The Tanks Have Been Cleared For the Stroboscopic Kneebrace
“What kind
of tanks are we talking about?” Mrs. Barasco, a pianistically trained
classicist, required clarification as she installed a brass cap on Guilt Boy’s
stomach.
“Calm
yourself,” the sage Murphren urged from his seat by the coat rack, from whence
he oversaw the installation. “These
aren’t the motorized armored guns that the army uses to knock down old ladies’
houses.”
Guilt Boy
nervously nibbled on a bag of greasy Indian snacks. Flickering forms filled his mind like fishes
filing into a fungal folder, for Finland farts forever.
.
