Midnight's Children: The Kaballic Verses.

 

Martha and I were sitting there over a dish of toast and some Stella Rosa chatting of minutia, her boyfriends, and other things, a perfunctory foray into investing in electric cars.

It was a quiet morning, before Hell came to the door of the conscience.

That's what it was.

And then hell came to our door, "for all have sinned", "not one is righteous", kind of an ethnic cleansing of the suburbs, kind of a Western Civilization stomach cramp, and for such a mundane malady, people do, in fact, die.

I had lead the mammie dog out for breakfast, you know, having to keep them caged: town limits and all, and they were saying you could put chickens in cages, but don't under any circumstances, park a car out front.

I told Martha that electric cars were just a dream of the future, but that someday, it would indeed pay dividends.  I considered that the stock value was a bit much for how much product went out the door; I looked at mass-marketing competitors like GM and Ford, stock values sub 50 dollars and sub 20 dollars, respectively, and I knew the electric car company was overvalued.

I was listening to Martha chew her toast, classic light bread super heated into a partial burnett, and it sounded so much like bones snapping.  Of Burnett, I remember there was a cute little genius named Campbell Brown keeping her seat warm and throwing peanut hulls randomly into the crowd, kind of a child like amusement.

Bruce's birthday, of course.

Good Versus Evil, 

that's what it was.

I scratched Martha's belly, toast-filled, as it was, and took in the morning news, mostly opinion it was, but there was some dribs and drabs of factoids accidentally filtering through, and I scratched too high eventually, above the nipples, and Martha found that painful, I had worked-up towards her throat, by the utters and the John Wayne Tattoo and all that without realizing it, kind of, for the time, lost in a daydream, before the news came in over the wires, circa 930 AM.