Thoughts On The Dead

Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To

Author: Thoughts On The Dead (page 4 of 774)

Another Completely Anticipated Late-Night Phone Call To Maggie Haberman


“I had to expect a call tonight, in all honesty. Yello?

“Maggie. It’s Tyrannosaurus Rex here.”

“Secretary Tillerson. Wait, is Secretary like President or Judge? Do you get called that forever?”

“Hell, call me Tilly. I don’t give a fuck.”

“That much has been proven true.”

“I feel like a weight’s been lifted off me. An enormous, sloppy, dimwitted, orange weight. And the rest of ’em ain’t no prizes. Kelly’s got a stick so far up his ass he gets splinters in his nostrils. McMasters is a giant pervert. Real into armpits”


“He loves ’em. Rips pictures outta magazines and tapes ’em up on the wall. Always talking about ’em. First time he said to me, ‘Rex, you see the pits on her?’ I thought he said tits.”

“Also inappropriate.”

“But more normal. Whole damn White House is full of weirdos. Mattis wears a cilice.”

“A what?”

“A cilice. It’s a band with spikes on the inside; you wear it on your thigh.”


“Mortification of the flesh. Mad Dog has some very interesting views on sin. You got any idea what the fuck he’s doing in the Middle East?”

“Fighting ISIS?”

“BZZZ. The correct answer is ‘Whatever the fuck he wants to do.’ You think the fucking moron has any clue what’s happening over there? He doesn’t even know where over there is. He thinks the capital of Afghanistan is Chachi. I tried to brief him on Libya once. He made it five minutes and started talking about McNuggets.”

“What about them?”

“‘I like the circle McNuggets. Some people say the one with the little handle, but circle shape is a very beautiful shape.’ You know how he fucking talks.”


“Then he gets the whole room to start arguing about which is best dipping sauce. Jared and Ivanka are for sweet-and-sour, Steven Miller’s for barbecue, and Kelly’s a honey mustard man. Everybody’s yelling at each other about fucking flavored corn syrup, and he’s sitting there with that sticky smile of his. The one where he doesn’t show his teeth?”

“I know that one.”

“That was every meeting. Well, every meeting where he didn’t call Janine Pirro in the middle of it so we could listen to her views on Islam.”


“Not a fan.”

“I’m aware.”

“It’s complete fucking chaos 24/7. Actually, more like 3/5. Sloppy might be the laziest sumbitch I ever met. You know he doesn’t even chew any more? He had Hope Hicks do it for him. Spit it up into his mouth like a baby bird. And this is in front of a room full of people. McMasters would get hard watching.”

“Jesus, why?”

“I told you: he’s a pervert.”

“Mr. Tillerson–”

“Sexy Rexy.”

“–did you accomplish anything in your year at State?”

“Redecorated my office.”

“Anything else?”

“Hey, you try getting shit done with a mental defective in charge. Man’s dumber than a bucketful of dicks. You should thank me that things ain’t worse right now.”

“I’m not thanking you.”

“Don’t give a fuck.”

“Had to hurt getting fired by tweet, though.”

“Couldn’t say I didn’t see it coming. I been searching my name on Twitter for months waiting. Can’t be surprised when a shitbird shits on you.”


“Besides, I got an appointment tomorrow. Gonna work off all the stress from this week.”

“Gym? Massage?”

“Robert Mueller.”

“Much better.”

“You alone over there? I got a sixer.”

“Good night, Tilly.”

“Happy trails, Maggie.”

Trump’s Demands For Space Force

  • Millennium Falcon, but made out of gold.
  • The most beautiful zap guns you’ve ever seen.
  • Burger King on the moon.
  • The Enterprise, but named after Ivanka.
  • The uniforms have to be classy.
  • Robots and computers can’t talk ebonics.
  • Build a ringworld and make the Martians pay for it.
  • I wanna be able to drop stuff on people I don’t like.
  • CNN’s satellite gets shot down the first day.
  • Death ray.

Putin On The Ritz

“Sure, I’ll talk about my clothes. Thanks for asking.”

I totally didn’t.

“My boots are Marvana featuring Wicky Z for Quilty by Leomberge.”

Never heard of ’em.

“Of course not: you’re poor. The pants are Scaramucci.”

Like the Mooch?

“No, the same guy. The Mooch made my trousers. I don’t agree with his politics, but he can sew like an angel.”


“The tee-shirt is Visvim, obviously.”


“Their new line of raw shirts is astounding. Raw cotton, raw dye. The tailors who make the shirts? All they eat is nuts and berries. Completely raw.”


“You just don’t understand fashion.”

Apparently not.

“The necklace is a Billy Bling. Only forty grand because we’re friends.”

You have the worst taste in men.

“What about women?”

You have predictable taste in women.

“And now we go to the piece de resistance. That’s French for ‘thing that resists.'”

It’s not.

“The toppermost.”

It’s a nice one.

“It’s called Lizards Quake When Dusk Falls On The Desert.”

What an evocative name.

“My new topper-shifu created it for me. His name is Makira Gojira.”

No, it isn’t.

“He’s a marvel. Totally blind. He sews by zen.”

He sews by zen?

“Oh, sorry. I meant Zen. That’s his assistant’s name. Does most of the actual sewing, but Gojira-san oversees. Well, not oversees, but you get the drift. They’re making me another toppermost right now.”

How many do you need?

“It’s not for me.”

Goddammit, Josh, do NOT act as a personal stylist for Kim Jong-Un!

“You’re not my boss.”




I know.

“Is this Kim Jong-Un? I’ve been meaning to talk to him.”

Sure, pick up the phone.

“Nothing looks grim when I’m hanging with Kim.”

“Is nyet Kim, Hot Dog Dick.”

“Ah, fuck.”

“Putin now have toppermost technology.”


“Ve have vays of getting toppermosts, Mr. Dog Dick.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Is so comfortable. Very stylish. Putin is beautiful Soviet peacock.”

“Seriously, where did you get that?”

“Invade Japan.”

“You didn’t.”

“Da. Posion Hello Kitty.”


“I am bad guy.”


“Answer question for Putin.”


“Vhy Taylor rip off Spike Jonez? New video is just Veapon of Choice.”

“You are way more in tune with pop culture than I’d figure.”

“Putin is online.”

“We’ve noticed.”

“Is no good vith Taylor. She dance like babushka. Putin miss Christopher Valken.”

“I gotta go.”

“You think he kill Natalie Vood?”

“I’m hanging up.”

“Da. Putin look better than you.”

“No, you d–



First Draft Of The Russia Probe Memo

House Permanent Select
Committee On Intelligence

Russia Investigation


Following a more than yearlong, very bipartisan no matter what the Democrats say, investigation into Russian active measures targeting the 2016 U.S. election, the House Intelligence Committee has completed a draft report of 150+ pages, with 600+ citations. The plus sign means that there’s MORE than 600 citations, and that is a shitload of citations. There are also several graphs, many charts, and a number of crude drawings of Adam Schiff having sex with a dead coyote. The draft report addresses, in detail, each of the questions within the agreed parameters of the investigation, as announced in March 2017. It analyzes:

  • President Sotero’s disastrous failure to counteract Russian active measures against the United States.
  • That there was no collusion between the Trump campaign and Russia.
  • The history of secret American intervention into foreign country’s politics, so maybe we deserved this, huh?

Initial Findings

  • While President Putin is brave and strong, it does appear that rogue factions within the Russian Federation attacked America and her allies during 2016.
  • Or maybe it was the Jews?
  • Barack Obama, too busy purchasing hair picks with fists on the handle, ignored many of his advisors that warned of Russian interference.
  • No collusion.
  • No collusion.
  • Hillary did Benghazi.
  • The FBI also did Benghazi.

Proposed Recommendations

This draft also includes over 25 recommendations, among them:

  • Appointing Barron as Cyber Czar.
  • Assembling the Avengers.
  • Asking President Putin if he did one more time, but making him Swear he didn’t do it.
  • Like, on a Bible.
  • Executing Hillary Rodham Clinton in public.


No collusion.

This draft will be available to the public on the 17th, but Sean Hannity will get it on the 12th.


(After this utter hogwash.)


Time again for the Best Comment Section On The Innertubes™ to weigh in. (And I mean that: you wonderful people are the opposite of the YouTube or–even worse–the comments under any article in a local newspaper’s website.) The question, as always, centers around the wild and wacky world of rocking and rolling, and it is this:

What is the best song in which the title is not in the lyrics?

Obviously, there are some rules:

  1. No Dead songs. Wharf Rat, The Other One, Weather Report Suite, The Eleven, etc.: we will take these as assumed.
  2. No instrumentals. I shouldn’t have to say that, but I feel like you are all some clever-ass motherfuckers who will think you are getting away with foolishness, and I will brook no foolishness.
  3. Classical music isn’t a song, even if it’s got lyrics. Do not be nominating the Ode To Joy or any opera bullshit.

I will start with something meatheaded and long:

An underrated deep track from the mighty Zep, Carouselambra is about something, but it is not about a carouselambra. Partially because “carouselambra” is a made-up word. What is the tune about? You tell me:

Sisters of the way-side bide their time in quiet peace
Await their place within the ring of calm
Still stand to turn in seconds of release
Await the call they know may never come
In times of lightness, no intruder dared upon
To jeopardize the course, upset the run
And all was joy and hands were raised toward the sun
As love in the halls of plenty overrun

Robert Plant’s best lyrics were the ones you couldn’t quite understand. (Led Zeppelin has a bunch of songs that would qualify: The Immigrant Song, and Achilles Last Stand, and Black Dog, and Four Sticks, and the list goes on and on.)

And here’s a little (barely over two minutes) nugget from Bruce’s first record, when he was still doing his Dylan imitation.

Okay, your turn. Whatcha got?

The Rarest Rap Of All

“So, uh, if you’re happy with the way things are going, then you don’t have to vote. But if you’re not, well, then you should vote. If you’re a little bit warm, then you should take off your jacket. If, uh, you’ve got a cramp in your leg, then try walking around for a little.”

“Bob, you’re drifting.”

“Gimme a minute, here, Phil: I’m talking about democracy.”

“Not really.”

“There’s a group of young people in the lobby called Headcount, and they’ll help you register. Right next to them is the merch table, and it’d really help us out if you bought some hoodies. We ordered too many.”

“Weir’s right, folks. We’re taking a bath on the hoodies.”

“So, uh, if you register to vote and buy a hoodie, then you get an autograph after the show.”

“Not from us.”

“No, not us. You get Wally’s.”


“The other Wally. How the hell did you get here?”


“We’ll be back in just a little bit.”

A Never-Before-Published Photo Of Baby Jeff Chimenti

Still looks the same.

A Morning Early In Little Aleppo

The bar at the Wayside Inn was made of wood. Everything in the Wayside Inn was made of wood: the tables and the piano and the staircase and the rooms upstairs and the rooms in the back. The glass was temporary, and so was the flesh: they cycled through, were emptied, discarded. A window might last a year; a bottle, ten minutes. Whore might last a year; gambler, ten minutes. They walked in and stumbled out onto the Main Drag; the sidewalks were made from spruce planking, and the street itself was made of shit.

Horses toppled by, ridden and laden, and you could buy meat and vegetables from pushcart stalls. Buildings abutted tents–a great deal of the neighborhood was still canvas–and everyone was filthy. Mustaches were prodigious, and the hats came in so many varieties: stetsons and bowlers and tops and sombreros and Dakotas and gamblers, in every color that was black or gray or brown. There were no women in the street, which was not even a mile long. Off to the south were the flat fields where the miners camped, their tents laid out in even rows. To the north was the Turnaway Lode. There was so much gold you couldn’t turn away, and the men rushed in to work it and the surrounding foothills. No one ventured all the way up the mountains, but they didn’t have to: there was money just laying there in the rock and under the moss and waiting for you to pick it up.

Freud made the connection between money and shit. We don’t pay much attention to Freud any more, but he got some things right. Money is just like shit: except for a small percentage of fetishists, people prefer to get it away from themselves as fast as possible. There was a need in the valley that would one day be the neighborhood called Little Aleppo, and so solutions presented themselves quickly. The surest way to an answer is a question asked while waving cash. Samperand’s Hardware opened up to overcharge for shovels and sifters and buckets. Anky’s had whiskey and tequila and poker, usually three tables’ worth going all day and night, and the Bronze Colonel has whiskey and tequila and dice, The Wayside Inn had whiskey and tequila and faro.

Faro is played on an oval tables. There is a dealer and as many as five players. The spades are laid out from ace to king, and then a different deck is shuffled. You could make a flat bet, which is that the six or seven or the jack would come up, by slapping a chip onto the proffered spade; you could bet on the Winner or Loser card; you could bet on all sorts of things. The first card is burned off; the next two are dealt face-down, first the Loser and then the Winner. The odds were not terrible if the game was fair. No faro game was fair.

The Wayside also featured girls. Swanny was a chubby blonde, and Tappy was from Pittsburgh, and Bowlegged Louisa still believed in Jesus, and Lulu was 15, and Pansy had slice-marks up and down her thighs she put there with her knife, and Virginia had nightmares so bad her screams woke up the whole building. Peach died–Doc Wallop drunkenly punctured her innards during a routine procedure–and now the Wayside did not feature Peach. Miss Valentine withheld the doctor’s payment for a week or two after that, and he didn’t complain.

Miss Valentine was good with a knife. She kept a Bowie in a black leather scabbard on her hip, right side, and she would make a big deal out of taking it off so you might feel at ease. You shouldn’t, because she always had more: a flick blade in one pocket, and a switch in the other, and another Bowie just as big as the first webbed into her right boot. She could kick up her heel and reach down and gut you in under a second. This is not a guess, or an exaggeration: Miss Valentine had timed herself. And practice made perfect.

She was neither short nor tall for a woman of the time, which was 18–, and she wore her brown hair just long enough to need to pull back into a ponytail when she wrote letters at her desk. Man’s clothes–a blue collarless shirt, black trousers–and freshly-shined boots (brown) with squared-off toes. Her cuffs were spotless and not frayed at all.

It was very early in the morning, because the only light you got for free in the past came during the day. Once the sun went down: that was it, unless you wanted to light something on fire; there is a reason the past burned itself down so much. Breakfast was pork and porridge on a tin plate. Coffee, black, in a tin cup. She wiped her mouth with a bandana, also black.



Canadian Bill was straw-haired and beefy, and he was from outside Saskatoon.

“I can’t have it.”

“Okay. Yeah, okay.”

She sipped her coffee.

“You got any fucking idea what I’m talking about?”

“You could possibly fill in some of the details for me, sure.”

Canadian Bill had been working for Miss Valentine since Tulsa, which he had reached via Carson City and Chicago. He enjoyed stabbing people, which in the old days meant you had to move a lot; Canadian Bill was like Caravaggio, but without all the painting. Miss Valentine was a hell of a blade, but sometimes it was politically propitious for her to be seen in public while someone was getting stabbed. Canadian Bill was also much bigger than she was, and so could carry bodies and whatnot. They found each other very useful.

“The goddamned caterwauling, Bill. The middle-of-the-night shrieking that issues from the fucking Indian girl’s gob.”

“She ain’t Indian.”

“With that nose? And the hair? Fuck me if she’s not.”

“Told me she was from Shreveport,” Canadian Bill said.

“What the fuck does that have to do with it? Fucking Indians are everywhere.”

“Not in Shreveport. They got Cajuns there.”

“I don’t give a fuck if they got Martians there. We’re talking about the screaming. Concentrate on the screaming, Bill.”

“Yeah, it woke me up.”

His shirt was white with brown pinstripes, and his suspenders and pants were brown, too. Completely bald on the top of his head with a ruff of hair around, also brown. Ludicrously large mustache that was the color you would expect. He gripped his fork like a bat and shoveled his breakfast into his mouth; wiped on his sleeve.

“I can’t fucking have it.”

“I gotcha,” he said.

“Do something about it.”

Canadian Bill stopped eating.


“Figure it the fuck out.”

The girls were in the back. They took their meals in the back.

The Morning Tavern technically opened at dawn, but the doors were unlocked before that and the bar was two-deep when the sun came up. The sun was a fascist, in the view of the Morning Tavern’s denizens. At night, you could flick on a lamp or sit in the dark: your level of illumination was up to you. But it was damned tough to avoid that yellow bastard at noon. Some folks need a bit of shade.

There used to be a band–this was back in the Sixties–that set up along the back wall and played 45 minutes out of the hour, five sets a day. Bunch of groups did it: the Slates, and the Earl Of Sandwich, and the Tick-Tocks, and the Sempahore Lightning. The drinkers did the Frug, and they did the Boogaloo. Seven days a week, baby, that’s rock and roll. The Tick-Tocks turned into Lamprey, which had seven Top-40 hits in the 1970’s. The members of Earl Of Sandwich participated in a murder/suicide so complex that the cops had to call in the Mathematics Department at Harper College to figure it out. There was a jukebox now. It glowed blue-and-red in the dim, and there were metal arches and filigree and scalloped edges; it was as tall as a man and twice as wide, and the power cable was as thick as Big-Dicked Sheila’s cock. She hit D3: it was that band from Australia, the loud one that had only written one song. The lead singer needed a lozenge. Sheila needed a cigarette. Her purse was at the bar; Tiresias Richardson was digging in it.

“Gimme that.”

Sheila snatched it from her and hopped up on a stool. Her feet dangled. Bright-yellow Converse high tops with the tongues lolling like dimwitted dogs. Her pants were skin-tight and black and leather and laced up in the front; they were rock and roll pants; they were pants you wanted to get into that, ironically, were nearly impossible to get into.

Tiresias was wearing a pair of navy-blue blue sweatpants with white splotches up and down the left leg where she had splattered bleach. The hood of her sweatshirt was down, and there were no bleach stains, but had it not been rust-colored, then the spilled wine would be evident.

“I was looking for a cigarette,” she said.

Sheila pulls out a soft-pack of Camels, flicks the bottom with her middle finger; two tan filters pop up. Tiresias takes one with her fingers, and Sheila lips the remaining butt from its perch. Feels around in her massive purse like a raccoon at the riverside. Lighter. Plastic, green. FFT. Tiresias juts her head forward, chin-first, and the cigarette is in the middle of her lips. PHWOO. Sheila brings the flame back, her head cocks to the side PHWOO and the two of them are smoking and drinking at dawn on a Wednesday.

“This is lovely.”

“Far better than real life. AAAAHahaha!”

They had meant to go to sleep, they really had. Tiresias was the Horror Host on KSOS, and she worked the late shift because Horror Hosts have to work the late shift. They can’t go on the air at, say, four in the afternoon; that is a very unspooky time of day. Midnight to three, that was the Late Movie on KSOS, and after dark none of the other channels came in all that good if you had rabbit ears–and most of Little Aleppo still did–so everyone tuned in to see Draculette make fun of whatever crap was on that night. Most folks aren’t up real late. Most folks obey their circadian rhythms, and capitalism, and get up early so they go to bed early, too. Can’t be more than ten percent of any given population that’s active at night. The damnable and the dancers went out, met up with each other, bounced, recoiled, ordered another round. The rest stayed in and watched teevee. Procrastinating writers, and deliberate drinkers, and couples on first dates afraid to make the first move; those that could not sleep and those who would not sleep; the overnight shifters at the fire station: everybody caught the Late Movie.

Last night’s flick was called The Girl With A Spider For A Face; in keeping with Late Movie tradition, the plot had nothing to do with the title: the film was about biker draculas who claimed to be from Transmissionvania. Tiresias had very little to work with, as most of the running time was taken up by stock footage of motorcyclists, and so she declared her portion of the show to be in 3D and kept chucking stuff at the camera until her wig fell off.

The Draculette dress–that wicked piece of emphatic fabric–took two to get on and off. There were secret laces in the back that shrank the waist and surged the boobery upwards, outwards, skywards. It was the Mark III costume. The first two had been retired, and then sold to a superfan who Tiresias was 80% sure was going to kidnap and kill her one day but paid in cash. The new model was a leap forward in both tensile strength and stink-wicking.

The first night Sheila brought it in, Tiresias rubbed the dress between her fingers and then against her cheek.

“What is this made of?”

“I dunno. Precarious got a roll of it from a guy he knows. It’s basically sex-kevlar. He said it could stop a bullet.”

“How about bad reviews? AAAAHahaha!”

First the wig caps, two of them to hold down her mop of lazy brown curls, and then the makeup from the hairline down the neck and all of the chest to bring her already-pale skin to deathly. The eyes were green and black, and not subtle; it was not a look for the farmer’s market. Lips redder than a Communist firetruck. Then the supportive undergarments, and next was the dress. This was a two-woman affair: stuffing, yanking, and squeezing were required. It was not unlike trying to put a turtleneck on a cranky ferret. Finally, the wig.

Sometimes, we choose costumes that reveal ourselves. Other times, a gig’s a gig.

At three AM, she signed off with her traditional closer.

“I’ll see you tomorrow night, boogers. Try not to die ’til then.”

Turning back into Tiresias was just as arduous: the wig was wet with sweat and stink, and the makeup took a dozen wipes and half-a-bottle of remover to get off, and the dress clung fast enough to necessitate several occasions of “one, two, three, puuuuuulllllll” from her and Sheila. It was a lot of effort to make a California girl spooky.

They lay there on the shitty carpet, Tiresias naked and Sheila in her leather pants.

“I have vodka.”

“Just one,” Sheila said, but she was not strong in her beliefs and so–four drinks, two joints, and several of Sheila’s pills later–the two women were at the Morning Tavern trying to talk themselves out of buying blow.

“We shouldn’t.”


“But let’s.”

“Okay. AAAAHahaha!”

They didn’t try very hard.

The Rejection fluttered on every wall, and from columns and even the ceiling. Letters passing on screenplays, and divorce papers, and eviction notices, and unopened envelopes stamped RETURN TO SENDER, and notes left silently on pillows. So many restraining orders. Denial of benefits, dishonorable discharges, and siblings’ speeches from interventions. Nothing succeeded like failure at the Morning Tavern.

“A month,” Tiresias said.

“A month!? You’re fucking crazy. I have a business. And you have a job.”

“They’ll show reruns and no one’ll notice. Bert can watch the shop.”

“I hate Los Angeles,” Sheila said.

“So does everyone who lives there. You’ll fit right in. AAAAHahaha!”

The music was too loud, which is how you know the Morning Tavern was a bar. The music is not loud enough in a lounge, and way too fucking loud in a club, but in a bar, the music is just the right amount too loud. It made you lean into conversations.

“I can’t go alone,” Tiresias said.

“I can’t go with you.”

“I don’t have anybody else.”

Sheila plucked a cigarette from the pack laying on the bar, didn’t offer Tiresias one, lit it FFT with a green plastic lighter and blew out PHWOO, rolled her eyes.

“Los Angeles sucks.”

“We’ll make it fun.”

“It happened again, Miss Valentine.”


The Reverend Busybody Tyndale was not comfortable in the Wayside Inn, and his terrible poker face extended to his whole body: his shoulders caved in when he entered, and his eyes peeked around nervously. He was a small man, and he made himself smaller.

“It happened again.”

“Why don’t you let me buy you a new suit? You look like shit.”

The Reverend’s sleeve was half-detached, and there were holes in the knees of his black pants. His boots were so scuffed that you couldn’t tell what color they were.

“Men from the camp. Miners. They came into the Pulaski village. Uninvited.”

“Maybe they were just being friendly.”

Canadian Bill chuckled, and so did Zeke and Possum. All of Miss Valentine’s guns were standing at the bar eating their breakfasts and drinking their coffees. Their clothes were worn, but clean. She insisted. All three were right-handed and wore their pistols on their right hips. Miss Valentine never wore a gunbelt, and only very rarely used a shotgun or revolver. She was good with her knife. Back in Tulsa, she had been Pammy and belonged to someone just like the girls taking their breakfasts in the back belonged to her now. Her mother had died and her father, a drunk, had sold her. She learned her first lesson the first day in bondage: it is better to own than to be owned. She learned her second lesson the night her face got carved up: be good with a knife. Miss Valentine learned her lessons well.

“They were not. It was only my intervention that prevented an irrevocable outcome.”

“Well, thank God for you, huh?”

“Miss Valentine.”

“Reverend Tyndale. Seriously, man, you need new boots. I’ll pay.”

“This can’t keep happening.”

“No, it can’t.”

“And you’ll do something about it?”


“There is a treaty.”

“I appreciate that.”

The Reverend smoothed down the front of his suit coat. There were no buttons left.

“God bless you, Miss Valentine.”


He walked out, pretending not to hear the guns laughing at him, and turned left–south–on the spruce planks that lined the side of the shit-river that was the Main Drag. Stepped over shit-caked drunks, and maneuvered through barrels of apples and boxes of nails, and danced through a fistfight, and edged by an opium fiend perched at an unsustainable angle. Then, the sidewalk ended and the Reverend was walking on grass again–south–past the lake and the harbor, and into the woods where the Pulaski used to patrol as their hunting grounds, and where they now lived.

“Can’t have that, either,” Miss Valentine said. Her guns said nothing. She sipped her coffee and thought about the future.

Her Name Is Teresa Williams


“No, Bob.”

“Are you one of the Heart sisters?”


“Those gals can rock just as, uh, hard as the fellows do.”

“I’m not in Heart, Bobby.”

“Are you Phil?”

“Just play guitar, Bob.”

Playing With A Band

I feel like we all forgot this happened.

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