The Apocalypse Twins
Can Humanity Be Saved?
Welcome to the second issue of Sketchy Scoops! Today, we are introducing a couple of new features. The emphasis here is on fun.
Gossip, Hearsay, and Scuttlebutt
What We’re Trying to Pass as Reporting. Not Guaranteed to be Factually Accurate— or even true.
Missing
In previous weeks
was quite active on Substack Notes. Then, the mysterious silences began. Recently, however, her activity levels have increased once more. Yet, speculation continues about exactly what she was doing during that time when she was away. Earlier theories involved kidnapping or even something as pedestrian as abduction by aliens.
Her return has set off a firestorm of speculation in the newsroom. The sudden reappearance seems to rule out earlier concerns about kidnapping and abduction. It is at this point, dear reader, that I’m afraid there’s only one possible explanation for her disappearance:
Birgitte has died and has been replaced by a look alike.
Changeling
Several versions of this theory have been discussed by various Citizen Journalists during the week of her absence. One continued favorite that has been floated around the bullpen is that this new Birgitte is a changeling. Clearly, this is not possible due to the fact that her disappearance happened while she was an adult instead of as an infant.
Doppelgänger
The other possibility is that Birgitte has been replaced by a doppelgänger. This is far more plausible. The motivations behind this attempt to replace Birgitte become clear when you consider the massive financial holdings that she has been able to amass through her company Lucita.
Evil Twin
Despite how extremely plausible the doppelgänger theory is I am afraid that I, personally, must reject it in favor of the Evil Twin variant. Money and fame may continue to be motivations, but I believe the primary driver here is propaganda. Where better place to disseminate disinformation or persuasion campaigns than from the very seat of power at one of America’s premiere content companies?
Yes, my friends, I believe we have uncovered the truth. Birgitte has been replaced by a genetic facsimile who is motivated by the most nefarious of purposes. Only time will tell what those motivations may be, but I am entirely convinced that when they are revealed it will no doubt be due to the astute reporting of our Citizen Journalists. And when that happens, you can be certain that we will print that truth right here in the pages of Sketchy Scoops!
Until then, I will leave you with this irrefutable piece of evidence that settles the issue. The replacement Birgitte is sporting the Goatee of Evil!
Attending a Wedding
Recently,
attended a private wedding deep in the Tibetan region of the Himalayan Mountain Range. She was asked to attend by close friends for whom she composed and read an original poem.
We have asked for comments about the content of the poem and how it was received, but as of yet have not received a response. If you have a recording of this poem, please contact our editorial staff today!
Several famous people, power couples, and industrial luminaries were in attendance. The nuptials were held in a grove of Fir trees somewhat below the summit of Namjagbarwa. While the weather was particularly cold, the event was favored by crystal clear blue skies and crisp air (although in thin amounts) that you just can’t get anywhere else on Earth.
The event was particularly emotional for Ms. Opal as it forced her to confront a former love. Ivy-Rose’s past relationship with the Yeti is well documented. We’ve all seen the photos and watched the Jerry Springer special where she explained the breakup noting that the Abominable Snow Man was always so cold to her.
Our readers want to know. Did the occasion of this wedding spark a thawing in their relations? What of these reports about the two of them enjoying a cruise down the Yarlung-Tsangpo River? Will wedding bells soon be ringing out once more from the Tibetan plateau? Will she take his name to become Ivy-Rose Yeti? Please sound off in the comments and give us your best theories.
Scoop Reports: The Apocalypse Twins
John here:
Scoop just keeps banging out the articles. After the events of the Scootleswarm, he headed north and entered Ohio by way of Huntington, West Virginia. Last I heard, he’d stopped over in Brook, Indiana. He said he liked the small town atmosphere there, but the man keeps moving from town to town. I’ll let him catch you up on his latest travels. Here’s Scoop!
Earlier this afternoon I pulled into Chicago. For about one month out of the year, this is one of the most beautiful cities in America. You get two really nice weeks in spring and two more sometime around August. Outside of that window, the air is either so thick with humidity that you might as well be breathing through a wet blanket or you are forced to endure a cold that gnaws at you in a way that leaves little doubt, but that it wants to burrow its way deep inside.
Today was one of the good days.
I spent a lot of time working in Chicago back in the mid-nineties. I did local interest stuff. It kept a roof over my head and food in my belly, but it also taught me a lot about the Windy City. Like the fact that the locals don’t call it the Windy City.
I also learned the important things. Like the best place to get a gyro. Anywhere you want. They’re all good in Chicago. The best place to get a burrito? Armando’s off of West Chicago and Kedzie. Don’t try to find it though. Place closed down years ago. I think they have a Popeye’s Chicken there now. It’s a crime against humanity. Best burritos I’ve ever had.
Now, people will talk about Chicago pizza or Chicago hot dogs and that stuff’s fine, but for my three dollars, you’re not going to find a better snack than a bag full of fries. Yeah, that’s right. Regular ol’ French Fries. Probably Ore-ida for all I know. But, I’m telling you these fries are so salty and savory that they almost taste sinful. Each bite feels like it deserves its own confession.
I wish I could give you a restaurant name or even an address, but the place doesn’t have one. It’s literally a door with a window slot cut out of the upper half. The red paint on the door is chipped and you can see that, at one time, it had been painted green, but that’s the only marker I can give. Other than the fact that it’s on Western Avenue. It’s after North, but if you cross Milwaukee you’ve gone too far.
The only way I found out about the place was because back in the fall of ‘96 I was walking down Western wishing I had a cup of coffee or anything to help cut the chill that the wind was beating down on me. I saw this long line of people all waiting outside the door I described above. I asked one of the kids “What gives?” and he said Ramone was cooking. Didn’t even tell me who Ramone was or why I should care, but I figured I’d investigate. After all, I’m a journalist.
I got up to the window and they asked for three dollars. I gave them my money and they handed me a brown paper sack like the kind people use for lunch bags. It was full of fries and about five ounces of ketchup.
I was in love.
Ramone’s still there, but he keeps erratic hours. Fortunately, he happened to be manning the Fryolator when I arrived. I gave him my money. He gave me my fries. I started walking back to where I’d parked my car in Humboldt Park.
Humboldt Park is an interesting place. You have the massive boat house and the sweeping lawns. There’s the lake. You can tell that at various times it’s been a really beautiful place. Even those times when it’s been run down, it still had its charms. I’ve always liked it. Sometimes, though, it can attract a rough element.
Just my luck that today was one of those times. Still, how bad could it be, I thought as I licked a glorious melange of salt, ketchup, and probably too much grease off of my fingers and stepped up to the group of young men peering into the back window of my van.
“Órale, ese, whatchu got in the back of the van?”
A curious thing, that. The Hispanic population in this slice of Chicago is mostly Cuban or Puerto Rican. At least it was in this specific part of Chicago. This kid though was pure California. His Spanish definitely had that Spanglish lilt I’d heard during my time in the valley. In this city, that contrast stuck out like a sore thumb.
The young man who had spoken to me approached and snapped his fingers in front of my face. “Are you listening, viejo?” He took a swing at me, but I took a quick step back. The only victim of his lousy aim was my sack of golden, crispy fries. They tumbled to the asphalt and scattered like poker chips at a losing table. Before I could do anything, a murder of gulls descended. They were as noisy as a pack of carnival barkers. They set to work and made off with my ill-fated spuds. Their departre left nothing behind but the echo of their thieving squawks.
“Ah, man. Why’d you do that?” I asked. “That’s just not cool.”
“Don’t make me cut you.” With those words, he revealed his ace in the hole: a simple, run-of-the-mill pocket knife. Nothing flashy, no pearl handle, or shining blade. Just a regular pocket knife that you could pick up from any corner store. He made a few passes in the air with it to show me his sincerity.
Just then, a stray kick sent a soccer ball rolling across the parking lot. A trio of young adults ran forward to retrieve the ball. Two of them wore jerseys that sported the Puerto Rican flag. The third— and the largest of the men— had a shirt that said Boricua.
The young man who’d accosted me let his knife fall to his side, but continued to give me a glare the promised trouble. So, I shouted, “What’d you say about Boricuas? You can’t go running your mouth off about hating the Puerto Ricans.”
The soccer players stopped and looked at us. I gestured to the guy holding the knife and said, “These guys are attacking me because I stood up for Puerto Ricans.”
That was enough. The soccer players approached the group and during the commotion, I slipped into the background. While they were occupied, I jumped into my van and drove off.
Why’d he have to take out my fries?
I took North Avenue down a few miles and hit the Kennedy Expressway. My phone started squawking just as I pulled into the southbound lanes. I didn’t recognize the number. An unexpected phone call always promises news, but not always the kind you want to hear. I debated letting it go to voicemail for a bit, but finally, picked up.
“Is this, eh, Scoop Sterling?”
“Speaking.”
“I think I we may be able to help one another.”
“Is that so?” Generous of this guy offering to help me before asking a favor. “Mind telling me who you are?”
“My apologies. My name is Father de Soto from…”
“Hang on. Father as in the clergy?”
“That’s correct.”
“And you need my help?” I slipped my heap into the next lane. Had to give way to a semi that was coming up fast behind me. Guy was breathing down my neck like a loan shark at the end of the month.
“Yes. Why is that so difficult to believe?”
“Oh, I believe it just fine. Just not the sort of thing that happens to me everyday. That’s all. How can I help you, mon-seen-your?”
“Father will do.”
“No. Afraid it won’t. I’m protestant and my Bible tells me to call no man father.”
“As you wish, but I still need your help.”
“All right, what’s the problem?”
“Where are you right now? Can you come to Oregon?”
“Oregon? It’ll take me a few days.”
“Do you have other matters that you need to deal with right now? I can assure you that the issues we face are of the utmost importance.”
“Nah. Not that. What I’m tryin’ to say is that it’ll take me a few days to drive there. I’m in Chicago.”
“Drive? Can’t you fly? I’m sure the church would be happy to…”
“I don’t fly. Not since TSA started making everyone do a song and dance. I don’t like having that many hands runnin’ over my unmentionables… oh, eh, sorry, padre.”
There was a moment of silence and then the priest said, “You know the word padre means father, right?”
“Fine. I’ll do three Hail Marys and an Our Father? Happy now? The point is I don’t fly. I can drive, but it’s gonna at least two days. And that’s if I drive straight through.”
“Okay. Get here when you can.” He paused for a moment and then said, “As soon as you can. I’ll text you the address.”
“Padre, mind givin’ me an idea of what kind of help you’re looking for?”
“Of course. We need you to stop the world from ending.”
“Come again? I’m a reporter. I can’t…”
I jerked the wheel hard to the right. I’d barely been able to dodge a chunk of concrete that fell from the overpass like a lead balloon. The poor sap behind me didn’t have my luck. He plowed right into the massive block that was the size of a bank safe.
All around me brakes screeched and car horns blared like trumpets. Up above, on the overpass, I saw a shadowy figure with eyes glowing like red-hot coals. It stared down at me and followed my progress. I slammed down on the accelerator to get out of there.
The phone clattered to the floor, but I could still hear the priest’s voice thanks to my hearing aid’s Bluetooth connection. “Scoop! Scoop! Are you okay? What’s that noise?”
“Someone… scratch that. Something tried to kill me.” I glanced in my rearview mirror and saw the specter leap from the overpass. With a bone-chilling grace it landed on a passing car. Then, it proceeded to leap from car to car in an effort to catch me.
“Father,” I said. “This shadow monster is following me and it’s catching up.”
John here:
Turns out Scoop is a little wordy. So, I’m going to split this entry into multiple parts. Be sure to check your e-mails next week for the next installment!
Scoop Responds
This section of the newsletter is devoted to reports that have been submitted by our massive army of Citizen Journalists. Not content to allow society to continue its heedless descent into anarchy, these eagle-eyed observers have chosen to take a stand and document the strange, the wondrous, and the nefarious forces who work against order. This is the section where I share their words with you.
“Always heard said it was little but it ain’t. Big, mean, and scaly. Was midnight wandering past the barn when I hear slurping and I think, well, that’s peculiar, and so I went on round back and I see this big ol boy crouched over what turns out to be one of our goats–Billy, on account of him being a goat–and it musta heard me cause it turns viper quick round. Spadelike head and gleaming red eyes and a neck frill unfurling like a black halo, it hissed.
Soiled myself, I don’t mind saying. Fell back and away but it just hopped on off, swallowed by night.”
Scoop responds:
Based off of your description, I think may have dated her for a while.
I saw a UFO last night dude. No, not like the ones they’re talking about in congress, this one was a big triangle. It was hovering and rotating. I saw what I saw, man, don’t play around. Planes don’t move like this.
I don’t know what to tell you, It just came and went. I was driving to taco bell at like 3am and I saw it fly overhead. No, didn’t hear anything, no engines, nothing. I think it’s a government surveillance project—just silently sweep the triangle over peoples homes and download data from their smart devices. Find out what you watched on TV, how many times you opened your refrigerator, what your average home temperature is, everything that happened in front of your doorbell.
Just wait, when you start getting targeted advertising based on your thermostat, you’ll know. Look out man. Watch the skies.
Scoop responds:
Seriously? I went to journalism school. My articles have been published in national periodicals. I’ve interviewed heads of state and now my life is reduced to this? I can’t believe I’m being asked to react to this fan fiction? Hey, buddy, we all watched the second episode of X-Files. Take your plot summaries somewhere else! I mean at the very least give us something original. If Elvis were really dead, he’d be rolling in his grave.
Become a Citizen Journalist!
Sketchy Scoops is looking for your tips, reports, and leads. Do you have a story that involves the paranormal? The Supernatural? An extra-governmental shadow organization?
This is not a paid position, but it will distinguish you as being one of our more engaged members and mark you as part of our community of weirdos. Community has its benefits and we want you to be part of ours.
Sketchy Scoops is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.
Submissions should be 560 characters or less (about the size of two tweets). If you are a Substack author, we will include a link to your newsletter with the report. Send a first person narrative of your strangest encounters with the otherworldly or unexplained to: sketchyscoops@substack.com
Our lead reporter, Sam “Scoop” Sterling will evaluate each report and may personally respond to ones that pique his interest. Sometimes, Scoop can be a bit sarcastic so please be prepared for that should he find your submission intriguing.
A Note from the Editor
Thanks for reading. I appreciate all of the excitement and encouragement you folks have expressed and sent my way. If you know someone who would enjoy Sketchy Scoops, please tell them about the newsletter. Until next week remember the Citizen Journalist’s creed: If you see something, say something.
Me doppelgremlin. Me know where Birgitte is. Me kidnap Ms. B.
Ms. B now in pot green tortilla soup, me favorite. I sit on lid now, she no escape. Too bad she saved me in Google, never save gremlin! Gremlins naughty, turn karma inside out. Want Ms. B. to cook green soup for 100 years, for me gremlin. Me not say where pot hides.
https://themuse.substack.com/p/the-green-tortilla-soup
This is such a good beat!!!