Jennings County's Granny Punkbuster (2025)

14/12/2024

The Town of Totally-Not-Real News

Somewhere in the digital alleys of Facebook, a page quietly appeared: Totally-Not-Real News: Smalltown Edition. Its profile picture? A cartoon cow holding a clipboard. Its motto? "Keeping the circle on its toes, one ridiculous post at a time."

At first, folks didn’t know what to make of it. The page churned out gems like:

• “BREAKING: Town council proposes replacing potholes with community ‘speed bumps’ for added adventure.”

• “SHOCKING: Mayor’s office confirms plans to ban umbrellas, citing ‘overuse’ during last month’s rainstorm.”

• “NEW ORDINANCE: Residents must get permits to own yard gnomes due to ‘unauthorized staring.’”

The posts were absurd enough to make people laugh, but sharp enough to sting. Like when the page shared, “BREAKING: City council to fund dog park while sewage system still relies on duct tape and prayers.” People laughed… but started whispering, “Hey, wait a second…”

It wasn’t long before the long-entrenched powers, that circle of folks who’d been quietly steering the ship for decades, started paying attention. For years, they’d maintained control through the usual tricks: controlling the narrative, leaning on backdoor gossip, and shrugging off any public dissent. But this? This wasn’t some loudmouth in a bar. It was subtle and landing punches where it hurt.

Then, the page pushed too far. It posted about a rumored new policy:

“Council secretly considering a rule to ban holiday lights after one too many ‘light pollution’ complaints.”

Funny, right? Except the punchline came too close to an actual, behind-closed-doors discussion about new zoning laws. That’s when the circle realized someone wasn’t just guessing. So they went on the offensive.

The circle tried to bait the page with a phony leak about a proposed ban on BBQ grills. The admin didn’t take the bait. Instead, the page doubled down, posting:

“BREAKING: Backyard BBQs replaced with city-mandated solar-powered griddles. Any burger cooked over 150°F requires a notarized affidavit.”

It went viral overnight. The circle was left scrambling, trying to explain that no, they weren’t actually banning BBQs, and no, solar-powered griddles weren’t a thing, while locals showed up to town hall meetings clutching spatulas in protest.

The more the page posted, the more the circle tried to pin down the admin. They sent quiet feelers into the community, floated rumors to see which ones would surface. Some were even plotted out to pave the way for a juicy defamation suit. But time and again, Totally-Not-Real News stayed one step ahead. The admin wasn’t just poking fun. They were pulling back curtains and showing people where to look. And it worked. Residents who’d tuned out for years suddenly started asking real questions. “Wait, why is the town building a fountain instead of fixing the water line?” “Who approved that massive budget for park benches when the roads are falling apart?”

Eventually, the circle gave up trying to smoke out the admin. But not before they learned the hard way that their decades of control, built on complacency and whispers, wasn’t as airtight as they thought.

The page eventually went quiet, its admin leaving one last post:

“If the truth hurts, maybe it’s time to stop stepping on it.”

In the weeks that followed, life in the town carried on. The circle slowly tried to regain its footing, but things had changed. The meetings were fuller, questions sharper, and the usual shrug-it-off routine didn’t hold water anymore.

Every so often, though, a sharp-eyed resident would notice something strange. A perfectly phrased comment under a local news story. A pointed question at a council meeting that seemed to cut right to the quick. Or, once in a while, a meme that felt just like one of those old Totally-Not-Real News posts.

Rumors swirled. Some said the admin was still watching, waiting for their moment. Others claimed it was just the spirit of the page living on in a newly informed town. Either way, the circle couldn’t stop looking over their shoulders, wondering if another clipboard-holding cow was about to appear.

Because once you open people’s eyes, it’s hard to shut them again. And in this town, the spotlight wasn’t going out anytime soon.

13/12/2024

This will go over most folks' heads, but the intended audience will get the message.

Challenge expected and accepted, long before it was even a twinkle in your eye. This fishing expedition you're embarking on is bound to be amusing, and likely costlier than you can discreetly cover up with the limited routes available. May the odds be ever in your favor. ;)

10/12/2024

Hello you lovely darlins', Granny ain't forgot about ya in these busy times! But you ever see one of them dates so awkward it could make a Hallmark movie cry? Well, buckle up, ‘cause Blandy and Lenda’s love story kicked off with all the grace of a drunk cow on a frozen pond. It started innocently enough.. two lovebirds rollin’ up to a KFC, ready to feast on deep-fried glory. Romance was in the air… if you could sniff it through the faint whiff of fryer grease.

Blandy, bless his heart, was tryin’ to be smooth. He marches up to the door like he’s about to prove his manhood by openin’ it for Lenda. But here’s the thing about KFC doors: they’re not regular doors; they’re testaments to bad luck and questionable hinges. Blandy grabs that handle, gives it a yank, and BAM! The door bites back. Flings itself open so hard it clocks Blandy right in the shin.

Blandy, wincing and tryin’ to shake it off, mumbles, “Aw, it’s nothin’. Just a love tap from the door. Happens to real men all the time.” And with a lopsided grin that’s more pain than pride, he waves her inside.

Lenda? Oh, she’s starin’ at him like he just rescued a kitten from a pack of rabid beasts. “Oh, Blandy,” she whispers, her voice dripping with admiration, “you’re so chivalrous.”

Chivalrous, folks. She called gettin’ whacked by a rogue door “chivalrous.” And Blandy? He buys it hook, line, and sinker, hobblin’ inside like he’s just been knighted by Sir Colonel Sanders himself.

Inside, they ordered the works: extra-crispy skins, bucket of drumsticks, mac ‘n cheese, mashed taters, extra gravy and enough biscuits to clog a small artery. It had Lenda battin' her eyelashes so hard, it’s a wonder she didn’t take off like a crop duster. “Oh, Blandy,” she purrs, dippin’ a couple drumsticks into her gravy bucket like it’s fondue. “You’re so refined. Did ya always know you were gonna be a wordsmith?”

Blandy blushes, which pairs nicely with the ranch smear on his cheek. “Well,” he says, leanin’ back like he’s about to share the secret to the universe, “I once rhymed ‘orange’ with ‘door hinge.’ They said it couldn’t be done, but here I am.” He gestures vaguely, as though his existence was proof of his genius.

Lenda gasps, like he just recited Shakespeare under a sunset. “You’re amazin’, Blandy,” she gushes. “You got a way with words. Kinda like how KFC’s gravy always sticks to the roof of your mouth. It just… stays with ya.”

He’s smitten. Totally twitterpated. “Lenda,” he says, real serious now too, “you’re like the extra biscuit in the box.. unexpected, but perfect. You… complete my meal.”

As they waddle out of the KFC, bellies full and hearts flutterin’, Blandy decides to redeem himself after his earlier door debacle. With all the confidence of a man who just devoured half a bucket of crispy skin, he strides ahead to open the truck door for Lenda. This time, no rogue hinges, no shin-kickin’ antics. He nails it. The door swings open screachin' as smooth as nails on a chalkboard.

Lenda slides into the seat, clutchin’ the to-go bag like it’s the Holy Grail of leftover chicken. “Oh, Blandy,” she says, her eyes shinin’ in the dim glow of the parking lot lights. “You make me feel like… like a girl in one of them country songs. The one about trucks and love and… chicken.”

Blandy beams, sittin’ taller than a scarecrow in a windstorm. He cranks up the radio, where some scratchy cassette is wailin’ out a love ballad from the ‘80s. “This one’s for you, Lenda,” he says, tappin’ the steering wheel off-beat. “My fried-chicken queen.”

And just when you think the night’s as sweet as a caramel sundae, you hear Lenda shout, “Hey, Blandy! Don’t forget we need a Sharpie! You gotta write your poem on my napkin later!”

And that’s it, folks. Blandy and Lenda, rode off into their greasy sunset with a love story fit for the Colonel. Romance may not be dead, but boy, it sure smells like chicken.

18/11/2024

In Jennings County, cheerleading used to be a shining example of hard work payin’ off. Girls who aimed for Varsity knew the score, tumbling was a non-negotiable skill. A back handspring wasn’t just a fancy move; it was a rite of passage, like learnin’ to ride a bike or perfecting your grandma’s cookie recipe. And for years, that’s how it worked. As one parent put it, “Everyone knew the rule, and every girl who made Varsity worked hard to meet it.”

But then, like an unexpected storm on a sunny day, everything changed. Three Varsity cheerleaders, who had met every requirement and worked their tails off, were told they were bein’ demoted to JV. Put in their place? JV cheerleaders who didn’t meet the tumbling standard. Now, I don’t know about you, but that sounds fishier than Aunt Mabel’s three-week-old tuna casserole.

This decision came just three days after new coaches stepped in, which has folks raisin’ their eyebrows so high they’re practicin’ for the next facial gymnastics championship. Their reason for this shuffle? They said it was to make the team “fair.” But fair to who, sugar? Sure ain’t fair to the girls who spent years hittin’ the mats, takin’ bruises, and sacrificin’ their weekends to perfect their skills.

One of the girls demoted was a junior who had been Varsity captain. “She was devastated,” said her mother, who added that her daughter’s confidence took a nosedive. Other parents chimed in, echoing the same concern: “What’s the point of workin’ hard if it can just be taken away?” And boy, if that ain’t a question for the ages.

The rumor mill? Oh, honey, it’s churnin’ like butter at a county fair. Word is, one of the promoted cheerleaders is the superintendent’s daughter, and she’s unable to stunt or tumble due to an injury. That tidbit sent the whole town a-twitter. “How does she get to be on Varsity when she can’t meet the same expectations?” asked one parent, their frustration plain as day. Others pointed out that sidelin’ skill and safety for favoritism is a recipe for disaster. “Varsity’s about skill and safety,” one former coach said. “Takin’ shortcuts endangers the whole team.”

Let’s not forget those former coaches, who had resigned before this upheaval. They’ve been mighty candid about why they left. “The administration wanted us to eliminate the tumbling requirement,” one of ‘em shared. “We wouldn’t sell our souls, in a manner of speakin’, but now look what’s happened.” Another added, “It’s hard to enforce standards when the people above you don’t believe in them.”

Meanwhile, the new coaches have a few supporters, bless their brave little hearts. All claimin' this is about “team spirit” and “inclusion.” But most of the community ain’t buyin’ it. As one particularly vocal parent declared, “This isn’t fairness; it’s favoritism. Plain and simple.” And honestly, sugar, that’s the gospel truth.

What’s left is a program in shambles. The demoted girls feel humiliated, the team’s morale is in the gutter, and the leadership? Well, faith in them is shot to pieces. “This sends the worst possible message,” said another parent. “Hard work and merit don’t count anymore.” Granny couldn’t agree more! When you set a table and tell folks to bring their best dish, then let someone else bring store-bought cookies and call it equal, well, that’s just plain disrespectful.

The cheer program is a shadow of what it once was, and the community’s got some tough questions for the powers that be. Can this damage be fixed? Maybe. But as Granny always says, “When you break a promise, you don’t just need glue—you need time, effort, and a whole lotta reckonin’ to put things right.”

07/11/2024

Alright, darlin'. Seems like the folks in charge have found themselves a new “mental stress” perk, all digital and right at their fingertips—just a mere $2000 a soul! Now, I’m sure they’re feelin' the weight of responsibility, what with two whole blocks gettin' all the fancy upgrades and attention, while the rest of town’s maybe not lookin' its Sunday best, bless its heart. Just the other day granny saw the cutest young couple, sweet as honey, arm in arm, pushin’ their baby in a stroller. But with no sidewalk to stroll on, that poor stroller was out in the road, right where folks drive like they’re tryin’ out for NASCAR. Looked like a game of Frogger, had Granny so stressed she nearly spilled her tea, they darn near owe granny a session of this de-stressin'!

It’s almost funny, if you think about it. Here they are, dedicatin' resources to calm their nerves, probably thinkin' it's for the good of everyone. And while I won’t say that a little stress relief isn’t important, you might say there are some “visual reminders” around town that could use a bit of sprucing up, too. A little TLC for infrastructure might do wonders for everyone's peace of mind and de-stressin, don’t ya think?

It’s all about balance, after all.

04/11/2024

There Granny was, settlin' in for a quiet afternoon, just her and the radio cracklin’ away. Then, outta nowhere, the Mayor’s voice piped up. She half-expected him to go on about spendin' money on A.I. and cameras or some newfangled cashless contraption nobody needed. But no, today he was asked about code enforcement.

The Mayor launched into his usual bit on “public interest,” ramblin' about “safety,” “fire codes,” and “protectin' investments.” He kept it short, thankfully, then switched gears to beautification, goin' on about long grass and messy lawns messin' things up.

Then, plain as day, he says, 'Can’t be havin’ folks decoratin' their yards with toilets turned into flower pots!'

Granny had to laugh at that one. She hadn’t seen a porcelain throne flower pot in years. So, she just sat back, chucklin’ and thinkin’, “Well now, who’s crafty enough to whip up some flower pots? Maybe a little woodworkin’ project... shaped like a commode?”

Granny figured she might just need one herself.

31/10/2024

Well now, sugar, over at County High, the cheer squad’s got a rule as old as grandpa’s ol’ tractor rustin' away in the barn: if you’re lookin’ to make the advanced team, you better be able to flip like a flapjack on a Saturday mornin’. This rule’s no spring chicken—it’s been around for ages, right there alongside homecoming floats and halftime hot dogs. But wouldn’t ya know, a few parents with kids who just couldn’t stick the landin’ (or plain didn’t wanna try) got it in their heads that the rule didn’t apply to their precious young'uns.

Instead of tellin' their kiddos to practice till their fingers were raw and their feet blistered, these folks sashayed right up to the school. They flashed their connections like ribbons at the county fair, figurin’ they could charm their way around tradition. Standards? Ha! Those were for folks without a political buddy, a pal on the school board, or a cousin in the PTA. They laid on the charm thicker than molasses in January, droppin' hints that their kids oughta get a free pass onto the squad without doin' a lick of flippin’.

To no fault of their own, those poor coaches got swept up in a whirlwind of pushy parents clashing with time-honored rules. But when the school admin took the parents' side and tossed out the skill requirements for the advanced team, well, that was the last straw. Bless their hearts, those coaches finally had enough. They threw in the towel quicker than a cat chasin' its tail, leavin' tradition behind in a cloud of dust.

And now, everyone’s wonderin’, “If they can twist the cheer rules into a pretzel, what other traditions might be next for the choppin’ block?” One thing’s for sure: folks are startin' to wonder if hard work and fairness are bein' nudged right out to pasture.

23/10/2024

During a executive Board of Works meetin' right before the public one, they made a motion to boot Patrolman Jaydan Vanosdol from the North Vernon Police Department. Rumor has it that there were some questionable photos of a minor found on someone’s phone. And heck, that was a while back—at least a month ago. Long enough for about two McTweak sleeps, if we're countin' that way!!

22/10/2024

Alright, listen up. Spinnin' yarns has side effects, and lemme tell ya, sometimes they sneak right into your dreams. But this one? Oh, it wasn't a dream; it was more like one of them sweaty-palmed nightmares. So, settle in, 'cause I’m gonna lay it all out for ya.

Ya settled? Alright, darlin', brace yourself—‘cause this was a sight messier than a raccoon in a honey jar.

I’m just tryin’ to grab my buy-one-get-one cat food when I spot ‘em: Lenda and Blandy’words, standin’ by a display of discounted flip-flops, makin’ googly eyes like two love-struck goats. It was uglier than a mud fence, but I couldn’t look away.

Lenda’s leanin' on a wobbly cart, twistin’ her hair like she’s on a soap opera. "Hey there, Blandy," she purrs, her voice huskier than a three-day-old ashtray. "You talk real fancy, like them motivational quotes on Dollar Store calendars."

Blandy, standin’ there with a cart full of off-brand corn dogs and one lone bottle of ranch, scratches his mullet. "Uh, yeah, I know some words," he says, blushin’ like a baboon's behind. "Wrote a poem once… somethin’ ‘bout trees and justice… or maybe it was about donuts."

Lenda giggles, soundin’ like a crow with a sinus infection. "Aw, you’re such a deep thinker, Blandy," she says, sidlin’ closer. "Maybe you could, uh, take me out for a chicken dinner? Talk about them deep issues… like potholes."

Blandy lights up like a busted neon sign. "Oh, I love KFC!" he beams. "Especially the bucket that’s mostly skin." He tries to wink, but it was more like a mini seizure havin' commitment issues.

By this point, I’m hangin’ on my cart, silently beggin’ for the sweet mercy of a falling anvil. But Lenda’s just warmin’ up. She swats at him playfully, nearly knockin’ over a display of tapioca pudding. "Oh, Blandy," she coos, "you sure know how to make a gal feel special… like when you find a Tw***ie you forgot in your glove box."

Blandy nods, dead serious. "Well, you’re like the warm ketchup packets in my truck, Lenda—unexpected, but always there."

I made for the door, faster than a pig at a bacon festival. As I left, I heard Lenda yell, "Hey, you got a Sharpie? My pen don’t work on napkins anymore."

That’s it. Walmart ain't just where deals go to die—it’s where romance does too.

21/10/2024

On October 22nd, the city Board of Works is set for quite a double feature. At 10:40 AM, a strange meeting kicks things off with only one thing on the agenda: “alleged misconduct of a public servant.” The details are cloaked in mystery, could it be petty corruption, misuse of funds, sketchy photos, or simply unchecked power running wild?

At 11 AM, there's another meetin'. This one’s got a different flavor: “Chief Messer’s Update & Other business” Is it a routine check-in or related to the meetin' before it?

For now, the curious can only wait and wonder what’s really going on.

21/10/2024

Now, lemme tell ya about Lenda, the Empress of Empty Pockets. If there was ever a world championship of beggin’, she’d have the gold medal, the trophy, and probably the referee’s wallet, too. See, Lenda didn’t just beg for a livin’—she made it an art form.

She lived out in holler park lakes in a trailer that was surprisingly spiffy. It had everything a person could want: a roof that only leaked every other rain, a yard full of lawn gnomes she might’ve borrowed, and a doormat that said, “Mind the chickens.” But Lenda wasn’t the type to just sip tea on her porch and daydream. Nope, she was too busy hustlin’.

Every so often, she’d put on her rattiest sweater (with just the right amount of holes), slap on a frown that’d make a bulldog blush, and gas up her shiney car. Yeah, you heard me right—Lenda had a pretty decent car, paid for one nickel at a time. But she made sure to park that beauty far away, behind some bushes, so as not to ruin the illusion when rollin' into the neighboring town, the land that actually has sidewalks.

Lenda would waddle up to the best corner, lookin’ like a cross between a sad cow and a PTA mom who’s lost her coupon book. If another beggar dared to be there, she’d put on her best “move it or lose it” face. And if they didn’t budge, she’d call in the cavalry—aka the police. She’d point at the panhandlers and say, “Officers, we gotta do somethin’ about this mess!” Next thing ya know, they’d be packin’ up their signs while Lenda moved in like a raccoon with a fresh garbage can.

Once Lenda had her spot, it was showtime. She’d pull out her tin can, which had “HELP” written in crayon, and start her act. Lenda could cry on cue, make her lip quiver like a bass fish on dry land, and cough with the elegance of a Shakespearean actor in a plague scene. Gettin' folks to toss change her way like she was a human wishing well.

So there ya have it—Lenda Wellhart, the Queen of Coin Snatchin’, scoopin’ up spare change like a vacuum at a dollar store.

19/10/2024

Well folks, National Cat Day is comin' up, and you know what that means? Story time with Granny! A tale with a tail since we’re talking cats, so you can bet this one’s got a twist or two. Now, grab a seat—Granny’s got a story that'll have you keepin' one eye on your feline tonight!

In the cozy tiny little town called Whisker’s Hollow, famous for pretty much nothing at all: but it did have an annual Halloween pumpkin contest that Mrs. Flanders’ peculiar cat, Buttons got all spicy & wild about every year. Mrs. Flanders lived out on the grounds of Anderson’s Cove, an old estate tucked away just outside town, technically in another state with the town being on the border and all. So most folks didn’t know much about it, or her really except that you didn't see her without buttons. The local big wigs didn't even know much—but they preferred to keep it that way. Less to do in their minds. And as for Buttons? Well, she wasn’t your typical kitty. Nope, that cat had an air about her, like she knew things no cat should ever know. Funny whiskers that almost looked like stitches sealing her mouth with strange fur. Some folks swore she had more lives than the usual feline, and others just steered clear because nobody messed with that spicy lil feline.

Well, nobody except Larry. You see, Larry wasn’t exactly what you’d call the sharpest knife in the drawer, but bless his heart, he tried. He ran the town’s only pawn shop, a creaky little place stuffed with forgotten treasures and unwanted junk. And on one fine, chilly October evening, Buttons waltzed right into Larry’s shop, wearing the most peculiar collar.

This collar wasn’t any ordinary thing—it had shiny silver bells that jingled in a way that made your teeth itch, and little skull-shaped charms dangled from it. Spooky as all get-out, and Larry, being the opportunistic fella he was, figured it’d fetch a pretty penny. "Why, this here’s gotta be some kinda antique!" he muttered, reaching down to sn**ch it right off Buttons’ neck.

But the moment Larry unbuckled that collar, the temperature in that room dropped faster than a southern Indiana thermometer in November. The lights flickered, and suddenly, Larry wasn’t alone anymore. A soft meow echoed from the shadows, followed by a deeper, more sinister purring that seemed to come from all directions.

"What in tarnation?" Larry yelped, backing up into a shelf of rusty tools, which promptly clattered to the floor.

Then, out of the darkness, emerged a shadowy figure with a purplish glow. Not Buttons—something bigger. A cat, yes, but this one was black as soot from an old chimney, and its eyes glowed an eerie, unnatural green. Larry could tell right away: this wasn’t just any cat. That collar? It had been keeping something at bay, something much worse than a little ol’ house pet.

Just then, a familiar voice piped up. “Oh, you’ve done it now, Larry,” said old Mrs. Flanders, the town’s eccentric widow, standing behind him. “That collar was never meant to be removed!”

“W-what?!” Larry stammered, clutching the collar like it was his ticket out of this nightmare.

“That’s no ordinary cat,” Mrs. Flanders continued, her knitting needles clicking away, though she seemed to be fading right before his eyes. “That collar belonged to Virria, the Witch of Whisker’s Hollow. She was tryin’ to transfer her soul into her cat, Button, so she could live on after death. But things went sideways, and now her spirit’s stuck inside that cat. The collar kept her from gettin' too strong, but now that it's off…”

Larry’s knees buckled. “So what do we do now?”

“Well,” Mrs. Flanders said, adjusting her shawl as she flickered and faded like a dying light bulb, “without the collar, Virria’s power will only grow stronger. You’ve let loose a witch with a grudge, and she’s got her sights set on this town.”

Before Larry could respond, the ghostly cat let out a long, eerie hiss and knocked over a shelf of knickknacks, sending them flying like confetti. Buttons sat there, smug as could be, watching the chaos unfold.

Larry tried in vain to grab the collar and reattach it to Buttons, but the ghostly cat swatted him away with supernatural speed. Mrs. Flanders, nearly invisible now, gave him a sad smile. “You can’t stop her now, dearie.”

With that, Mrs. Flanders and Buttons turned and walked out the door, the ghostly cat trailing behind them. Larry rushed after them, but by the time he made it outside, Mrs. Flanders was gone—vanished without a trace. All he could hear was the faint jingle of Buttons’ collar fading into the mist as the cat wandered toward the old cemetery at the edge of town.

Larry stood there, frozen, clutching the collar, which had now transformed into one of those fancy chokers women sometimes wear. It was larger, more intricate, and shimmered with a strange energy. He knew right then: this was no ordinary antique—it was something far more.

THAT WHICH BINDS:

Long before all this happened, Beuttress Anderson was just a sweet local woman with a knack for dabbling in harmless, good-natured witchcraft. She wasn’t into dark magic, just small charms and blessings for the folks around Whisker’s Hollow. One fateful night, she decided to cast a spell to bless her favorite choker, hoping to bring herself a little extra luck.

But Beuttress had no idea what was brewing in the shadows. At that very same moment, Virria, the powerful Witch of Whisker’s Hollow, was casting her own, much darker spell. Knowing her death was inevitable, she aimed to transfer her soul at the moment that time came, into her beloved cat, Button, so she could live on after death, biding her time until she was powerful enough to reclaim a human body.

Their spells inadvertently coalesced in the worst possible way. Instead of simply blessing her choker, Beuttress’ magic got tangled up with Virria’s dark spell. Virria’s soul became trapped in Button prematurely, and poor Beuttress found herself bound to the choker she’d meant to bless.

For quite some time, before Larry's greed meddled, Beuttress was able to sap just enough of Virria’s power to project herself as Mrs. Flanders, the quirky widow everyone in town knew, but didn't. It was her only way of interacting with the world and keeping an eye on Buttons, making sure the collar stayed buckled so Virria couldn’t grow stronger. But now that the collar’s clasp has been undone. Virria’s spirit is unleashed but still bound, Beuttress’ ability to project Mrs. Flanders is gone. She’s trapped, her soul bound to the choker, left powerless, watching as Virria’s strength grows.

Larry would go on to spend many nights trying to convince the town of his strange experience. But most folks just laughed it off, saying he’d spent too much time in that dusty old shop. Some whispered he might’ve had one too many drinks, and others thought he’d gone off his rocker. But a few believed him, the ones who’d always felt something strange about Mrs. Flanders.

Those believers would gather with Larry in the back of his shop, speculating about what came next. But one thing was clear: Virria, the Witch of Whisker’s Hollow, was growing stronger by the day, and Buttons—well, they'd spend their time lookin' for her. Tryin' to help Beuttress the only way they thought how. Somehow get that choker around the neck of a cleaver feline no one’s seen since.

So, the next time you hear a soft jingle on a cold night, keep your eyes peeled. You won’t see Mrs. Flanders anymore—just Buttons, and the ever-growing presence of Virria, waiting for her chance to return in full force.

17/10/2024

Well, grab your spot folks! This Saturday the 19th, in the hallowed halls of St. Mary’s gym, the North Vernon police and firefighters are fixin’ to trade in their tools of the trade for dodgeballs.

Yep, you heard right. The lads in uniform will be pelting each other senseless—all for the sake of Christmas charity. It’s called Dodge 4 Tots, and it kicks off at 2 p.m. It’s like relivin’ recess, but with grown-ups.

Now, will the firefighters be faster than the flames they dodge? Or will the police use their tactical skills to arrest the competition? Honestly, who’s keepin’ score? We’re just here for some good ol’ rubber-ball chaos, the bruised egos, and maybe a stray dodgeball to the face! (Hey, Granny's all about entertainment value.)

Don’t forget to bring that wallet and a little holiday cheer! Because every dollar goes to the Jennings County Toys for Tots program. Let’s make sure the kiddos get more than socks and fruitcakes this Christmas!

So be there, watch the glory unfold, and remember. Go for the charity, stay for the bruises!

17/10/2024

North Vernon City Hall was buzzing Tuesday as three new hires stepped into their roles. Alex Holt joined the police force, ready to keep the peace—or at least remind folks to use their turn signals. Jacob Hendren was sworn in as a firefighter, prepared to tackle the town’s hottest problems (literally). And then there’s Elise Allen, the new code enforcement officer, whose mission is to make sure your yard doesn’t offend city standards. Watch out, folks—she’ll be out there measuring your grass and counting how many garden gnomes and flamingos are too many!

Jennings County's Granny Punkbuster

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10/12/2024

18/11/2024

07/11/2024

04/11/2024

31/10/2024

23/10/2024

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21/10/2024

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The uneducated and/or easily offended will not have a good time here and should probably move on to their safe spaces.