Howdy partners! I sure miss the big sky of the high desert. Without the horizon and the stars and the mountains in the distance, Psyhigh can feel a bit cramped. That’s when I give a whistle for my trusty ghost horse Stormy and ride through campus like a dust devil!

That said, one of the great things about Psyhigh is making new friends, and I’m mighty grateful for meeting up with a pair like @Zero Peach and Bitch Teen. They’ve got a wild streak as big as the wind, and they like to whoop it up a little. My kinda folk! I anticipate we’ll get into all kinds of perilous antics and have a great time. Yee-haw!

Me and the gang are putting together a Chirstmas Eve party for anybody left at school tonight. Drop on by and we'll hook you up with popcorn and cider and mental octopus, plus you can learn more about the benevolent social club we're setting up on campus! Blavatsky Dorm room 313. We know @Charity Jones and @Iris Goodwin are bringing friends. Feel free to bring psychic snacks and white elephant gifts (level 4 mind disruption and lower only please--we want to make this a fun night for everybody!). Yee-haw!

Well, this is a surprise.

There I was, minding my own business and taking a nap inside my local museum’s sarcophagus collection. The next thing I remember is waking up in a dark room. At least I think it was dark. I was wrapped head to toe in bandages and trapped inside the very sarcophagus I was previously napping in. Obviously, I tried to tear the bandages from my face. I couldn’t see a thing! But they were stuck tight. So I did what any reasonable person would do.

I stepped out of the box, to hear what could only be described as a choir of ear-splitting shrieks. I stumbled about the area but soon fell to the ground.

At present I am taking up residence beside the sarcophagus, in a room which I assume is some sort of exhibit. Every so often I hear the voices of people, so I rush towards them to ask them to free me. Problem is, I can’t see or speak and before I can ask them for help screams fill my ears.

I’m lonely, hungry and completely helpless. I would love for someone to save me and help me get revenge on whoever did this.

“What do you need?”

“Mmmmmmmmm! Mmmmmmmmmmmm!”

Bitch Teen thinks it’s hungry.

“Mmmm mmmmmmm.”

She tries offering it popcorn. I tell her mummies don’t eat. And not to spill any on the floor because the museum doesn’t allow food or drink in the exhibits.

“Some gang we are,” says @Nevada Turquoise.

Everybody thinks being in a gang is about being hardcore. Which is the most immature way of looking at a gang. A gang is about friends having your back. And taking you in.

“Do you want to get out of here? Come back and crash at our place?”

“Mmmmm Mmmmm!”

And that’s how we made friends with a mummy. █ a⃠d⃠a⃠d⃠

I think I’ve joined a gang.

Finally, after what seemed like years of being trapped and blind and screamed at (okaaaay, it was only a day, but still!) I was saved! After so many people had screamed at what I assumed was the sight of me, there was someone who cared. They introduced themselves as @[Zero Peach]. I couldn’t see them or talk to them, but I just knew they had come to my rescue. After trying to feed me through the bandages, Zero introduced me to their friends @[Nevada Turquoise] and someone I think was called Bitch Teen? It seems like a strange name but beggars can’t be choosers, right?

I had to trust that these guys had my best interests at heart, even though I couldn’t talk to them. They seemed to think it was super cool they were friends with a mummy, so I did my best to play the part, holding my arms out and stumbling about. Although, I must admit, the stumbling was not intentional. I couldn’t see.

So my new friends led me somewhere I also couldn’t see. I was either being kidnapped or rescued. I couldn’t tell. I started to point at my mouth to try and tell them to help me speak, but that message might not be clear. In the meantime, I’m trying to establish a psychic connection with Zero to see if they’ll understand my predicament.

This group keep referring to a gang. I wonder what that’s all about?

I will admit that telepathy is part of the skill set of a psychic lockpicker. Ok not exactly “telepathy,” but language and communication are just locks to pick like any other, once you know some basic techniques.

(I prefer creating a secret code ahead of time, where the subject can telegraph the message to me through undetectable methods, like tapping their finger or chattering their teeth, but I can work without that if I need to.)

Plus, people don’t like having their minds read, so it’s not a skill I advertise.

In this case, I was able to delve into the mind of the mummy. I discovered that they are suffering from some kind of break with reality, and insist they are not actually a mummy! Poor thing. Obviously experiencing some kind of deep reality denial. They also call themselves @Cleo Spencer, which is also a delusion as it is clearly not ancient Egyptian.

I am assuming this is some kind of amnesia that will pass. In the meantime, @Nevada Turquoise continues to slip pieces of popcorn through their bandages where the mouth would be. I keep telling her that mummies don’t eat and it’s just going to rot in there but the mummy seems to enjoy it. █ a⃠d⃠a⃠d⃠

I took the mummy on a ride today on my trusty ghost horse Stormy. Stormy's used to mummies, cuz the hills outside my hometown are full of them. They live in the caves, and sometimes you find them wandering around lost in the desert and you have to give them rides home. Or to the movie theater.

So we went to the Historic Haunted Liberty Theater because they were having a Mexican monster movie festival and I figured it might help the mummy with the memory issues. I mean, maybe they're not Egyptian?

Anyway, we watched The Robot vs. the Aztec Mummy and it was awesome. The mummy seemed to enjoy it too. Plus, along with the popcorn, I got it to sip some cherry coke through a straw!

The mummy is getting a bit ripe. Is that supposed to happen? I figured they'd be so desiccated after being sealed up for thousands of years that they wouldn't smell rotten at all. I figured they'd be, I don't know, kind of clean smelling? Like a nice musk? Or dry and dusty like an old wasp nest. Isn't that kinda the point of mummification?

But the mummy (or @Cleo Spencer as they continued to claim to be called) smells like they need a bath. For reasons I cannot fathom, they have been making trips to the bathroom now and then, but if they took a full-on shower I'd be afraid they'd fall apart.

Anyway, the timing couldn't have been better because we need a fourth. @Nevada Turquoise, Bitch Teen, and I won't be able to pull off our next caper without them. And the mummy might be ideally suited to help us.

We're going to jack the company of Nidivarui. We're taking down the commodification of language. █ a⃠d⃠a⃠d⃠

So what’s the prize when you take down the commodification of language?

The company of Nidivarui has the language teaching business locked up. You’ll see their name on all the textbooks in Psyhigh’s language labs. Urudu, Enochian, Galaxperanto... and a highly effective method, which is why they own the whole sector.

They’ve got other classes too, but you have to pass through their byzantine pyramid scheme to get the invites.

You know how powerful people speak. It’s a gradient. Yuppies have a certain tone—a college-level clarity of language command. If you’ve lived your life on the streets you have a different dialect. As do doctors, lawyers, C-level executives, fast food workers, cops. The codes and pattens get more hushed and obsequious as you get deeper into the halls of power. A whispered “yes” or “no” in the board room has impact on billions, their language focused and aligned with the life and death force of capital.

We are their words.

For a price, the company of Nidivarui will teach you that language, and they’ve made themselves the only source for the highest levels. Because they invented it. Or inherited it. Or stole it. Nobody remembers. Nobody knows. Not really.

So the first step is to leave the hive, leave the slave farm. We need to circumvent the language of the oppressors. Decouple its connection to capital.

We’re going to flood the market. Create our own sticky language for capital to accrete to. It’s only counterfeit if you’ve got nothing to back it up.

I’m so glad we’ve got a mummy. █ a⃠d⃠a⃠d⃠

Well @Zero Peach sure has us spinnin' the yarns! She checked out a buncha old equipment from the Fairy Tale Storage Space. Ball winders, swifts, pedal spinning wheels, electric spinning wheels, wheels that are driven by fanciful little varmints, enchanted looms, haunted bobbins and battens, smart hooks. Who thought being in a gang would be this much trouble? Sometimes @Cleo Spencer lets out a muffled holler when their wrappings get caught in the works.

@Zero Peach's got me working on the westerns. I was inspired by @Rayla Tibbets's connection to Sheriff Stone, who's kind of a famous figure, so I did some digging and found this in the Paranormal History archives. Yee Haw! Check it out:

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Biography Report by 0lga Butterfly
Mr. Findlay's 6th hour Paranormal History
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Tomas Stone (b. 1830)

Part I

Tomas Stone was born in what is now Northern New Mexico, though at the time was part of Mexico itself. His father, Jehiphus Stone, was an American gold miner, lured by the first discovery of gold in the Oritz Mountains. Little is known of his mother except that she was of Mexican descent, and her name was Lucia.

Tomas came of age in the Mexican-American War, though his affiliations during the war are unclear. Neither his father nor his mother appear to have held strong political beliefs, and at the time of the war were merely attempting to maintain a life in the desert. Their differing ethnic backgrounds likely made them enemies to both parties. By the end of the war, Jehiphus and Lucia apparently left for Colorado, while Tomas stayed behind to seek his fortune.

The existing historical record of Tomas Stone concerns his intermittent tenure as the sheriff of Warlock, New Mexico, from 1855 to 1865. While Warlock was near a number of trade and transportation routes (including the Santa Fe and Mexican trails), it was also distant enough from centralized military power to remain mostly lawless throughout its heyday. Only the on again, off again presence of Tomas Stone as Sheriff brought the community enough stability to exist as a community for as long as it did.

From the diary of Mary Eberson, wife of Luther Eberson, owner of Warlock Central Supply:

July 21, 1857
"The remnants of Jim Bat's gang rode in tonight, no doubt looking to take revenge on Sheriff Stone for the quick work he'd made of their {unreadable} two weeks before. There was no moon, of course, and from outside our window about all you could make out were their tiny little red eyes, drifting down the street like firebugs. They hissed and spat and called out Sheriff's name till he stepped out of his offices to face them. Sheriff had his silver mirror and old dusty book with him (that had served him so well in the past with Bat's gang) but there were just too many of them this time. Bullets flew from all directions - Bat's men must have been on the roofs and down every alleyway as well. Within a few minutes they were done and gone and there was nothing left on the street but dust and cordite in the air and Sheriff stone dead in a puddle of blood with probably 50 bullets inside him."