Game 9 Notes

Sad times, I lost the cute little goose story in a tech mishap...

Trust that it was an adorable story about a little gosling that was not at all unhinged!

Game 8 Notes

SLAM POETRY!
I howled it so loud the moon blinked.
I spit it with spit that melted the mic stand.
I came here to chew truth and choke on fire —
and I’m all outta truth.

There are demons in my cereal.
Demons in my socks.
Demons in my goddamned Wi-Fi signal.
They pirouette in my brain,
tap-dance on synapses,
whisper bedtime stories made of static and knife laughter.
They say, “Sleep is for the weak.”
So I stay up.
Raving. Ranting.
Eating the wallpaper,
marrying the chaos in shotgun weddings of spit and ink.

I am the feral gospel.
I baptize myself in vending machine light
and speak in tongues made of melted clocks.
I do not walk — I slither upright,
arms swinging like they’re arguing with gravity.

I’ve got a jukebox in my sternum
and it only plays screams.
Put a penny in and listen:
AAAAHHHHHHHHH.
That’s track one.
Track two?
Me, biting the sun.

God called once.
Left a voicemail that just said:
“What have you become?”
I texted back:
"New phone, who dis?"

And still the demons come,
trailing behind me like a bridal veil of bad decisions.
They high-five my trauma.
They photobomb my memories.
They make balloon animals out of my blood vessels.

And I let them.
Because pain makes good company
when sanity charges rent.

I cracked open my skull to let the lightning in.
I offered my ribs as xylophones for ghosts.
I wrote love poems to the apocalypse
and signed them in teeth.
I told time to go screw itself
and now my shadow runs ahead of me,
chasing futures that never asked for me.

I’ve danced on broken clocks.
Licked the faces of sleepless gods.
Told the void, “Pull up.”
And it did.

We played poker with all my regrets.
The void cheated.
So I flipped the table,
set the chairs on fire,
and made s'mores out of self-doubt.

I do not pray anymore.
I scream offerings into alleyways.
I throw Molotov cocktails of poetry
at every locked door in my mind.
I am the locksmith now.
And every key is a howl.

The demons taught me origami with my scars.
Now I fold myself into impossible shapes —
a swan made of barbed wire,
a love letter in a bottle full of bees.
They sting when you open me.
Good.
I want you to bleed this too.

So this is not a poem.
It’s a summoning.
A battle cry.
A candle in the windstorm
saying —
I burn.
I rise.
I rage.

SLAM POETRY!
And I am not done yet.

Game 7 Notes

🎶 "It’s a sunny day! It’s a funny day! Let’s laugh and sing the Whimsy Way!” 🎶

MISTER JINGLE:
Hiiiii, friends! Welcome back to Whimsy Town! 🥳
I’m Mister Jingle, and today is Super Special Surprise Day!

Now normally, we’d sing songs or build a friendship quilt out of macaroni and emotions, but today… something’s a little different! Can you guess what it is?

🎶 “Something’s missing, something’s gone,
If you feel wrong, just sing along!” 🎶


That’s right! People are playing the best game ever — it’s called...
🎉 “Where Did Everyone Go?” 🎉

Let’s check in on our friends!

Hmm… Silly Sally come on out!.. No, she's not here. No Bouncy Benny either. Not even Fartin’ Martin! He never misses a Tuesday taping!

All that’s left is a sock, a juice box that won’t stop screaming, and a pair of eyes floating just… hovering.
But that’s okay! That’s just part of the game!

Now it's time to say hi to our bestest, fuzziest pal!

🎉 MR. WIGGLES! 🎉

MR. WIGGLES:
Hiya, Mister Jingle!
Hiya, kids!
Did you notice the lights flickered when you blinked?

MISTER JINGLE (laughs nervously):
Haha! You sure notice everything, Mr. Wiggles! What’s going on in that fuzzy little head of yours?

MR. WIGGLES (cheerfully):
Oh, not much!
Just heard a voice coming from under the rug again.
It said, “The floor remembers your weight.”

[Beat. Mr. Jingle’s smile falters a little.]

MISTER JINGLE:
Silly rug voices! You’re always goofin’ around!

Hey, Mr. Wiggles, tell the kids what you found under the snack table!

MR. WIGGLES:
A note that says “Don’t turn around.”
A spoon that reflects things that aren’t there.
And a tooth that was still singing.

[He giggles. Mister Jingle does not.]

MISTER JINGLE (slowly):
uh huh huh, what was the tooth singing?

MR. WIGGLES:
Screams, and then the sound of silence!

[Laughs alone. Echoes for too long.]

MISTER JINGLE (recomposing):
Okay kids, let’s play the Feelings Game!
Repeat after me:
🎵 “If you’re feeling scared, that’s okay!
Your skin might peel but you’re here today!” 🎵

MR. WIGGLES (softly):
Unless you’re not.

MISTER JINGLE:
W-what was that, buddy?

MR. WIGGLES:
Nothing! Just a fun fact!

[Voice drops an octave.]
Statistically, at least one of the children watching is already gone.
They just haven’t noticed yet.

[Silence. Mister Jingle’s eye twitches.]

MISTER JINGLE (too cheery):
Wow, look at the time!
Say, Mr. Wiggles — what’s your favorite part about all our friends disappearing?

MR. WIGGLES (thinking):
Hmm… probably the quiet.
It’s easier to hear what’s underneath the show now.
Underneath you.

You hum in your sleep, Mister Jingle.

MISTER JINGLE (cold sweat):
Do I?

MR. WIGGLES (wide smile):
Yes.
And the sound…
...makes the mirrors lean in.

[Lights flicker again. Puppet turns directly to camera.]

MR. WIGGLES:
If you’re watching this — stay still.
Don't breathe too loud.
And whatever you do, don’t sing the closing song.

[Pause. Suddenly, the theme kicks back in.]
🎶 "It’s a sunny day! It’s a funny day!
Don’t ask where the others went, okay?” 🎶

MISTER JINGLE (mechanically):
See you next time, kids… if there is a next time…

Game 6 Notes

The night grows dark and your eyelids grow heavy, perhaps it's time to get off to bed? You settle into your mattress and sink your head into that soft feathery pillow, clutching and dragging your fresh warm sheets around your shoulders, finally, you think, a feeling of peace after a long hard day.

But while your eyelids flutter and droop, a shadow may creep over your still-resting body, 'never mind' you tell yourself, 'that's not a demon, that's just mother and father coming to tuck me in tight, and kiss me on the forehead'.

But wait a minute, you think, I don't have a mother, nor a father. I came to be on the surface of a old slice of Kingsmill 50/50, I have no parents, no family, no one to love me, no one to kiss me on the cheek and tell me the pain will all go away eventually!

You wanna know pain? You wanna know TRUE, SPONGY-BOTTOMED BETRAYAL? Try clawing your way into existence from a mouldy slice of bread in a ziplock bag behind a radiator. I didn’t cry—I didn’t even have tear ducts. I oozed.

First memory? The warm caress of penicillium brushing against my skin like a damp, bacterial kiss. Second memory? Laughter. Not joyful, innocent laughter—oh no. The cruel, screechy kind that children make when they see something they fear… and don't understand.

They called me names. “Yeast Beast.” “Toasty McSpores.” “Mildew Baby.”
One kid smeared peanut butter on me and tried to feed me to pigeons. PIGEONS.

But I learned. I adapted. I absorbed their cruelty. Quite literally—Davey Wilson kicked me in year three and I digested his shoelaces through osmosis. His mum thought the shoe store sold cursed footwear. No, Carol. Your son insulted a mycelial entity with feelings.

I spent my youth in the shadows. Watching. Thinking. Growing roots into the linoleum. Every insult was a nutrient. Every lunchroom humiliation? Compost. While they played tag, I was engineering spore-based neural matrices with a stolen TI-83 calculator and some expired yogurt.

And now—NOW—those same mouth-breathing mucus goblins buy supplements made of me. That’s right. They drink smoothies with my DNA in them to "support gut health." I LIVE IN THEIR GUTS NOW.
WHO’S THE OUTCAST NOW, BRYCE?!

I
AM
THE LOAF.

You think to yourself, before drifting off calmly into a night of rest.

Game 5 Notes

Sleep now, child of flesh and bone,
Ash to ash, return alone.
One for sorrow, two for flame,
Speak not light, nor birth, nor name.

Your breath is soft, your pulse is thin,
The black wind seeks a way within.
The door is shut, the mirror blind—
Let no god see what we will bind.

Crawl now, Shadow, ancient, deep,
Stir from halls where angels sleep.
Bring your teeth and bring your fire,
Feast upon this heart’s desire.

Blood for bond, and bone for key,
This soul is ripe. This soul is free.
In stillness wrapped, in silence crowned,
Let flesh be torn and soul unbound.

Hear the hush—do not resist.
The cold has come. The mouth has kissed.
No stars remain. No breath is drawn.
The veil is pierced. The child is gone.

So bind the name, and burn the thread,
The eyes are closed, the lips are red.
With one last sigh and one last breath—
Sleep is sealed. And so is death.

Game 4 Notes

Whoopsie, I didn't actually do the intro for game 3 or 4, so I'll reuse them later!

Game 3 Notes

Whoopsie, I didn't actually do the intro for game 3 or 4, so I'll reuse them later!

Game 2 Notes

Citizens of the Infernal Borough, spawn of shadow and flame, lend me your ears—or whatever appendages you're using these days.

Tonight, under the auspicious alignment of the shattered moons and the wailing of distant souls, we gather to extend a warm, sulfur-scented welcome to our newest arrival: Vortox, freshly summoned and ready to stir the cauldron that is our cursed little town.

You've come at just the right time—our nightmares are stagnating, the screams are losing their spice, and the last newcomer accidentally brought peace and quiet. Never again.

But you, Vortox, you’re different. We’ve read your résumé—very impressive. The eternal torment of a thousand minds? Love it. That one incident with the haunted orphanage and the accordion? Inspired. And let’s not forget your signature move—spinning around really really quickly.

You’ll fit right in here among the cursed cryptkeepers, and chaos merchants. We've even assigned you a lair with excellent acoustics for dramatic monologuing.

So, on behalf of all denizens, devils, and deranged council members, welcome. May your schemes be wicked, your curses catchy, and your coffee eternally black.

Let the hellfire burn brighter with your arrival!

Game 1 Notes

Ladies and gentlemen, friends both new and familiar—

Welcome! Today, we open our doors and our hearts to those who were once strangers but are now part of something greater: our clamily. Whether you’ve come from far across the world or just a few blocks down the road, know this—you belong here. In this circle, we don’t just share meals and stories, we share strength, compassion, and the unshakable bond of togetherness.

It’s a rare and beautiful thing, to be welcomed. In a world so often divided, this moment of unity is precious. So raise a glass, shake a hand, hug someone (consensually), and feel the warmth of being seen and accepted.

Now… if I may digress just slightly.

There is, of course, the matter of the Leviathan.

Yes, 'that' Leviathan—the ancient, slumbering beast beneath the churning deep. You’ve probably felt it, haven’t you? The subtle trembling of the ground at night? The unnatural tides? That low, almost imperceptible hum when you close your eyes and listen just right?

For centuries, it has waited. Watching. Dreaming in the black abyss, beneath fathoms of cold silence. But lately—oh yes, lately—it has stirred. The old songs warned us, but who listens to barnacled prophets anymore?

You see, it doesn’t just devour ships and shatter coastlines with its waking breath—it REMEMBERS. And it judges. And I fear, dear clamily, it has judged us wanting.

Now, I don’t bring this up to alarm anyone per se—though if you feel a chill in your bones or the sudden urge to flee inland, that is perfectly natural. But rather, I speak of the Leviathan to remind us of our shared fate. Of how we must cling to each other, laugh together, love boldly, and perhaps build an elaborate subterranean refuge equipped with ancient sigils and canned goods.

So let us feast tonight, not just in joy, but in defiance. Let the walls ring with music and merriment, that the Leviathan might hear us and pause—but briefly—before its endless hunger resumes.

Welcome to the clamily.

We are stronger together.
And we will need to be.

Goodnight everyone.