I can't tell you what's cooking. Unidentified carcass. There's nothing else to report from the foul kitchen. A shelf full of loneliness and a couple a cans of stewed suicide and a roach that I have named Hector. He lives under the microwave concocting his little insurgencies. I can't say as I blame him, our conditions are appalling. He too is sick of the poisons that have been laced through out the apartment.
Old bread crumbs that Pepperidge Farm can not remember from those sandwiches of yesteryear, the mouse refuse, and the broken promises of progress have cut our feet.
I lost ten hours of work the other day. Aren't computers great. I can't wait for the government to lose my vote too. I believe over 37 states have purchased, The Machine. It's all so very obvious. The apocalyptic bastards have un zipped their fly's. All you have to do, is bend over. We might have no other recourse than to submit. I'll have to discuss this with my lawyer. See what he, says. His name is Caldwell and goes by Bill. They call him Cold Will Bill because he's a heartless son of a bitch but he's saved my life more times than I can remember. His office is on the sixth floor. A tiny dusty room with a metal table, a phone and one book. I can hear him now.
"Bunker down with a liter of Bourbon and a sharp knife. Wait for the smoke to clear." I believe, those will be his words. Followed by, "Makowski! Where's my fucking check you slimy cunt!"
At which point I would have just slammed the door to begin my sprint down the hall. In six years, I haven't paid him a single cent. He doesnt seem too mind to much: Hes never sued and he always sends me a happy Hanukkah card despite the fact that neither one of us is Jewish. I can only attribute his hospitality to the fact that he hates drinking alone and that I protect him from his deranged wife while keeping him supplied with good stock pile of drugs.
Once out in the street, Cold Will Bill will attempt to shoot me with his BB gun from his office window. This is our ritual. In six years he's only hit me once. Other than the money I owe him our only differential is his opposition to gun control and free legal advice. Ive tried to explain to him that I pay in kind, You know. You give me advice I trade you one goat. Or in our case, a gram of coke.
Bill is in Antigua this week. Hes suing a prostitute for a bad case of the clap. There will be no advice today.
I guess I'll go get myself a bottle and talk politics with Hector. Stage an insurgence and see if, like Oscar Wilde, I can do some time for posing as Gomorra for Donald Rumsfield in drag.
Peace.
And its just occured to me that perhaps, were already doing time. We just havent realized it. They no longer call it time. its now called the American dream.