You’ll be joined by six other youngsters from way up yonder, who we have some very special plans for. The lovely young Mrs. Miller, none too faithful to her drunkard husband, looks mighty tasty tonight, wouldn’t you agree? Why, she just has to be the guest of honor at our evening barbecue. Mr. Miller looks to be a fine strong fellow. He’ll be the first contestant in the four-way horse race.

Don’t worry about making any calls to the outside world during your stay in Pleasant Valley. Our honorable Mayor Buckman wouldn’t hear of any of his guests worrying about the bustle of everyday life while they were enjoying his hospitality. Why, just look at Mr. Wells. He’s having a grand old time in our downhill barrel races. Dangerous? Naw, those spikes in that barrel are so you don’t bounce around inside it too much. We wouldn’t want anyone getting hurt.

Mrs. Wells is going to be our dunk tank girl. Well, it’s not so much a tank as a wooden slat, and it’s not so much water as a four-ton boulder, but what the hell? I’m sure we’ll all be too drunk to hit the target by then anyway, right?

Tom and Terry don’t seem to care for our hospitality too much. Sure, it may be somethin’ a little different than what you Northerners are used to, but we do our best to be accommodating. They even went so far as to trick one of our young ‘uns into breaking into the garage to get their car keys and call the police on us. It don’t matter much, though. They won’t find nothin’ when they get back.

I suppose I should let you know what this is all about. Why Tom and Terry and their police friends won’t find us. We don’t exist. Not in the way you think. You see, this Centennial is to commemorate the destruction of our peaceful little town by a bunch of goddamn kill-crazy yanks during the war. We haven’t forgotten what they did, and we figure we’ll wake up and take a few every hundred years or so until the score is even.

So run if you can. We’ll take your friends with us. Who knows? Maybe they’ll even join us next time around. A lot can change in a hundred years. Oh, you bet it can. Next time there may even be rocket ships right in the middle of main street. But we’ll be there all the same, rocket ships or no. Maybe we’ll see you. We hope you can stay a spell in our little town. We’ll have us a good ol’ time.

Phantasms, their grotesquery conceiled within measureless magic behind the curtains of night in dreamside dominions, united in unhallowed grace, will blaze their monolights of defiance from the spiritual black dimension. The promised future aeons will burn with arcane lifeforce mysteria as the insight and the catharsis bleeds from the reptile, chased by black shepherds.