It's like he is saying, "Happy bees!? Are we talking about the same place?" 

Now, if this was purely a case of friendly advice, the person might have said something like, "Gee, Janey. Are you sure going back to Walker is a good idea? Let's talk about it." Instead, this person cites a memory of misery. Maybe it's the kind of friendly advice that is more urgent. You know. More like, "What the fuck is wrong with you!"

"You can't go home again", as an idea, is thoroughly explored in Thomas Wolfe's work. It's a gentle admonition. It's a piece of advice offered to someone who maybe doesn't want to hear it but needs to. It's a polite way of telling someone that they are looking for something that just isn't there. From the book: "Make your mistakes, take your chances, look silly, but keep on going. Don't freeze up." We know what happens to George Webber at Libya Hill. Are Janey's circumstances with the town of Walker really so different? Her friend seems to think so.

People such as I, who grew up in a rural setting, may be asked where we are from. Typically, the response given will be to reference the nearest town, even if one did not actually live in the town. In these cases that town is usually a small town. A place, I suspect, that is rather like Walker. In the song, Janey's friend offers his short and somewhat biting critique of the town. It makes me want to say that I am from Walker, and in a sense, I suppose I am.

Small towns have their charm, but with that they also have their baggage. "It's not their tricks that I mind...it's just the way they say "we" all the time". The scolds. You know the type. "Well, here in Walker WE don't approve of that sort of thing!", or "WE won't put up with that!" There are the Karens who all seem to think that they are empowered to speak on behalf of everyone: WE. Sometimes it's just some grump. Sometimes it's the nosey bitch with a liberal arts degree from fifty years ago who still thinks she knows everything.

Folks there in Walker they've got their fun.
They'll count you out there before you've begun.
Expecting exciting and new lights to be shining
On anyone who can find someone else there to blame,
Folks there in Walker are falling in love with their
Shame. 

Walker is the kind of place where accomplishment is resented rather than rewarded. It's the kind of place pervaded by a "drink culture". Nobody there cares about your honor student, but did you hear? Lonnie just got his first DUI! These are people wallowing in so much shame that they can not help but project this onto others. Folks there in Walker are falling in love with their shame.

If home is a time and place captured in warm, fuzzy memories, then no. You can't go home again. That part of "home" no longer exists and can only be recreated in your own mind. There are, however, those parts of home that still exist. Especially if you are from Walker. They are there to remind you why you left in the first place.

 What is the cost of convenience? Not a price tag; though they are related, price and cost are not the same thing. What is the cost of convenience? Most have no idea of the answer, nor even of the question.

Here at Midnight and other beasts, we have been visiting a recurring theme of "How did the world get so ugly?" Today posts the third part of an allegory, The Bear, in which we continue our attempt to answer this question. The Bear is presented in four parts; the four seasons of a bear's life, if you will. The concluding installment, Autumn, will post in June. 

The Bear, part 3 Summer

Summer

 Spring had been brief this year. It came late, as Winter refused to release her grip. There was a slow thaw and then the rains came, not over weeks but in a great torrent. After flood waters had abated, there were only a few weeks of the balmy temperatures typical of the season. Then the heat came and it stayed for the duration.

It was a full five or six weeks ahead of schedule. Every Spring had the anomalous day or two of extraordinary temperatures. This was different. After the first full week, almost into the second, all of the life in the Great Forest seemed to respond as if some great switch had been simultaneously tripped. Vegetation grew rapidly, thick and lush. The cooling, deep green hue of Summer spread across the forest floor. In the open meadowlands flowers burst open in a sea of blossoms. The sun beat down for long hours every day, without even as much as a veil of cloud for a filter. Insect and bird life likewise sprang into their summer milieu, each day a growing symphony of buzzing, clicking, chirping. Everything responded in kind.

Bear knew what was happening, or at least he had seen this before. Nature has it's own universal Gnosis, to which every part of Nature is attuned. Within this there are patterns, the delicate dance of balance. The earth had lain beneath a thick blanket of heavy snows for months. The slow thaw was accelerated with monsoon rains. The earth was soaked, waterlogged. To restore balance, Nature brought the summer sun hard and early. Hot sun, clear skies, wet earth. This was Summer's cauldron.

These seasons were a delight for Bear. The berries and honey would come early, and he knew just where to look. He wandered his range for hours, day after day, mostly within the forest. There was all manner of game in abundance. When Nature gives abundance, it is no gift; abundance only allows that more may be taken. And take he did. Bear's appetite was sated enough that he might often retire to a grassy meadow, to nap in the warm afternoon sun. Summer seasons such as this one were not rare, but they were not the norm. Bear had lived through enough to know to take full advantage.

Fortunate circumstance was accompanied by a new element, the prelude of which had come in the early weeks of Spring.  Bear's second encounter with the hairless beasts below the falls had been alarming. On that particular day, the result had been the same as when the ice dam had broken above. The beasts had fled and he was left with some lovely fish. Bear had continued to visit that pool daily for some time, and there was no further sign of the mongrels. As Summer arrived ahead of schedule, Bear had the bounty of an entire realm to explore. He had not been visiting the pool as often as he might have otherwise.

After absence of about ten days, Bear began to saunter that way one morning. He had been deep into the ridges to the northern edge of his domain, approaching from the east bank well above the falls. The path was clear save for buzzing insects and the calls of birds. The hour was still early, but the climbing sun signaled the heat to come. This would be a good day for the water.  He reached a spot on this path where the steady roar of the falls became audible. There was the smell of the spray hovering in the air, and then something more. Again now, there was that sour smell of the two-legged, hairless creatures.

From the tall grasses ahead, there was a sudden rustling, followed by a shrill whistle. It was like no bird call that Bear had ever heard. Bear did not possess the reasoning capacity to connect these two occurrences, yet he sensed a warning, nonetheless. He knew that the mongrel beasts were again at his fishing hole. The apparent loss of one of their cubs had done nothing to deter them. A blood rage boiled up behind Bear's eyes as he charged to the top of the falls.

The humans had also found the value in this fishing hole. They had since learned of Bear as having a competing interest. Where Bear is a solitary hunter, the humans worked as a pack. They had learned to scout the pool in advance, and to post sentries above and below. Bear did not yet understand this, only the defensive instinct triggered by their incursion. The last of their little party were clear of the opposite bank below, as Bear arrived at the top of the falls. He roared ferociously from a slate precipice, the volume amplified by the large cavern below. To the humans the roar resounded such that it seemed that Bear was right on their heels. 

Bear waded out into the waters, bellowing a further warning to those sour smelling beasts scurrying into the tree line. The current was soft and even as he made his way across to the opposite shore. He had chased them off again, his fury was at least partially vented. Still, he stalked down the slope after crossing, determined to check the pool and dispatch any stragglers. He growled and huffed all the way down, still in a state of agitation. After thrashing his way across the remaining vegetation, he came to the pebble strewn shore of the pool, breathing quite heavily. Bear's entire body was charged to pounce upon something and render it limb from limb. But this was not to be.

Even as they could still be heard fleeing into the brush, Bear was stopped there at the shoreline. Their stink was heavy here. In the narrow sliver of sand at water's edge, there were fresh tracks. Long paws with thick toes. He now knew them by sight, by smell and by their tracks. The tracks showed that there were four of them this time. With each encounter there had been more of them. Bear should have been growing concerned for the sanctity of his fishing hole. Instead, his attentions were lured to a solitary stick in the sand, just a few feet away from the tracks. There were three rather plump bass impaled upon the stick, one of those still wriggling against it's fate. 

Bear had no understanding of what this meant. He understood only that these were fish that, for whatever reason, were not in the water. Fish that he liked to eat. And he did. For the rest of Summer, not every time but often, Bear would come to the falls and again find fish that were left for him in this fashion. Every time he would devour them. He would ignore the unpleasant taint left by the hairless mongrels; or the fact that there were ever more of their tracks throughout the land. Though Bear still preferred the taste of a live fish, direct from the water, over time he found that freshly dead was good enough.

The heat grew and grew as weeks passed and by late summer a drought had fallen upon the land. The river, in some places, had dwindled to a mere trickle across the rocks. The water level in the pool below the falls had even dropped noticeably. There was abundance still, but a change was in the air. Not just the change of the looming season, but something greater. Something that would alter the Great Forest forever more. The change would be savage. It would not be beautiful.

Spiney Norman has left the building

 

The Piranha Brothers were dead, to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that...

Whilst the authorities of the regime marshalled their armored cars, drones and riot police, cries of "Starmer is a wanker!" filled the streets. And it was indeed true: Mr. Starmer IS a wanker. Somewhere around 100,000 marched through the streets of London. There were perhaps more. With all eyes trained to this spectacle, another more significant event occurred at the Luton Airport.

Long believed to be dead, none other than Spiney Norman was spotted in Muslim cleric's garb, slipping off for parts unknown. My guess is Argentina, but that is just a hunch. The disguise was probably unnecessary. If the BBC was still running Ethel the Frog, we would have answers, but the "beeb" has given up on this type of hard-hitting journalism. Some might say they have given up on journalism altogether. They would be correct, but that is another discussion.

In the chaos of Britain's last winter of discontent, Spiney Norman had finally vanquished his quarry, the much-feared Dinsdale Piranha. Taking a page from Sterling Morrison's book, Norman then went under deep cover during the Thatcher years, working a tugboat on the Thames. Not surprisingly, he was right under their noses for years until fading from memory. It has been suggested by some that the Met gave Norman a free pass for taking out the Piranha crime syndicate. This would seem a legitimate theory, though no proof of this has ever been presented. Only the late Harry "Snapper" Organs could tell for certain and, like the Piranha Brothers, he is also deceased.

With the passage of time, the dimming memory and the mass importation of Islamic "asylum seekers", it was then easy for Norman to cloak himself within these sequestered cells of British society. It was easy to hide in places that no one would dare to look. This was true under the leadership of Saint Anthony the Cottager, the feckless succession of PMs which followed, and never more so than under the regime of Comrade Starmer. But then something changed.

Once the spotlight was shone upon Randy Andy, Norman knew it would not be long. He had observed the ebb and flow of British sentiment for decades and it became painfully evident that the tide was again turning. When the British establishment demonstrates the willingness to throw a royal upon the sacrificial bonfire; when a Tommy Robinson garners more and more open support; when a young Scottish lass can wield a battleaxe with impunity on a public street, it is time to go.

Spiney Norman's departure signals a sea change in majority sentiment. Britain is no longer a safe place for giant hedgehogs with anger management issues. It follows that with a little more time, the same may be true for every Ahmed and Abdul to have been deposited on that fair Isle. The Piranha Brothers would have been quite helpful in this, but they are dead. There is no doubt whatever about that.

Gee, I'm glad I didn't hold my breath waiting...

 

Well, here we are. Another year, another indictment. And another Comey. In our previous reporting from last October (St. James the Pious, M&ob 12 Oct 2025), we revealed that there are at least three Comey gholas in existence. Three that we have positively identified. Now, if you want the back story on each of these, go back to the original article. I'm not going to spell out the whole thing here. For our purposes today, we shall refer to these as:

Comey 2.0 - Stretch MC

Comey 3.0 - Huff

Comey 4.0 - Beeftits

When last we left this drama, Beeftits was shuffled through an Alexandria, VA courtroom, answering a charge that no one ever sincerely believed would be prosecuted to any conclusion. And it wasn't. No, that whole thing came and went like a Cleveland Browns starting quarterback. For any out there who are actually surprised by this, I can only ask: "New to this planet, are ya?"

Our conclusion in St. James the Pious was that Beeftits would definitely be swapped out for one of the other Comeys. At the time I put my money on Huff, the Estonian. Now, though the prize remains the same, the game has changed. New charges. New Court. From a Grand Jury, no less. Yet there is one other difference greater than all these. St. James' guide and mentor, Agent Mueller, has passed to the next realm. But not before concluding some unfinished business...

Navigating through the spirit world, Agent Mueller manifest himself in Mindanao to appear before Stretch MC.

"Gonna have to bring you back to DC, Jimmy Boy! It's for the Bureau..."

And with a long, puppy-dog face Stretch pouted and acquiesced to what he perceived to be an order. He would fly back to Washington. He knew what had to be done.

Agent Mueller manifest one more time before finally shuffling off this mortal coil. He appeared before Beeftits to break the news.

"Gonna have to send you to Mindanao, Beeftits. You're going to be Stretch MC's twin sister, Shelly. You'll be taking over as the front for the act. We'll just say that Stretch had... an unfortunate accident."

Beeftits blanched, mortified to learn his fate. Her fate? Whatever...

"Oh... I can't go there. That's a socially retarded area! I... I'm not passable yet! Do you have any idea what they'll do to me?"

Mueller shrugged. "I terminated your source material. That's a risk I'm willing to take."

And with that he was no more. Agent Mueller had executed his final rearguard in defense of his beloved Bureau. And in the unlikely event of a conviction for anything, Stretch MC will be given as the sacrificial lamb. Beeftits will eventually dissolve into the most remote jungle, where he will be worshipped as a goddess by a tribe of cannibals.

So, what of Huff, then? Comey 3.0. I really thought he was the natural. Agent Mueller knew something we didn't. It turns out that working as a quality control inspector in an Estonian boat varnish factory, is roughly the equivalent of huffing two tubes of airplane model glue per day. Huff's brains are like warm cottage cheese. And I don't think there are any other Comeys. By now, I think they have decided that it was time to break that mold.

The world is arguably a safer place than it was two years ago. Emphasis on the "er". It's still kind of a shit show, overall, but at least we can rest easy on two counts. We can be assured that the tensions of the once volatile Baltic boat varnish trade will be stabilized, in no small measure, by the presence of Huff there at his post. And secondly, we can be assured that the illusion of anyone actually being held accountable for the crimes of St. James the Pious, will remain just that. An illusion.