I couldn't play crumb snaps in the boddle pod because my choker let its fangs go black. And Johnny Herald came runnin at me with his fists full of grippe and sauce that played out of his starfish like yellow crumbled paper. "On to the marshes!" I yelled from the grease filled pit where the dogs let the marbles roll out of their asses and stack 20 high like monoliths with nowhere to go. And they were lonely. And they made lovers jealous with their sandy lips and burnt rubber tongues that smelled like chore boy and sweat and sex and brought on all the pinings of a sanitized life about to go dark. And I spelled it out in the air with a twirly, serpentine stroke: "Don't. Go. To bed." We can't afford towels or detergent anymore so get your straps oiled cause this is going to sting like some kind of hell, and I'm not going to hold your hand or teach you how to potty. Obedience James. I'll tell deadly jokes that turn spanksters into globs of red pudding and gristle. Weapons of lesser hypocrisies and median household incomes. My green machine will raise hell on turbo street. Your punches will land like the top scoop. Don't tell anyone I told you this, but I will not guide any more of your pregnancies. Find another lackey. I've sent my letter of resignation to corporate and I turned in my keys to the slob who picks his asses. I'm now 20 years older and 20 stacks higher. Don't pull too hard or the whole thing will get sucked down and we'll be scootin like dogs all night, draggin our asses on the pavement. Don't move anymore. It just creates confusion. Stand very still. Wait for it. Stop writing. It's over. Good.