THE TITALODGE.

Once upon a time, there was Peace.

There were good times and randily-drunk brews.

There was...Nothing.

The Nothing has returned.

There was a "goodboy" and there was Silence.

The Nothing has returned.

[cue V. Price, cackling]

Have you ever heard the phrase, "Between a rock and a hard place"?

Me either.

I'd like to be a rock, but I am just a frail human man, warts and all.

There *is* no game. Everything is as serious as a heart attack.

I have Faih, but my Faith is splintered.

I love God and I know he loves me...for whatever reason.

[If the sheriff tells you to jump, you jump; he holds the cards.]

Then again, if God looks at me, he'll see my good. Do ya know?

Have you ever heard of the "tortured artist"?

***

My gun snucked him clearly in his left temple. It--the gun--is a .45, a big gun. He died. His name was James Oliver. The left side of his skull was dented, in a way. Someone else did it to him. I'd not had the power.

***

Someone had stolen my gun.

***

My gun? The death weapon? It'd been stolen.

***

thru feudal fielded flecks we froom.... anger is at no premium; i hate it; it sucks. there is a jank-o-lantern. see it Fire! i rest. thru feudal frocks...we hide.

***

I asked him straight-out: you take my gun?

***

"Who died?"

I said, "Jummy? James Oliver? He died."

"Jummy was a piece of shit." Allen stretched out his six-six frame. He lit a Pall Mall. He cleared his throat. He made it known, non-verbally, that he has no idea of Jummy's demise. Al sent mucus flying.

"Al," said I, "I do believe you're full of shit. The party was done. man! Only you knew where my gun was!"