Blackbottom Paranormal

Matt here, checking in.    There's nothing to do here and nowhere to go because everything in Blackbottom is meticulously engineered to incentive poverty and ya boi is broke as shit , so I was walking around because so far, that's free, when I saw a kid in the ditches on 46th Street who looked exactly like Once-Upon-A-Matt.  Seriously, this kid had shoulder-length black hair, an ill-advised wallet chain, and a Lacuna Coil shirt that I'd bet he's going to grow out of around sophomore year of college, if I had two pennies to bet.  I thought maybe it was just an echo. Time repeating itself, like it's failing its own calibration and trying to correct being out of phase. Like that Civil War soldier I got to watch get shot every night in the backyard when I lived in Dawson, Alabama. Or like one of the handfuls of quasidecent explanations of the Mandela Effect.  But I don't remember doing the stuff he was doing.  Now, generally, that's no surprise. As a kid, I pla...

Looks like I get to add "Ghost Union Organizer" to my resumé, and Matt must remove "Ghost Youth Minister" from his, at least until he either tightens up his transitions or he consistently uses a capo for his acoustic guitar.   In all fairness, my task wasn't much of a stretch. Apart from the apparition, that was just a normal conversation I'd have about wages, hours, safety concerns, and benefits that I'd have with any worker. And I'm almost always covered in motor oil, so working for a ghost auto union is believable, so long as you believe in a ghost auto union.   The same cannot be said for Matt. On appearance alone, the overlap between Matt and a youth minister is band tees and novelty socks. Matt looks less like a spiritual advisor for teens and more like a Guitar Center manager. Less like a guy trying to get you into Heaven and more like a guy with a sign that says playing "Stairway to Heaven" is prohibited.  So let's say you'r...

Matt here to give my side of what happened on the hunt last night.   Picked up Bo after work and we headed to Rossville. In general this isn't something one does to their friends, but at least she got some beer out of it.   Bubba told me he could see the creepy cryptid pacing back and forth at the once-upon-a Rossville Collision Center. Currently, the building looks like it could win third place in the Find-Rossville's-Enema-Insertion-Point Contest, but back in the day it used to be Happy Motors.   Some of y'all probably remember their mascot, a cracked-out yellow bird into which some poor bastard would pour himself and yell out "I GOT IT! I GOT IT!" on camera as though that made any sense whatsoever, after which point the meth-addled administration would syndicate it to local channels for the purpose of assaulting our eyes and ears between bouts of infomercials and terrible late night movies on Fox 61 or whatever.   It's a living, I guess, but one of the poo...

      If you don't hear from us this evening it's 'cause we're inebriatedly (is that a word? Hell with it,is now) investigating this Big Yalla Bastard.    I think I know what's going on, and Bubba's always on the lookout for creepy stuff. Usually when you're looking for something, you'll find it, even if it's just not there.   But it would be hilarious if it's there. We'll see tonight and report back as we're able. --Matt

Bo checking in. Got called out for a Bigfoot sighting tonight. Normally my answer is, "Wrong forests," but Judy had a blackberry cobbler coming out of the oven, so I figured I'd at least go out for that.   Unfortunately we weren't aware her husband had also gotten into the blackberries and made wine. Then fortified it. Then stripped nekkid and ran around the back forty growling at Lord knows what.   The good news is that I got fresh hot cobbler; the bad news is I also got an eyeful of Terrance. I guess the other good news is that there is no Bigfoot in Hixson tonight (or, you know, any other night).

Your friendly neighborhood Mattness here. Slow news day, but I went to the John Ross House just to chill with the ducks.    There was a dude in the house, past the chains, and he was kinda grumbling around and generally having a cranky moment.   I wanted to give him some time and space (and more importantly, escape line of sight in the event he saw me). I found the historical marker plaque and in the interest of minding my own business, dear reader, off in that direction I did hastily and respectfully fuck. Nothing like a little learning and some ducks.   I read the plaque, saw the photo of John Ross, and immediately realized who the fogey in the house was. But he wasn't like most apparitions I've witnessed around here; he was just, *there,* slacks and a black blazer with a little bow tie. No spooky transparency or floating or any such nonsense. Just a dude who's long dead, who seems to be not dead anymore or something I haven't dealt with yet. Revenant, maybe? I hav...

I can't decide if I'm too high for this or exactly high enough for this.   I'm Bo, Bo Goins. I'll save you a few minutes of brain activity: you've never heard of my government name because my parents were really on one when they named me. I've always thought it would come in handy if I were ever in a Rumplestiltskin situation where my life or soul or deer jerky stash were on the line in a name-guessing contest.   I digress. I'm supposed to tell you about my time with cryptids and creepies and whatnot. I was born on White Oak Mountain in a snowstorm, so my nickname has been Yeti my whole life. I'd probably appreciate it more were I a guy, but it is fun to tell my parents it's what made me gay. You can't just call your little princess a horrific snow monster and not get anything thrown back at you, ya know?   Anyway, I just think everyone born in Appalachia has a connection with the supernatural. There's spirits in the hills and hollers, some s...

Matt here. Woke up at about 4:30 for one of my famous early morning bladder buster pisses and saw some flashing lights out the window.    I figure it's the end of the month, probably some cops trying to meet their quota, but I quickly realized they weren't from a cop car. The lights were subdued, like hardly visible, but changed colors like one of those old-school fiber optic things your grandma used to be obsessed with like ten years ago that looked like a cartoon afro on her coffee table, y'know? No? Just me? Cool, cool.   I went outside to check the source of the lights and they were coming from the sky. I didn't see the source (above clouds) but in case it's aliens or whatever, guard your butts I guess.   Be safe, Chattanooga, but not so safe as to not need to be supernaturally fumigated by a street rat and his homie. Daddy needs a paid electric bill, y'all.

Matt Jeffries here. I'll let my bestie introduce theirownself later on.   Been in Blackbottom for Too Many years, but this is still the USA so nowhere else is even remotely affordable and somehow this place still hasn't killed me yet (not for lack of trying). Good to know that when it does, I can still throw stuff around down at the ball field or terrify some crawdads and genetically modified toxic waste-fish in Chattanooga Creek.   Sometimes people get a glimpse of the horrific stuff that I can see all the time. So I try to help.   Most of the time it's the usual. Pipes banging, tree limbs scratching the window, or that one time Skittles made us drive all the way out to Ringgold 'cause he thought the toilet was haunted but really it was a medical condition and he really, really needed some help from Not Us.   I cannot stress enough that if you're bleeding from your ass, I am in no way the person to call. In fact I'd like to be last in (or entirely removed from)...

Cool, thanks for bein' here! I'll be porting stuff over from the Blue Dopamine Doomscroll Hellscape page and showing a bit of love to our OGs. Don't worry--we'll keep that page but for now, mostly just as a link between y'all and, uh... well, this. In lieu of an actual post, have an ASCII butt: (  )(  )