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one who I know you remember I told you said I have a tumult in my ovaries, and reminds me of a guy in a bad painting who wants to be in a better painting—that guy—entered the pantry.
    â€œLots of big important men in the pantry now,” I said.
    He winked at me in a somewhat creepy but mostly avuncular way, and said to my dad, “Time to meet with Frank and Joe.”
    â€œThank you for listening,” my dad said to me.
    â€œDad,” I said soberly.
    â€œYes?”
    â€œI’d like to change my name to Tiffany.”
    He laughed. It must be hard to have fun when you’re commander in chief of an army that kills lots of people. “Sing me a song,” he said.
    â€œOh powerful Powhatan, I’m sad to see you sad. / You’ll always be my daddy, you’ll always be my dad.”
    â€œBye.”
    â€œBye.”
    Do great and powerful men where you’re from say they’re sad and use words like emotionally only when talking to women? I mean I love my dad and everything but what was that visit to the pantry about, anyway? What did he mean to tell me? Does he think I’m a receptacle for his delicate girly feelings? I ain’t no receptacle.

Johnny Rolfe
    Hello again, in a sense—
    In my mind I watch each word of this hurtle upward, bounce off one of earth’s half-atrophied prosthetic moons, fall back down, hit my crown, and break into its constituent letters, which slide down my neck and arms, through the bus floor, and are crushed by its tank treads into the earth, where each then merges with the genetic material of the single-celled organisms those pre-annihilation Cassandras warned would be earth’s sole post-annihilation forms of life.
    There is a window at the front of the supply trailer behind the bus, made, I think, for folks like us who like to see their stuff while hauling it from place to place, and a window at the bus’s back, so people on the bus who wanted to could keep an eye on the air that touched the window that touched the air that touched the window that touched the air that touched the redoubtable body of Jack Smith, shackled to a chair, and his liquor, trapped in glass. The two underwear-wearing men who’d grabbed Smith sat in the back seat facing the trailer, erect in their bespoke suits of taut muscle, their unrelenting vigil on Smith controlled by what form of payment the soft and petulant Ratcliffe had convinced them they’d receive. How, then, did Smith do it? How’d he undo the chains, open a bottle of booze, take a nip, close it, arrange the boxes in the trailer to resemble a bar, find glasses in the boxes, arrange them on the “bar” in a come-hither style, return to the hard chair he’d been chained to, and put his feet up to mimic what a bartender might look like? Half the bus was at that back window by the time Smith was recumbent.
    â€œWho would it hurt to have a drink?” someone said.
    The mass of purple blood billowed up inside the silky face of Jack Smith’s keeper, the mean, ambitious, talentless John Ratcliffe, when one after another of my travel companions shouted, “I’m thirsty!” and, “I need a stiff one!” and, “It’s whiskey o’clock!” Chris Newport didn’t stop the bus, at least not at first. Ratcliffe was grateful to him for that, though I doubt Chris drove to please Ratcliffe. I know nothing of Chris but that he’s older than the rest of us, lost an arm in a fight, and has a wife who makes up for the arm—such at least is my idealized view of wedlock. Another thing I know about him now: he has a thing for young and handsome men. I know because we have a man like that aboard our bus, a fun and tireless piece of ass, or so I’ve heard: Happy Lohengrin, whom I’ve seen exert his will as guile to get his way. So once he sat down side-saddle on Chris’s lap while he drove, and explained to him roughly how much fun a