The pickle is a strange creature. Once a delicacy of residents of the Milky Way Galaxy, it was originally conceived as a way to preserve cucumbers (an Earthly fruit of high water value). Dunked in salty brine, it was left to cure into a tangy, crunchy addition to various sandwiches and culinary treats. That was, until an overzealous laboratory assistant at TCRC (the Transdimensional Cosmic Research Center) spilled a highly unstable substance (of the glowing, color-changing kind) into an open jar of pickles, of which he had recently partaken, and had forgotten to secure the lid.

One of the truly great musical chameleons, Prickley Pete, never rested on his last album. A pirate, a martial arts reptile, a knight in shining armor, and, now, a bandito of unsure moral fiber. His Crinkeley Clint phase was met with applause and anticipation, leading to a frenzy of tourists flocking to his desert studio to watch his new material in action.

For nearly a millennium, it was assumed that androids, having reached the end of their usefulness, were deactivated, melted down and reformed into the next generation of servitude. Another Rainy Night in Neon Alley was the brute force hack that exposed the cruel end of robotic life. Enter Tureen V, a hospitable dwarf planet in the Bios System, home to the aforementioned Neon Alley of Youeffi City.

Whether one sun or two (or sometimes three), the nearest star represents the freedom to survive. Warmth, energy; life can exist with its near-infinite supply of tasty rays. For planets bathed in darkness, due to dying or recently dead stars, light is a commodity worth more than any precious metal or stone (including the infamous Retortunga Wishing Stone, which grants any wish the owner desires, except the ability to produce more light).

For those of you with five digits on your paws, the fist has become a symbol of the extreme: of power, of freedom, of revenge. The "fist" for most creatures takes a similar shape, tightly wound, tense with excitement, but with the construction of fur, scales, goo, or whatever substance makes up your mortal form.

Science is a curious thing. On one hand, you have intergalactic travel, power sources creatures never would have dreamed of, and advances that would make even the most skeptical of Yurzinbbals becomes true believers. On the other, unfortunately, you have the eggheads of Kokimi Industries Conglomerated.

The Universe has a long history of seemingly stupid and futile decisions. One might say that breaking into a bacterial testing laboratory is a poor decision. And, you might say that forcing your way into one of the many storage containment units shows the intelligence of a fool. And, you also might say that cracking open a frozen cube of xecotarcilia (one of the deadliest organisms known to the stars) and dropping it into a warm glass of Jaarviz Harboughz's RAT (Radiation-Altered Transmographied) Soda, is a monumentally boneheaded decision.

Audionauts, we are among the lucky few who remain sentient and alive; our physical forms able to feel and taste, love and hate. There are others, though they call themselves lucky, too, who feel those same physical and emotional highs, but they are nothing more than ones and zeroes.

A decade had passed since the foursome of Switch/Bored had graced intergalactic radio stations with their unique blend of music and storytelling, culled from various communiques they had intercepted. However, the well was running dry for Lembert, Briitt, Kotto, and Asher, and the creative juices were no longer flowing (through their veins, or the many bottles of Grizzlesizzle’s Pork-based Cola products).

Audionauts! We are proud to announce that the latest installment of Intergalactic Beets Records is now open in Putnam, CT! Join us from October 15th to October 26th at the Silver Circle Gallery (134 Main Street, 2nd Floor) for an art and music exhibition that is out of this world!

The village of Nyx had fallen into disrepair in the looming shadow of the closest moon. It was not the fault of the celestial body itself, but those who lurked in the mist upon its rise and fall. The son of a carpenter, Lefkó Vrykola would have died a carpenter without the intervention of the Feast of the Ancient Ones. A yearly ritual staged in the autumnal season, the Feast saw the shambling, lost sons and daughters burst forth from their graves, bent on siphoning the blood and nutrients flowing through the veins of the denizens of Nyx.

It was the bark heard round the Universe. The inhabitants of Orbis Canum were a peaceful bunch: four-legged, furry, mostly cute. While they had accomplished much in their planet’s history, it was their lack of opposable thumbs that limited their opportunities for advancement.

With the intergalactic ban on music that seeped its way across airwaves on July 6th, 5000 (0000 AM), so too went the art of talk radio. Now, you might be asking yourself, dear Audionaut, with so much at stake and the tastiest of beats no longer available, should talk radio be given an ounce of respect?

Drugs. Powerful, delicious drugs. The good kind, we mean. The life-saving, medically necessary ones. Not those evil ones that will make you see the Universe in a day and stretch time and space to their zenith, only to transport you to the end of an alley, your head between your hooves, retching with the might of a zuurlix in heat.

Red, blue, yellow. We take them for granted, dear Audionauts. Happy are we to allow the stars of the universe to transmit powerful rays of colorful light, which we then trust our ocular programming to accurately reconstruct and depict. For Acidic (twins Brønsteed and Lowree), color was a form of communication.