Tree Surgeons in Detroit (28-30 salts)

The set of circumstances could not have been predicted by any ordinary methods. This was disgusting. This was demoralizing. This lacked happiness. Mike Stevenson, affectionately known as "Doobie Dan," wore his usual dark aviator sunglasses and mustache, both items effectively hiding any emotion he might be having. Terrence McCreedy, sitting in the back seat and reading Time magazine, was glancing up more often than usual and had a nervous trickle of sweat in his nose crease. The driver, Brandle Christmas, was close to the steering wheel, and gesturing towards some cookies in the console.

"This is just like Jacob's Ladder." Said Mike. He referred to this movie often, and many times had said that it was about him, that all of that shit happened to him in 'Nam, and that the demons were after him.

"Who the fuck are you guys?" He asked suddenly while leaning against the window, ready to blast everyone if needed.

"Just take it easy Mike, we'll get there soon." Brandle said with a mouthful of not so fresh cookies.

Where they were going none of them knew. When the church bell tolls, wherever and however, they knew they'd be there. That was what they were told. What they actually found was that very few trees existed in the modern Detroit, and the few that did would be too dangerous to service. It had been said, in the Time magazine that Terrence was reading, that 98% of all outdoor service workers in the city had been robbed of all of there equipment at least once in the past year. This statistic made Mike nervous and he drank warm whiskey.

"Dammit Mike, that's exactly the kind of shit that gets you fucked up here." Brandle scolded and Terrence nodded his head.

"I'm supposed to take your advice? A Commie robot with an optional chainsaw attachment? Optical sensor waiting to sense my presence and obsessively circle my head?"

Indeed, that was the case. Brindle was a robot purchased from the former Soviet satellite nation of Georgia, used initially for plutonium transport and implementation. He was later sold and released into the general public. Ever since being released, he'd suffered from a philosophical paralysis - an unexpected consequence of android technology. He thought too much and never could attain his rated production capacity.

Of course now, their differences aside, the three of them had to find a way to survive Detroit. The sun was setting and their items included only the standard tree pruning equipment. They were driving deeper into the city and might very likely have to stay at a Travel Lodge, by reputation the most dangerous of motels. They didn't know where they were and all they wanted to find was a grove of trees away from the rusting decay. Just then, Mike pointed out an actual pile of rusting decay and several men pillaging it. They felt their hopes dwindle.

My extended thoughts to you (my piano recital fuck-ups)

Now is the time to do, not think. I fucked up my piano recital good this time, and the only truth to be found is this: I fucked up my piano recital. It didn't go well from the beginning with "Dream of the Forgotten Child." The topic just really ate at me, and I was disallowed from performing. The child was forgotten, but apparently the only thing anybody did about it was write a god damned song. Too late now.

My next piece was (apparently) something I came up with off the top of my head. I called it, "The Sorrow of St. Elsewhere." It was not a hit. It also wasn't even close to the theme song from the TV show with the same name, although in my head I had all of the intentions to make it just that. I've been thinking about that show a lot, the thematic content and what it means to me, the character flaws, etc. Bottom line: I fucked that one up.

Lastly, I was told to discontinue by Ms. Jenkins, but I instead opted to play my ass right off to the Peanuts theme, a wildly popular and beloved song. I cracked a big smile and went right on with my crowd-pleasing. I was subsequently suddenly attacked by a massive heart pain and fell asleep. A physiological failure it seems. In total, everything was fucked up. I'll write you from Toledo.

Neon crosses and nightstick kisses

The raspy-voiced priest cleared his throat for what always seems like the last time. He marked pages 34-57 where his most beloved verses were held. On the other side of town, the racist beehive known as the Mormon Church was chanting diligently against the priest. They employed the dark-field method.

"And now, a reading: blessed art thou who walk the night alone. Blessed art thou who possess the underlying love and strength. Blessed art thou who shows no weakness in the face of the unholy. May the presence of the sacred heart be bestowed upon your cross. Blessed be to him."

Response: blessed be to him.

The lights dim. The smell of hot wax emanates. The spicy rhythm of the holy heart warps the air. The neon light appears at full mast. The electrons pump through the cloud of cheap gas and cause a physical excitation that turns to religious fervor.

Outside the church, the January air lies still and lifeless. It gives as little life as possible, but devours everything. James Grids stands and leans against his Buick. He feels guilty and then he smashes up some sleeping pills and jams them through the open window and into the mouth of his already idle passenger, Maria St. Roberts. Phil Collins' "In the Air Tonight" is heard through the crack. It seems appropriate to James. He waits.