Good cop/bad cop for horny hypochondriacs.

Sorry this is late! I was rendered incapable of following through with my winner-choosing responsibility due to a severe case of priapism somewhere midweek of last. Therefore, I enlisted the help of my wonderful neighbor, Brother Jim Wimley, to make the choices for me. The only book he’s ever read is the Bible, but I’m sure you’ll be delighted by his insight.

Guard’s log__13 January, 2007__00:55

Arrived in mini-sub 3 hours ago. Relieved Sergeant Philmore. Slow season. Only two prisoners. One male, one female. Think I am ready for some real alone time down here. As long as Doc leaves me alone. Should be fairly routine.

Guard’s log__15 January, 2007__06:03

Both prisoners appear to be in good health and relatively calm. #34178654 is actually quite charming. She maintains eye contact. While #53882314 has that million mile stare whenever I feed him his plankton rations.

Heaven can come and take the rape to the pillar. It wants to fire songs and waltzes of water to advertise the death of my civility. Canons contain nothing that explains the fruit of my labor.

Recalling the fourth or fifth drunken dalliance, I perceived that I was smarter or classier than her. She, of the broken mouth and lazy finger, closed in on me. She, of the perpetual stupor and filigree thinking, contained something that I once claimed was gold. I was golden. I was simmering. And I swear that in the few silent, hazy desert drives we shared,  she could contain a tsunami.

Mr. Alec Churm felt up the girl behind the winter coats. A glancing flicker up her thigh, and then he reached in and grabbed her spine.

He was bearded and gray, she was perhaps 13. His mouth held terrible toads of lies and his hands warped light and festered with pustules of volcanic ash. Jesus dangled sheepishly beneath his neck.

She could not pull away. The winter coats reached out for her, their various furry and woolly arms beckoning. She fell back, screaming rainbows of light in her head, the smell of burning toast. The winter coats continued their effort to catch her.

When the river changes course we should set our sights on the banks.

We should unpack and set up and light fires. This is what we should do. We should light fires and gather wood. We should gather wood. Keep the fires going.

“I have a thing for the dainty ones. The lonely few with tiny, translucent leaves.”

You seem a bit confused. Do I need to explain it to you again?

No. I get it. I know what you are about. Take that tusk and take the pelt. You have no need of anything else.

I will take what is mine and what I want. I am capable of determining what exactly I need. Just like you needed that unrelentingly shrill creature.

The doorman would not control the building. Could not control it, if he wanted to.

The doorman would not control Madame Desmond. Nor would he control her outrage over the unsurprising dearth of personal mail. On the pale side of solitude, the doorman would dream about eating crackers out of a tin and sitting on an emerald cliff with wind and gulls and undiluted melancholy.

There is no hope in this black-bottomed boat.

The sea skids are out in number tonight. Twitching apparitions wrenching steel from stone, girth from man-labor, and child from sink-or-swim. Tummy troubles abound in this western satellite nation. Little tremors confuse with liquid protein, oozing from every pore.

I am not the commonplace inquisitor you thought was coming.

They told you they would send the Tall One. They have no belief system. This is why they sent me.

I sense some hostility towards me and that is okay. I am alright with that.