Riddle and Conundrum of the Stony Point Bait and Tackle: Tyson George takes the field.

They had proclaimed the Bait and Tackle shop and Stony Point, "Gay-Mart" and I had a consult and proclaimed myself "Tyson George" as I entered the town.

It looked deceptively plain, but so many of these plain little towns hold sickening truths and have a backlog of complacently plaintive spasms that make the urban dweller secure in his own domain, secure and buttressed in his selection of dwelling.

"Complacently plaintive" as it were, assuaging not concerns from the wider populace, or the smaller more intimate audience, assuaging neither as if one were bearing teeth in a snarl directed at God himself.

Meanwhile, I listen to a drizzle as alcohol soaks into my brain: the dreams of a surly hugger mugger such as I, and what "complacently plaintive" perceptions give purchase to the overwhelmed perceptual facilities.

This "Gay-Mart" place, one man on guard for blacks, another on guard against Jews, and both on guard for Liberals, and beginning even to suspect one another, despite their quaintly symmetrical impetus, suspecting even each other, to hold the thread of an ideal, to paw at the lace of angels, perhaps, and mistrusting each other all the while, holding themselves at gunpoint, and finally, each man turning against himself, past the setting of the evening sun, mistrusting themselves, and drinking themselves stupid, as hedge against the possibility of losing control under some false imperative and committing greater evils.