Tales From Wolf Mountain

3-5 Genuine Radio: Broadcast 321.0 Ragna-Rock PM

June 03, 2024 Wolf Mountain Workshop Season 3 Episode 5
3-5 Genuine Radio: Broadcast 321.0 Ragna-Rock PM
Tales From Wolf Mountain
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Tales From Wolf Mountain
3-5 Genuine Radio: Broadcast 321.0 Ragna-Rock PM
Jun 03, 2024 Season 3 Episode 5
Wolf Mountain Workshop

Offer a message for your place around the fire.


Madeline Taylor sums it all up.  

Genuine Radio is voiced by:  
Joe Hanson  
Kris Northcutt  
Edward Hoffman  
Monte D. Monteleagre  
Edie Pierce  
Alice Stilwell  
and Raimy O. Washington  

Genuine Radio was created by Alexander Wolfe, and is a production of Wolf Mountain Workshop.  

Tune in. Break down.  

Show Notes Transcript

Offer a message for your place around the fire.


Madeline Taylor sums it all up.  

Genuine Radio is voiced by:  
Joe Hanson  
Kris Northcutt  
Edward Hoffman  
Monte D. Monteleagre  
Edie Pierce  
Alice Stilwell  
and Raimy O. Washington  

Genuine Radio was created by Alexander Wolfe, and is a production of Wolf Mountain Workshop.  

Tune in. Break down.  

MYSTERIOUS VOICE: India. Tango. Sierra. Alpha. Lima. Mike. Oscar. Sierra. Tango. Oscar. Victor. Echo. Romeo.

MADELINE TAYLOR: 321.0 Ragna-Rock PM is online, feelin’ fine, and maybe, just maybe, drinkin’ a bit of wine to celebrate… Welcome to the end of everything, folks. Let’s get it started. Flip that switch.

Musical intro. 

MADELINE TAYLOR: Such a special time for you, for me, for all of us really. Breaking out, breaking free, breaking down (for a select special few of us), and of course, breaking through, to the other side. That’s what I’m here for. That’s what I’m doing today. 
And - I can hear you asking - AAAAAANNNNNNNNDDDDDDD Ms. Madeline Taylor, just how are we gonna do that huh? 
Well settle the fuck down and let me tell ya. 
We’re gonna talk to the nearest and dearest thing to a God that we poor saps have down here. The biggest of the big kahunas, (especially when he controls each and every bit of your destiny, don’t you know), the CREATOR himself, puttin’ the words to the page and makin’ us rage…
Mr. Alexander Wolfe!

There is a small but spirited musical sting, a smattering of applause, and more than a couple boos. 

Small pause.

Deep chuckles.

MYSTERIOUS VOICE: Maaaaaaaaaaaadeliiiiiiiiiiiiineeeeeee……….. You’ve always been the summer-upper haven’t you? We just never let you have a spot at the beginning…why did we do that…we had a plan for it, I’m almost sure of it…

MADELINE TAYLOR: My apologies everybody, that is certainly and absolutely NOT Alexander Wolfe, apparently we’re working with some open phone lines here…

MYSTERIOUS VOICE: How about you go fuck yourself Ms. Madeline Taylor?

MADELINE TAYLOR: Abrasive and confrontational. Shocker. Well, we do the best we can. Ladies and gentlemen, guys, gals, and non-binary pals, may I present the shit-bag supreme, the reason for every sad season, the mean, green, and ever so lean - Edward Hoffman.

The MYSTERIOUS VOICE has been revealed.

EDWARD: Thank you thank you thank you, you know how much a shadow loves a spotlight - just throws us into…harsh relief…
Shockingly enough, I didn’t come to just fuck everything up for you here. I’m better than that - despite your “opinions” and your “memories”...
I see your fuckin’ plan. You wanna bring Alexander in to answer some questions. Big meta thing - the author talking with the characters - it’s very fun. It’s very Luigi Pirandello, kinda classic at this point, but not bad. Not bad. 
However…respectfully…you seem to have forgotten your places here. 
What the fuck you’s was all put here for.
All you are…
All you’ve ever been…
Just a vessel for horror.
Just a jug for something scary.
A pipeline for bad feelings.
So… Respectfully…
How about you just sit the fuck down, play your little part in this game, and tell a little boogeyman-ghost-story for the nice people listening, huh?
And if not… Well…
Let’s just say, I’ve got connections.
I know your boss. 

Small pause.

Do the right thing. 

Musical interlude. 

ALEXANDER WOLFE: Assemble and count off, please. 

WORMBAIT JONES: Wormbait Jones, sounding off.

MS. DAPHNE DE LAURII SAMARANO: Ms. Daphne de Laurii Samarano, sounding off.

JANIE BOO: Janie Boo, sounding off.

AVERAGE JOE: Average Joe, sounding off. 

MADELINE TAYLOR: Madeline Taylor, sounding off.

EDWARD HOFFMAN: Edward Hoffman, always here. 

ALEXANDER WOLFE: Alexander Wolfe. Very tired. Very, very, tired.
Do it please.
Somebody. Anybody.
Say something creepy. 
I’m out. 
I’ve got no horrors left.
Plenty of scary shit, but I just don’t have the energy to wrap it in a metaphor. 
Do it, do a scary thing. Go on. 
Mush. Or, whatever. 
You know. 
EDWARD HOFFMAN: Uh oh…no more inspiration, huh? Nothin’ in that big ol’ brain behind that sad little beard-y face? Don’t you worry….
Hey now….
I’m here. Edward is always here. 
I’ll take away the pain, big boy, I’ll take away the stress, gimme a name, any name.
ALEXANDER WOLFE: Uh… Daphne. Ms. Daphne de Laurii Samarano.
EDWARD HOFFMAN: Your wish is my command, sweet boy. 
Gimme sound!

Musical sting.

EDWARD HOFFMAN: Fuck yeah. Now gimme words.
Human Shadow: A Story Of Honesty

A very simple electric drumbeat begins. A light and not-entirely-unpleasant drone follows. 
I'll put my passion into the world,
and give it time to rise.
I'll talk to Gods that slit my tongue,
I'll make your spirit mine.

The drums played in my head as I combined the claw of my hammer with the back of her skull. She cracked into a thousand people and I didn't find a single friendly face. They chased me through the fields and I giggled at the tears that made them slip.

The drums played in my head as I touched the heart of the mechanical beast. It shivered and I shivered and we shivered but we were together, the important part, so easily forgotten.

I've put myself into yourself,
Now wait until I rise.
I've made you see that you need me, 
Now all of you is mine.

The drums played in my head as I put the body of the child on the pedestal made for the Warrior-God that demands offering and repays with shame immortal. The child woke a single time but I had my hammer and it had its claw and we made sweet, silent, music thereafter.

The drums played in my head as I reached into my secret pocket and fondled the teeth I'd taken. They chatter-clinked and walked in circles, so I stroked them back to sleep. They miss the home that kept them warm, but gums don't feel the same as me.

I put my heart into the ground,
and burnt the land to dust.
I left it hidden in the clouds.
I know this Earth will rust. 

Musical Interlude.

MADELINE TAYLOR: Here in the Ragna-Rock Studios, located on one of the darker of the Wolf Mountain slopes, we know how much it’s worth to be able to just… take a moment. To relax. To look up at the stars near the glowing embers of a campfire and just… be.
There’s a peace to the eventual end of everything that lies behind the sanity of every individual able to cope with the concept of death and survive to see another day. 
Or, you know, maybe not. 
But that’s what the remnants of a campfire are for…shading the face and loosening the mortar on tightly built walls until honesty just…flows.
Let’s have a piece of honesty, why don’t we?

A piece of honesty occurs.

MADELINE TAYLOR: Talkin’ and talkin’ and talkin’ and even more talkin’. 
Why can’t this thing just die?
Hell, why was it even made in the first place?
Why is every character written as some sort of bullshit Jive Turkey asshole or a vaguely hick-esque stereotype livin’ down a dirt road far from towns with their “people” and their “education”?
It’s because…right here…right now…for the five of us….. God has begun to die…
EDWARD HOFFMAN: Wrong! Wrong, Madeline Taylor, wrong! God started dying before he ever thought of your sorry little ass. You think something like Genuine Radio comes out of somebody having a damn good time? Absolutely not.
Your life, your story, everything you are is just the result of a man getting his little baby feelings hurt, drinking all the liquor he can afford, and attempting to justify the littlest, most bitchy breakdown by calling it “writing”.
MADELINE TAYLOR: As I was saying…God has begun to die… and we can only assume that we die with God. Because to live without…there’s a fear there. 
Fear of the un-direction.
Fear of the still.
Fear of being nothing but a static reminder that something hated itself enough to make you.
But before the death (if there is a death), and before the weeping (if there is any weeping), and before the great stillness (if such a thing even exists at all), we will do our duty.
Janie Boo, beaten and broken, made into a clown, the first to see past the bullshit and the first to call it out…
Why don’t you tell us a story?

Musical interlude.

JANIE BOO: The color was green. Deep and dark, the type of green that makes you look at a plant and say, “yes indeed, this here is one healthy plant, just look at that green”. 
She saw the green in the very bottom outside corner of her left eye. It wasn’t unpleasant by any means, and she hadn’t been using that corner for much lately, so the green sat there, uninterrupted, an optic companion much like a nose - easily forgotten. 
By the time anybody made mention of the green to her, it had grown to encircle most of her left eye, forming a sort of backwards “C” shape, and casting half of the world in a lovely verdant vignette. 
14 ½ doctors were consulted and twelve of them examined her, and at least 10 of those wanted to operate immediately. (The remaining 2 wanting, of course, to see where this whole thing led before making any rash decisions.)
But she would not allow them to take the green from her eye. And she stood firm, although quiet, in her resolve. 
One by one her original friends and family dropped away, replaced by those that seemed to understand what it was like to see a world made increasingly green. But their eyes held no color on the edges, and so they were eventually driven away as the color continued to spiral inward.
She lives away from people now, away from the adoration and the admonishment of those without the gift of the green eye. She lives comfortable, and almost entirely silent. Her left eye is completely green, and the lid hangs low. There is pain, oh such pain, every single one of her days. And yet she bears it, because when she covers half of her face, and when she lets the green be the entirety of her vision, she finds a peace that nobody else seems to understand.
And when they speak of her in the small towns and in the small minds they call her Witch, they call her Baba Yaga, they call her Keres and Harpy and Onryo (on-ree-oh), but she knows exactly what she is.
The color was green. Dark green.
And it was entirely hers.

Musical Interlude.

A moment of truth. 

WORMBAIT JONES: So what I did was I taped his hands together so he couldn't move, because mummies don't move, and then I taped his head down, and then I made a mask, because when you make a mummy, you have to have a mask. It was that, actually. The skull. I looped my Dad's belt through it to hold it on. And I took a wire clothes hanger, and I straightened it out, and about this time he woke up. And boy was he mad. You should've heard him. It was nuts. 
So he's yelling, And I've got the mask on so I can't see very well, but I still want to play the game, so I've got the clothes hanger, and I shoved it up his nose, just a bit at first. Cuz that's what you do for a mummy. Just a little. Then a little further. Then a little further. And he started ripping the tape, so I couldn't be slow anymore, and so I just jammed it up there and it stuck into something. And then everything went quiet.
And then he let out this scream.
Real high, like a little girl. Loud too. It might be the loudest thing I've ever heard. I actually still have a little ringing in my ear from it. Tinnitus, I think it's called.
It's kind of funny, huh? I can't hear much else out of this ear except a real high pitched whine. Sounds almost exactly like my Dad that day if you turned down the volume. Just a little version of my Dad in my head, and he's always screaming.
Yeah, weird huh? Fun to play with though. He didn't move at all on his own after that, but you could put him into any position and he would sort've stay there. The arms and stuff, the legs were still fucked. He was like a big action figure. If I'm being honest, he was more fun than the book. Until Mother found out.
 She knew something had happened, of course, I guess she must've thought he was just getting on toward dying. Weirdly enough, he actually kinda got healthier after that. Liquid diet on a rigged up feeding tube, no booze, actual water... life is funny, huh? We all lived like that for two years, until... Well, until Mama found out…

Musical Interlude.

MADELINE TAYLOR: One more. Just one last piece of the puzzle. Come one now, show yourself, you know you want to… 
There they are. I knew they’d be here, I knew they wouldn’t drift too far…
Let’s give a warm, 321.0 welcome, everybody. 
It’s Average Joe.

Sometimes direct action means breaking the law. Indeed, direct action is a way of renegotiating laws, both written and unwritten. When people act according to conscience rather than convention, when they transgress deliberately and en masse, reality itself can be remade. This is not to say that you can get away with breaking laws just by ceasing to believe in them; but if everyone breaks them with you, the dynamics change.  One day, when the conflict between people and power approaches its climax, everything we do will be illegal; then, perhaps, courage and cooperation will win out over fear and tyranny, and we will break the law once and for all. In the meantime, every instance of direct action, humble as it may be, is a microcosm of that decisive moment, and a potential seed from which it may grow.
If you are going to be involved in sabotage, you should remove yourself from high- Instructions profile activism, resolve old warrants and speeding tickets, and otherwise arrange to appear to be a law-abiding citizen. You should be able to glide through a routine traffic stop without occasioning any suspicion. Anyone can engage in everyday resistance, but if your chosen approach to subversion includes serious illegal activity, you'll do well to make things as difficult as possible for those whose job it is to catch you. As they say, sometimes you have to obey the small laws to break the big ones. 

Chemical, metalworking, electrical generating, mining, sewerage, and oil refining and drilling plants all discharge large amounts of wastewater. Wastewater flow rates can exceed several million gallons per day from a single source. A single pipe can turn a vital river into a festering toxic sewer. Imagine the reaction at the plant when the foul stuff oozes back into the executive parking lot instead of into an unsuspecting river. Large utility company cooling water outfalls may discharge 500,000,000 gallons per day, but these megaplants also have much smaller yet equally vital wastewater flows — typically 1–10 MGD flows. An ecodefender can easily stop these flows. Valves and flood gates may also be vulnerable.

Nothing livens up a night march or gives that "peasant revolt" look like bright, flaming torches (and pitchforks). A festive, safe torch is easy to make. Begin by removing any paper from the outside of your tin can. Lay the can on its side and, with a hammer and nail, punch some holes along the top and middle of the can. This will allow more air to reach the center of the torch, making for bigger flames. The wooden dowel serves as a handle for the torch, so it should be long enough that the flames will not be too close to your face or head. Nail or screw the tin can to the top of the dowel, mouth upward. You may want to use a drill to make a pilot hole in the dowel. The nail can be difficult to reach within the confined interior of the can; use the bottom of the hammer if need be. You may want to use a washer, too. The can should be securely attached to the dowel. You do not want that connection to fail out on the mean streets.
Take an old 100% cotton shirt or rag and wet it with kerosene or lamp oil. Place rags in a plastic bag or margarine container when you wet them, so you don't spill or waste any fuel. Do this in a well-ventilated space, away from any open flames. Store the rags in a sealable container. Rags can be stuffed into the cans and lit when ready. Torches will last for roughly twenty minutes before they need to be relit or replaced. They can be extinguished by turning them upside down on the ground for several minutes. You can also extinguish them by coveting the can entirely with a wet towel. If you are concerned about the rags falling out, or if you may be running while carrying the torch, string metal wire through the holes you punched in the can and across its mouth. 

Voting is only possible when election time comes around. Direct action can be applied whenever one sees fit. Voting is only useful for addressing topics that are currently on the political agendas of candidates, while direct action can be applied in every aspect of your life, in every part of the world you live in. Direct action is a more efficient use of resources than voting, campaigning, or canvassing: an individual can accomplish with one dollar a goal that would cost a collective ten dollars, a non-governmental organization a hundred dollars, a corporation a thousand dollars, and the State Department ten thousand dollars. Voting is glorified as a manifestation of our supposed freedom. It's not freedom. Freedom is getting to decide what the choices are in the first place, not picking between Pepsi and Coca-Cola. Direct action is the real thing.

A final piece of honesty. 

MADELINE TAYLOR: Let’s end it all, shall we? Let’s cut it off. Let’s strike it down. 
One final story.

Alone, in a room made to be entirely pristine (even at the end of everything), there sat a small collection of some half-dozen robotic automatons. Every once in a great while, (for  great “while-s” are filled with “once-s” don’t you know) a single automaton would stand, march to the edge of the room, press the button labeled intercom, and screech for a few seconds.


This would end, the button would be released, the path would be re-traced, and the single automaton would sit once again in the very same place it had sat before. 
Patterns of behavior never seemed to reveal themselves beyond that sequence of steps - rise, march, push, screech, march, sit. Those who had placed the half-dozen robotic automatons in the first place had all been long since sacrificed in the Great Uprising of 17,776, and even if they hadn’t, the 20020 “Flaire Solaire” (to be said with a bad french accent) put an end to any and all of the notes that had been gathered about the project up to that point.
Over the many thousands of years, The Project, (for that’s what it was known as - “The Project”, capitol T capitol P), had become less of a scientific study of who knows what, and more or less an artistic piece of ever continuing work, an abstract pyramid in which to eventually bury the idea of “sticking to it.”
Fourteen days ago, a young child had a flash of inspiration while picking up shells on a black sand beach. This led them to acquire a recording of the screeching (available at any corner drugstore, of course) and subjecting it to a bevy of immoral scientific experiments.
Seven days ago, a young child was reported missing by their worried and frantic parents. Their bed was simply empty that morning and nobody knew what to do.
Three days ago, a young child was found to be sitting with the half-dozen robotic automatons. Nobody present, staff or visitors, remembered seeing them enter the facility.
Today, a young child stood, marched to the edge of the room, pressed the button labeled intercom, and said:
Genuine Radio Broadcast 321.0 Ragna-Rock PM. 


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