Cirith Ungol: Dark Master of the Neither World: Fiend for the Amber, or Conjugates of Infinity.

He was standing there, thumb up his butt, other hand pawing around stupidly....

"I know what you need."

The line between perception, reality and thought was quite clear, despite the givens, and I shook my head in the negative, unwilling to brook quite a dispatch from his stable of ineptitudes and fancies.

I had drawn the Queen of Pentacles in my deck, and was bidden to take to my arm chair for a dedicated preamble of musing to the fates, of them and for them, pondering their horizon line, among other things, my own horizon line, left for another day.

I watched a student of John Ford, the applecart he was toting, jostling and jiggling on cobblestones in a foreign land, and fountains and such, statuary and stuff like that, angels pissing into pools for people to drink.  The tarmac was in a changeable type of condition, with fartings of weather, that clamoring and cajunking in our ears as we walked along the way, and I was guessing my heart rate, looking for that "fat burning zone".

They had set it on the counter and turned away to clean glasses, and me thinking, he looks like he's holding a dook in, like he's somewhat cramped up like the pedophile in Anson, and he was set in his mind: things forward.

The sun was beautiful this morning, anyway, kind of a natural gloss, and I took the air without a head covering, kind of enjoying it, how it regulates sleep and mood natural, UVA, UVB and all, the toxic radiation of acid-blooded self-servers, that we are, that the universe is, troglodytes, methridates, and conjugates of some eternal infinite chain.

Meanwhile, the Nationals had refused to change the line-up for an exhibition game, and that kind of defaggling and befuddling reality, how to lose well, and all, how to keep your dignity and not make sort of a scorched earth of the whole thing, whether you win or lose: how you play the game; more important than.  I didn't even know we were getting storm bands until I saw the clouds, and I was cursing the national media, just cursing them for their singular focus on the things politick.

And it was looking like, everytime Florida re-elected a Republican governor, theyd get his with two hurricanes in succession, from the times of Zebulon, to the time of Rollin the Boneless.  That was contrary to reality, to some extent, Republican governors calling the down the wrath of God, or inheriting God's hot displeasure; Katrina might have got Haley Barbour, circa 2005, and all.  That's your climate change, for ya, in case you were wondering.

Aziz El Sherif got arrested at the airport for some questionable stuff, released later, but still, the darn paperwork on him and all, his new pennies and quarters left in ashtrays all over the house for people to see and muse over, for they were so shiny.

Rape my big furry ass Aziz.

If not, you have not a hair on your own; not a screw turn of unction to your little Phillip's head or slotted, not a jot of it, nor even a tittle, or a besquiggle.

Rape me up the ass, Aziz, smoking a Chesterfield and licking at his fingers in between puffs.

There is purely no need to "widen the Interstates".  Fix my bridge, fool, before I correct you about what we accept here in East Colombiana.  "The Northeast".  Except we got real Indians roaming around, around these parts, and we get along with them pretty well, unlike some more civilized folks, we worship the dirt and mark the sun and all, eat the vennison and all.

You can't write if you can't relate.

I told Aziz what I would do for him for even the smallest whiff of beer on my gullet, and laughing, he poured it out, all over the concrete floor, and then he laughed even harder when I was all like a dog, sniffing and licking the floor.

A real fiend for the amber.