It’s time to hold both hands to your face and think of the worst things you did today.  Did you lie to a coworker with your feigned interest?  Did you rape somebody?  Was your bill unpaid?  Think of these things with closed eyes and hands flatly praying.  Lay hands and bless your head.  Pressure will boil the sludge in you.  It tickles your throat and wants to come back up.  Remove your hands and regurgitate the hours.  Live another day and repeat.

            I charge my captors with the theft of my precious minutes of my youth.  You had the wrong man.  I was a nice person when I met you – you, a promising and attractive jailer.  People warned me.  And I said, “Yeah, yeah.  I’ll sign here, there and everywhere.”

            But ah, ho hum, we move to a new present, new presents, new president.  And we build Babylon onwards and upwards to reach the god we made to love us.  And if we find the wrong god, we’ll still believe and climb higher.  The one we made up has to be up there somewhere.

            Stab City, HELL – Dateline Infinity – Two youths, 13 and 13, dialed pi into a rotary telephone naked while a surrealist painted the scene with one hand while the other was embarrassed, caught red handed by a cop in a bunny suit on Quaaludes bought from Rush Limburger in the back of a new drug store that only sells non-salt margarine made in Belize by teatless young milkmaids who dial for pies delivered from a Rotary Club.  The police had no comment.

            A filthy confession:  This all means something, as the sections inform each other and enlighten to my general disposition.  I want to say things that make sense, but since nothing does, I say things that don’t, to speak truth.  It’s my job.

            This is a story about a man who was murdered, the woman who killed him, the family that covered it up, the man who loved her anyway, the town that couldn’t wait to forget it all and the man who wouldn’t let them.  The end.