♫♪  Los Siquicos Litoraleños - Medianos Éxitos Subtropicales Vol. 1

Chapter III: Ryan Masteller’s Journal Continued1

When I found that I was a prisoner in the Tiny Mix Tapes Manor, a sort of wild feeling came over me. I rushed up and down the stairs, trying every door and peering out of every window I could find; but after a little the conviction of my helplessness overpowered all other feelings. When I look back after a few hours I think I must have been mad for the time, for I behaved much as a rat does in a trap. When, however, the conviction had come to me that I was helpless I sat down quietly—as quietly as I have ever done anything in my life—and began to think over what was best to be done. I am thinking still, and as yet have come to no definite conclusion. Of one thing only am I certain; that it is no use making my ideas known to Mr. P. He knows well that I am imprisoned; and as he has done it himself, and has doubtless his own motives for it, he would only deceive me if I trusted him fully with the facts. So far as I can see, my only plan will be to keep my knowledge and my fears to myself, and my eyes open. I am, I know, either being deceived, like a baby, by my own fears, or else I am in desperate straits; and if the latter be so, I need, and shall need, all my brains to get through.

Also probably something upbeat to play in this ancient tape recorder, just in case this whole situation gets to be too much for me. This Los Siquicos Litoraleños cassette looks pretty good, especially appropriate since TMT Manor is located in the nether regions of Patagonia.

I had hardly come to this conclusion when I heard the great door below shut, and knew that Mr. P had returned. He did not come at once into the library, so I went cautiously to my own room and found him making the bed. This was odd, but only confirmed what I had all along thought—that there were no servants in the house. When later I saw him through the chink of the hinges of the door laying the table in the dining-room, I was assured of it; for if he does himself all these menial offices, surely it is proof that there is no one else to do them. This gave me a fright, for if there is no one else in the manor, it must have been Mr. P himself who was the driver of the coach that brought me here. This is a terrible thought; for if so, what does it mean that he could control the wolves, as he did, by only holding up his hand in silence? … What meant the giving of the crucifix, of the garlic, of the wild rose, of the mountain ash? Bless that good, good woman who hung the crucifix round my neck! for it is a comfort and a strength to me whenever I touch it. It is odd that a thing which I have been taught to regard with disfavour and as idolatrous should in a time of loneliness and trouble be of help. Is it that there is something in the essence of the thing itself, or that it is a medium, a tangible help, in conveying memories of sympathy and comfort? Some time, if it may be, I must examine this matter and try to make up my mind about it. In the meantime I must find out all I can about Count Mr. P, as it may help me to understand. To-night he may talk of himself, if I turn the conversation that way. I must be very careful, however, not to awake his suspicion.

But dang, it’s hard to pull myself away from Medianos Éxitos Subtropicales Vol. 1. It’s like Los Siquicos Litoraleños bloomed into a sumptuous psychedelic tropicalia band and laid experimental melody eggs in my ears. It’s going to make it really hard to concentrate at dinner. Get it from ArteTetra. Then pray for my well-being.

1. This is a total and 100% ripoff of/homage to Bram Stoker and his wonderful book Dracula. I ripped most of this off verbatim from chapter 3, but I figure it’s like literary plunderphonics or something — fair game! — so keep your lawyers off my lawn.

Chocolate Grinder

CHOCOLATE GRINDER is our audio/visual section, with an emphasis on the lesser heard and lesser known. We aim to dig deep, but we’ll post any song or video we find interesting, big or small.

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