Early Monday evening, a number of miners sauntering shirtless in front of the camp store heard what was described as coming from the direction of the Tessio claim an unidentified person repeatedly shouting: BLAST!

It is currently not known whether the source of the explosive verbage was Mr. Tessio himself, but our spectacurlarly uneducated sources say that it is not the first time they have heard the word used and that it may originate from a particular loony highwayman known by his similar verbitage. As the camp does not yet have a sheriff, we reached out to Mr. Jack T.L. for comment on this issue. He had this to say: Beats me!

Excerpts from the journals of Jack T. Long:

[...] such as that particular smell that flows through the air as would an overly large bowl of grape gelatin riding a unicorn abreast a rainbow in July. Alas, without considerable effort I fear it may prove impossible to lure them close enough to trap in the industrial oven. I find myself wondering this day, would it not be simpler to slaughter them before [...]

[...] The company militia captain, one Jonathan Power, has advised me against further action in my pursuit of the finest of cuisines. Though he claims fear for my health, I am now confident in my ability to capture one of the young [...]

Excerpt from "The Life of Sunny Steppes":

Get over here! Derek Le Brak bellows at me. He's the over abusive administrator and foreman. I'm coming, just give me a second to... Forget it! I'll find someone else who can build my factory.

Before I can respond, he hops a lift to the top of the mountain, quite possibly the coldest place there is on the entire planet. I had trudged up the path once before, wherein I had had dark visions of my freezing limbs inadvertantly falling off and shattering. I had no intention of following, but I need the money, and my friends at the mine urge me on. As I watch Le Brak ascending the mountain, he stares back at me, laughing hysterically.

In earnest, I begin up the mountain path to speak to Le Brak, blindy ignoring the cold as it creeps into my soul. I tell myself that the job is mine should I reach the top, but I know that if there was one thing that was common here, it is the newblood. [...]

Ha! Looks like you're out of a job, ice man! Oh come on, I need a job! No, no you don't, Le Brak mutters, lifting his spinfusor to aim at me in all my suspended, freezing, horror, Go, or I'll shoot you!

Le Brak's beady eyes narrow, a dark rage coming to the surface. Around the camp you hear stories of those he'd killed, and it is whispered in some circles that few who cross Le Brak live to tell the tale. The bitter fruit of his rage is one best left out of the inexplicable cranberry sauce covered festive cake.

I had once witnessed one of his murders. Some poor slave, a derm with dreams of freedom. I'd seen the slave carry medium support beams up to the mine office, and could clearly hear him reciting the inadvisable mantra, No Pay, No Stay.

Derms are particularly stupid creatures indeed, to announce to the world that they plan to run. Mr B, the watchman, stomped his heel on the tin roof to warn Le Brak, who always had his spinfusor ready to disembowel any poor soul who wants to run. The derm, sensing danger, leaped through the air and fell on its face, and before it could climb to its feet a disc sliced it in half. Every time I walk past that spot I can still see the vast pool of blood in my mind. Dark, black as night. I'd promised myself then to one day kill Le Brak.

Fearing for my precious limbs (I love them), I run down to the mountain path rather than be eviscerated. Waiting for me at the foot, in full heavy gear, is the newblood. I try to scare him away, firing a blaster at his work helmet, but he blinks and leans the other way. Smiling. Suddenly, he reels about and falls to his back, rather stupidly confused. Some squirrel has gotten into his helmet, which is fairly common for newbloods. Using the distraction, I ditch the newblood where he lies rolling around with a small rodent scurrying inside his suit.

I run into the barracks, where Bob leans against his bunk, marking the passing of a day in the wall above the headboard.

How's it going? He asks, grinning through sparse teeth.

The leader of The Psychotic Contractors, who had been known to wear a sign written with the words "Shoot Me", was found shot in the back late Tuesday morning. Eyewitnesses claim a middle-aged man attempting to disguise himself as a preteen girl was seen fleeing the scene, but no arrests have yet been made. Our sometimes correspondent and TPC straw boss, Peter Zonkman, had this to say:
Huh! Slow learner.

While it's not entirely clear to us what Mr. Zonkman meant by the comment, it has been suggested by some that the group may plan to retaliate in some fashion. Even now we are seeing their members roaming the streets on stilts waving sticks at frightened passers-by, so perhaps it is only a matter of time before the situation erupts.

Our former foreman of yore was spotted today speaking with a small group of factory workers including Alvis Stark, shipwright, and Ambrose Xone, professional vagabond. Despite his distinctive appearance, made widely known by the reward posters previously posted around the town, none of those involved showed any immediate recognition, though Alvis was heard to say afterwards, I heard his name before but I'm not sure where, maybe in chinatown

During the course of his brief visit to the factory, Jack is known to have discussed repairball, a kick in the pants, and the lock on the back door to the factory. A speculative close inspection of the lock might reveal the remnants of an aborted attempt to force the aforementioned lock with a nearby stone. Unfortunately, upon visiting the site, we found that in fact there was not, in fact, a back door to the factory at all. Nor any windows to use for egress in case of fire.

We have since reported our findings to the fire marshall, who has deemed it completely safe.

A new study shows that, despite everything we thought we knew about Lake Triclore, it turns out there are no fish in it.

And it's possible there never were any fish in it.

The study, preformed by a group of totally unqualified and highly untrained fish experts alongside the lake's casual swimming enthusiasts, found that if you put your head under the water and try to breathe, it just doesn't work. There's no air underwater! Says B.L. Nuccem, 12 year old floating expert and lead author of the study, "That's probably why the stupid fish don't live there!"

The last thing Robert Spector, alledgedly known as "Fritz" to his friends, saw before he was arrested last night for posession and distribution of stolen property, was a large pile of laundry in some need of washing. Now that Rob is in custody awaiting trial, he sits wondering if anyone will take up his case and bring the pile to chinatown, adding to his very public thoughts in circumspect that there is a nickel hidden beneath his drawers for whomever should wash the clothing.

Excerpts from the journals of Master Cheeves:

I do so love to rub myself in butter, covering my entire body in the creamy, lightly salted lather before going for my nightly walks through the woods. Is it possible, journal, that this is the reason I've been attacked by bears so oft? Should I consider an alternate rub, I wonder... I had been saving the bacon grease for a special occasion, but if it keeps the bears away I will make sure to buy more bacon [...]

Journal, my dear friend, I must advise you against rubbing bacon grease over yourself before walking. While it gives off the most delicious smell and has the desired effect on the skin, it does NOT deter bears in any way, and in fact seems to attract them. I shall be consulting with the butcher in the morning to see if he knows of a suitable rub [...]

Joining us presently is a man of almost legendary status around camp, known only by his religious title, "Zephyr Zen". He has graciously agreed to an interview, and assures us that it won't dissapoint!

So, Mr. Zen, so you stand by your previous comments about electricity?

Zephyr Zen: Of course! I would love to explain the details of it all, but unfortunately I'm working on four PHDs and it's very hard work.

Is it just completely made up?

ZZ: Not entirely, but mostly, yes. The theory developed by a hipocrite's limited understanding of a concept I had invented known as Zephyritism, which is the movement of extremely small fish in the air. Essentially this creates a similar effect to rubbing your mittens together very fast, and in extreme cases results in the phenomenon known as "lightning".

[Attending physician: B. Humans]
Name: Robyn "Zephyr Zen" Arbiter
Birth date: 4/21/1828
Height: 5ft 2in
Weight: 12 stone
Occupation: Spiritual Leader (PT)
Residence: Zephyr Temple
Defects: "Too smart", polydactyly

Notes: Patient seems to have enhanced brain power and a mind-control ability such as seen used by iguanas in our recent laboratory experiments. It is my personal belief that this ability must have been attained through the consumption of iguana brains for months, if not years. When asked of his diet, the patient denied needing to eat.

Watch Cmdr's log dated Jan. 3 1843...
Time
1610: ... says going to burn down temple. Didn't specify which temple
1630: Shouting from down road
1632: Naked man running past
...
1745: Can't find glasses
1800: Found glasses on Zach
1805: Something burning. Barbeque?
1815: Getting hungry
...
1850: Barbeque caught building
1855: Fire marshall on way
1900: Ate some meat hanging in fire
1910: Taking haunch of meat home

After some hours of clever planning, local luminary Ichabod Plop maneuvered to lure a dozen or more child labourers into his mineshaft earlier this week. Once inside, they reportedly immediately began mining their hearts out in a mindless sort of fashion without any prompting whatsoever. No doubt this was a pleasant surprise to mister I. Plop, as he surely saved a good deal of livestock feed and peanut butter.

As of this writing, the child labourers appear to be hard at work collecting the materials to necessary to build a townsite in Plop's honour. Whether they are aware that a perfectly servicable town is within hobbling distance of their chosen spot is unclear, though one would assume they had noticed it at some point before they left it yesterday morning. They now appear to be starting work on a brewery, so currently I find meself strangely drawn to the location...

Ichabod Plop stands astride a nearby hill watching the children work, surprised but unquestionably distracted by a sandwich being placed in his mouth as if by some invisible hand. After a moment he realizes that the hand is his, and quite visible.