Transformations, a Post Halloween tale
The Pumpkin Unseals
In the velvet hush of a Halloween night,
a pumpkin split with a sulphurous light.
From out its rind crept Ozzydog, teeth fluorescent yellow,
purple shades flashing, a cross swinging low.
The Maharajas dreamed of calm refrain,
but the dog’s growl rewired their brain.
Strings bent backward, rhythms bled,
as shadows howled where angels fled.
Maharaja Miku’s fur turned aflame,
his bass now thundered a dark refrain.
And Rich, once keeper of resonant grace,
laid down his steel with a solemn face.
He lifted instead a Strat, tones black as sin,
with six-six-six pedals all chained in.
Each stomp tore holes in the fabric of time,
each chord a fracture, each note a crime.
The streetlamps swirled into Gogh’s mad sky,
stars spun whirlpools, galaxies cried.
Cobblestones melted, clocks ran wild,
the world itself became defiled.
Yet in the chaos, a strange refrain:
a hymn of loss, of joy, of pain.
For even nightmares sing their song,
and in distortion, we belong.
Paintings from the Nonsense Chronicle based on the description of the scene by the Pink Flamingo.
Maharaja Rich has been reborn in full heavy‑metal mythos. He stands with a Fender Stratocaster in hand, distortion pedals scattered like ritual offerings at his feet, while behind him a colossal speaker towers into the heavens. Its roar tears holes in the night sky, and through those ruptures, Van Gogh’s swirling cosmos pours in—golden stars, cobalt eddies, and fiery spirals sliding down into our world.
And yet he is overcome by anguish, by pain. Somewhere deep within a voice keeps crowing, 'This is not me!'
Maharaja Miku the Bear dark transition was more visceral, destructive, and raw. The normally jovial Bear turned heavy with sorrow, the sky above him torn into dark spirals of blue and yellow, while Ozzydog’s unseen influence suppressed his spirit.
He was captured mid‑anguish, smashing his guitar into the ground as if trying to shatter the very spell Ozzydog has cast. The pug‑prophet watches on from behind his purple shades, whilst the Pink Flamingo stands sentinel, elegant and aloof, bearing witness to Miku’s descent, half witness, half judge, its gaze fixed on Miku’s descent into the darker currents of myth. Above them, Goghworld swirls tear open the night sky, stars spiralling like wounds in time.
Thus concludes the Post‑Halloween Chronicle, where Maharajas strayed into distortion, Ozzydog rose from the pumpkin’s grin, and the Pink Flamingo bore witness in vexed lament.
Let this record be bound in lacquer, its edges darkened with the stain of blood‑red ink, its words pressed into permanence.
At the bottom of the page, a great seal gleams in shades of crimson wax, cracked and glistening,
imprinted with the final decree:
SIGNED, DELIVERED & SEALED (Even the final seal is a Heavy Metal Protest to R&B and note, it doesn't say 'signed, sealed & delivered'.
It now rests in the mythic archive, a relic of chaos and wonder, waiting for rediscovery when the pumpkins grin again.
Report from the Flamingo’s Perch, The Nonsense Chronicle,
Vol. 666,Issue 09:
Here's a vexed and anguished report by Pink Flamingo, the Nonsense Chronicler about this disturbing dark transformation of two of his favourite characters, a victim of Ozzydog’s metal mayhem and the dark magic of Halloween written in his own vexed, fluttering voice:
By the crooked quill of the Nonsense Chronicler,
Pink Flamingo, witness to calamity.
I, long‑legged scribe of mirth and melody,
have seen the night curdle into a howl.
Two Maharajas, once radiant, once resplendent
now stumble beneath the iron paw of Ozzydog.
From a pumpkin’s cracked grin he slithered,
a beast of riffs and ruin,
his purple lenses flashing like cursed moons,
his cross clanging with the toll of doom.
Maharaja Rich, once the keeper of resonant steel,
now thrashes a Stratocaster lashed to
six‑hundred‑sixty‑six pedals,
each stomp a fracture in the firmament,
each chord a wound in time.
Maharaja Miku, the bear of gentle thunder,
has smashed his own song to splinters,
his cloak torn by the gale of distortion,
his eyes eclipsed by sorrow.
And I, Pink Flamingo,
scribe of nonsense, celebrant of whimsy
am left to chronicle this grotesque carnival.
The sky itself has become Goghworld’s whirlpool,
stars sucked into spirals of grief,
colours bleeding like bruises across the night.
I write with vexation, with anguish,
for my friends are no longer themselves.
They are puppets of Halloween’s dark magic,
victims of Ozzydog’s metal mayhem,
their laughter drowned in feedback,
their joy shackled to distortion.
Yet still I scratch these words,
for nonsense must endure even in nightmare.
If the Maharajas are lost to shadow,
then let this report be their lantern,
a reminder that once they danced in light,
and may yet return when the spell is broken.
Sorrowfully Yours,
Pink Flamingo, Nonsense Chronicler
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