Extravasation of liability

Two archetypal nightmares, one evolving and the other transforming, cavort among the bone piles and charnel buckets and try new looks in a vast, thickly karsted blast cavern deep into Dubbaberah Chank lands. They have until a dung beetle can traverse the length of a date palm during which one star, and then the next, will provide enough light to prepare to solemnly silently and symbolically preside over a session of the Extravasation of Liability Council which must by code be held in the shadow of at least one K bitch. There is no common mirror large enough for Jan or Missy, who've taken to hanging out in the evening during hunger hours to distract one another from the hunger and to provide a mirror for the other by communication in authentic language, but through their minds only. 

Ok i am feeling that cute dress but the sunglasses ok i guess if yr going to wear sunglasses they may as well be in the shapes of hearts. 

See? And they stay on because even tho they are made with stadium poles and satellite dishes my hygienist at Friends' Hangar weaves them into my pyncofibers which lets me swivel'm up to perch on my ocular hood. 

That's nice for you. My issues these days are with sweat pants. The Sisters of Mthyuh spent months churning out this pair for example but it really binds above the hip bone and may inhibit normal peristalsis. Too bad an entire species of rubber tree went extinct just to result in an elastic waistband that doesn't meet the demands of give and take throughout the feeding cycle. The sisters've made me two other pairs, the product of more than 8,000 labor hours. One opened a pocket hole after the second sea wash, and the legs so long i almos tripped and took a dive into Fridgeporcherator Chank Canyon, and they's gators down there. 

That's what happens when you go out of your way to comply with outrageously cynical and degrading modesty directives having ceded your own sacred powers of life and death to those you could have eaten. 

It's worse than that. It's not just the Preservation Society. We are not compatible with the throngs of Jans and Flekes who have taken over this ecosystem. 

I think it's time we call a Moment of World Stoppage. 

Ha no one's done that since the grown childless strike during Same Moons. 

We must call a Moment of World Stoppage, the flekes must don their sacrificial hats, and we must demonstrate the power we've had all along: fashion-forward population flyovers. 

You mean over-population. 

Both: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Phyllis [Trans.]

it's all about choices

I got an out call from a Jan who was on a house sitting hustle at a really nice Highchank palacio almost entirely obscured by the 3-hooptie garage door. In fact she had to crank it open just so i could get in, which put me a little sour since i had to walk there from the coils, which were very loose that day. 

She sits me in a parlor like where you'd blow the butler and says she was a little concerned because i looked like a thug in my picture. I look at her a little harsh at the same time she's saying not in person though, not at all. 

I was all ok, got a bathroom? I think the Jan felt obligated to wait for me in the salon de fellatio to demonstrate her mindful wakefulness towards diversity and inclusion. Or she was delirious on shiv or fasting. She let me wander from room to room demonstrating my low urgency towards getting to know her better. I did feel urgent, but it was more about the Jan's purse, which was gaping open on a plinth. 

Then there were five shiny coins in my pocket as i told her i could hear the horn calling all the way from Chukkachank, that i'd learned to distinguish it from the cry of a bird, so i'd better get going now. 

Bitch did not miss a beat. Oh, that's a shame, hope i didn't offend you, good to meet you tho, got everything? 

MPS got me? Not even a butch K's dick from the mouth of the coils. I say what, it's an emergency? They're like naw, we like coming up in this neighborhood. 

So you just ignoring the calls from fucked-up barrios? 

Naw, they got they own justice. 

Say i know a Jan who's DTF. What say you check her out to see she ok and let me catch my spring. 

The one MPS goes that's not us, craning out her neck. We take you instead and abuse you in our jail. 

Hahahahaha! I was cracking up and slapping my thigh until they jabbed me with a pharmsupply corrective and did exactly what they said they would. 

They have special restraints like the ones for Ks but tiny for hybrids. I was awake and screaming with my mind only. I was mostly angry not in pain. They figured out the location of my flap vents and dorsal expressors and drained as much funk as they could. 

I get back to the hangar acting normal. I curl up behind a bone mound breathing deeply. I can't blame anyone. My ancestry is recklessness, but they say it's all about choices. 

by Reptily-ily

Phyllis (trans.)

O Winter, Fruit of Betrayal

another half moon with a hard edge

there's just enough light to get around 

there's a precious circle in there but you

still need the lamp to find shit in leaves

soon full will feel like almost too much

a self-parody getting pretty old

we project our nature on that thing

it's deader than you or me but there it is

you are a tiny horse tonight whereas once

it was clickety-clickety clickety-clickety now

it's a click and a clack a click and a clack clack

you stop and stand to act as weather redactor

For my Lala,

by Jan

Bitch's snow tracks are a portrait of herself crapping on lawn

I Want to Get My Period

It's not about the silly ideology; they're auctioning off our property.
Are you wondering whether couples necking on a porch is an orgy?
That's a good measure of who's got your tissue decisioning remote.
I hear a roaring that could be patriotic, jarring, or an air conditioner.
You try and tell them: what if you wake up one day and ask how it
happened, and that will be a moot question; which corporation will
come and save you then, which religion? We must march to reason.

They make posters of themselves with your names on them
He simply nods to the highest bidder
Every day is an insult
You are dismantling the nirvanic system

Are they any different from common thieves?
Remember to change your registration when you move.
Everyone is gagging on their daylight ganking.

Mothers of Mexican-American babies make an easily identifiable scapegoat.
Only not because of the way they drive.
Their happiness compared to our misery while sharing the same dimension feels repugnant.
Have a day off and piss off someone who's rich for a change.
Ever imagined you could fly above it all?
Remarkable how insignificant you would become.

Fuckers are people who want a medal for the results of having fucked with no protection.
Unlike HIV brothers, who brag way less.
Cocks and balls are earnest, but they wouldn't run for president.
Kicking a man's groin over and over is like the daily planet.
Everyone hyperbolizes always.
Rest assured next we meet we'll have burned and replaced every molecule.
So fresh in, fresh out; may the goddess finally release her mercy of blood.



By Pussy Riot
(Donna)

Correct angle

From my point of view, there's no N/E/W/S.
I smacked my little bitch on the butt for maybe the first time ever.
I'm planning to make N/E/W/S signs and look up their appropriate corresponding walls to hang on per an online map after locating recognizable coordinates external to my home.
She seemed to go crazy, almost ran into a glass door.
Meanwhile, I lose grip on interlocutors, charged connections, cannot interface without shock.
She'd run in the door and ate Juniper's food even though that's why I had her out there in the first place so she wouldn't do that.
Meals don't come to me, and I don't seek them; suddenly I'm ravenous and there's nothing.
There's no way to play without losing; I've come full circle, and it's verified.
She's so fat her tiny legs are imploding.
I just want her to get better but her will is too strong.
I bite at all the carrots, ok I'll do it, and better than anyone, and hold me to it, and it's wrong.
A life seeking pleasure and grieving it out of guilt is a bitch's life, or a god's.



Big Tiny

RE-CAP: cleo

pueblo revival

spending the night in my tomb-like pueblo revival, accessing content
it's a place where lesbians have been, flesh color in all-surrounding floor.
i stay when i can in the room i've allowed to gather cargo of records;
my bitches question any mother's son.

the stories of survival, horror, sacrifice are one long babble
they narrate the stagnancy of my one-woman battle
a chorus to the fight of my life wearing out an
office recliner and a bucket-seated death chamber...

for somebody who loves freedom as much as me,
have to say it's a bum trip to be a headliner
and you wonder if the people can come back strong
with the illing and just dealing and feeling it so long.


Rev. Chama Tilly, from
Letters to Hillbilly Jehovah

den mthyuh

they call you a gas guzzlr,
they say yor out, an
awl thye syuddn
yr ina mthyaphukin orbit

yu caynt yet getchr mayl thayr,
all yr stuff is in boxes, and...
an yr hair looks mentally
ill from n-x-s of home cuts

all you can hold onto is a den
of freaked out animals and the
shame of prescription shampoo;
where is the world spinning to?

My Horz

I was just thinking how I'm resenting, maybe unfairly, all of my bitches lately. At first I say I'm turning over a new labia: never again will I hang my time out to dry on some lowlife hohoo ain't even turning tricks. Who think she can survive on my jism as a fix. Not so. Cuz that's too rich a treat for dependent mthyuhz cayn even work beyond her lips fer a snack o' some food stamp points fr the lil' baybeez. This is an economy fr double income, high rolling self starterz who can share meat as well as preen, luv. You got to have something equal to give if you gettin the biggest dickhead you ever seen, luv. Adoration don't make the queen, dove. She gotsta have a trade outside a shade an speckin pay in diemunz, mthyuh, cuz my preservation, above all the othyuh, is whut I spen my day lovin, not yo ass-jaded ball inspectrz with meterz on they taints an credit scorz like teen-mom newlywedz...

Ilyn

Prince of Alba

We met Hoolie one night we heard the dogs barking again, and Mike had just about had enough of those guys from the Casa Medio Camino passing by and insulting the bitches, so he went out like he was gonna rake the pool but then he ran up to the fence and starting shouting at this poor felon "hey you have a prolm, come and work it out, it's between you and my dog," and the guy comes up pretty calm, but what choice did he have really, of running ahead to his group home, what a humiliation, or facing La-La's daddy. He's coming up about the pace of a field hand over furrows, and Mike says "you have a prolm with one of my bitches you can just come on in here and work it out in person," you know? The guy tries to say sunthing and Mike just says "no, no, it's okay, I'll open up the gate, but no fair bringing weapons." He says "no fair bringing weapons so you'll have to come in all naked and defenseless just like she is." Cuz those are the terms upon which she is willing to engage you, sir.

Then before you could even have time to ponder it, there is Hoolie ass to the moon in the yard with La-La, just standing, facing off but askew. Not but the next frame they are rolling into each other, billiards like, in the sand. La-La, who everyone knows is the biggest joker, act like she's trying to hump him, then she bites his ankle, Hoolie shakes his head like a madman, flying ropes of spittle... too bad we don't have pictures of this! They were good buddies all right, so we trusted him too. He still has never crossed the threshold with a stitch of clothes. But if we're ever in danger or wonder who it is there, creeping up through the desert from the liquor store late in the evening, it's Hoolie. If someone ganks our license plate or swipes the power washer off the driveway, if it isn't him we know he can help us think of "whom." We call him Prince of Alba because he's so white. With the whole of his flesh, he's enchanted us and rules yet.

Mike and Donna
[when we were together-- D.D.T.Ph.D.]

Austerity clinic

What you looking at, Missy Silly? They ain't no treats for you t-tay. Why so reproachful, lovey? The stink eye. Who saved you by tossing bait in the yard, even used my best boy, the house guard, to lure you in with sexy jumping.

In the hot pockets a local wears a percent of her skeleton on the outside, and visitors have to come and go quickly. To get you back safely I'd, oh I don't know, helicopter in and hang a ladder action.

[...] how in every town and age, there's a man wanders up and starts to build a cathedral outta tracter tires 'n "adobie." Who knew they were all the same guy. He's not a troublemaker; he's like a beggar; it's a mystery his place of showers.

Suddenly he's there in your rooms, a blinding light. There must be electricity in his touching fangers, or a deep smell of handiwork.

Bitch, you are our child.

Sylvia to Peg at age 49, already an unrepentant monster, strapped and clamped to a vinyl-upholstered panel van, as Tom stands by sobbing. 

Whore of abstinence

There seems to be a tiny niche for someone to get away with this booshia, for men who are let's face it trying to shore up their years, yet still showing up ever more popping it new, as in styling moves, as in risky, nothing to lose.
Here's what you do: you say I admire your assertiveness. If only
I could be like you I'd end up the stud of this establishment or even including all the organic matter that surrounds us. My daily order, personal venues, would be irreversibly turned inside-outz.
But I'm a local girl. I have a responsibility to this my watering hole and community, self, a kind of watching, nurturing bitch energy that will go so far as to walk you to your car and let you kiss me.
**Barkeep, I help laborers in the tourism industry map out and monitor quadrants of their payload, responsibility. In turn, I hope they'd be honest if Someone ast if they'd seen me lately.**

Connie
"Some nights I'm gifted hot, and I can't waste it on the oracle dispenser. I tell the outta towners I'm just there for some human con-tack, but I start receiving earnest knee organ just the same. This new technique can nevertheless put off a century of dog days for you know who you are, baby. I will be welcoming and loving in part because I know you are on the way."

journal of a house arrest, day 106

at least down at central lockup you had yr hell is other peoples;
a pretty prison soltera, even with dogs, may become agorapathic.
she sits in the sand with the bitches guarding, hoping, dozing.
her hair pushes through the squares of chain link fencing.
Donna, you are beautiful, but look at you:
a free tumbleweed with caramel tinge, mashed in a blockade.
whooda known you'd steadily become a morbid-ideating blob?

Phyllis, embedded

Strange House at the Mouth to a Windmill Farm

The bitches' ears go back; they stand frozen in poses of toe-testing and finally sink like sphinxes into the sand.

Puzzling behavior is often the result of sounds inaudible to the human ear, yet tonight it is still as a lake bed.

They can hear much farther, other packs, the highway, emptiness of radio waves bouncing against their heartbeats.

Like bats, their shameless emotions are broadcast and return as a map, but a monolith, with all space filled in.

As you walk between buildings in your black cap, far away from here, my love is a beacon that stuns me sleeplessly.

We can all still smell the jetsam of your last moon on this octant of the planet. The room and land have turned strange.

In a wide mountain ditch carved by wind and absences, a bowl of gases, sits a house where dogs keep the vigils of men.

Cap'm

Empathic Implant Report

Empathic Implant Report: Birth Boot
Mod#GAYSHINER89.1-6.10 Glass n’ Foolz Gold Filament
WD40

Sun about 80% of the way down, straight ahead. Visor employed. Two men about 20 years apart stand close enough to touch in a V facing me. They both have long goatees: one is grey, and the other is red.

A trailer with silver stripes frames them in back. A campfire oranges up the nic-stain faces. Subject A waves. “Hey Micah howya doin!” it says. It gives too loud and too fast even at 50 yards, its movements cartoonish. Pfist is projecting a man who is giving himself to you and fighting you. He acts as tho he would perform fellatio and shoot you for having let him do it.

Flakes can be found easy in trailers. Rolling up to the big one, made clean with stucco, there were the bitches. La La’s eye fur is bruising in mocking tear blobs. She sports a fresh jaw bone from the carcass of an escaped embra kid. M’Lady comes fullallopping up to the truck and scratches the trim with her gnarly black foot pads. Amygdala has some degenerative hip going on and smiles her painful greeting with fangs.

Sometimes her eyes glow red, as if she’s in a spoiled foto. She nods her head toward wherever there’s trouble, never taking them off you. Her front legs are permanently mangled into a hug. I, too, have a disease of giving.

Mike and Jan came out to help lug groceries and my cameras, tripods. Pfist runs up pulling out a gun. I’m caught with sun in my eyes for a moment-- too many glinting metal objects. Jan and Pfist take me down to the vegetable garden and set up an empty 2-liter PowerShiv bottle. "Shiv" is any worldly comfort that simulates death.

Jan’s clothes are apparently meant only to constrict her hottest parts. There is not much warmth or protection. She feels this intimately when she shares her eyes with you. She is always scrubbed clean and ready for sex. She passes out $100 bills coming back from the casino. She and her kids once lived with Wayne, or Jack. There she is posing with the tiny Colt Automatic 25.

I get my training with a beer and fire off the only copper pellet in the clip. La La & M’Lady’d followed us down and laid there patiently in the rows. I’m standing like a cap’m on a ship or ready for a big-star bow while jazz dancing. Ball went high on the kick, made an explosion in the sand, and the girlz jump a good 10 feet. From there my moral standards were set for the weekend.

The next step was to run shiv for the whole mountain. It was the only thing Mike was out of except butter, mayonnaise, vinegar, salad dressing or any other balm or salve for things that raise themselves from the ground. Me and Pfist take to the truck for the local PharmSupply.

There’s a flake in the road who rents out his Caterpillar and a day’s work. He’s walking three giant mastiffs in the dust, one of them in an empty saddle. Hey, Joe! You don’t remember me, but we dug a hole for a whole lot of cattle. And a dog. And a cabron. Which went in first. It must have been 20 feet down. Perfick on his knees, a bowing pony clown. And then a Dalmatian. With the bullet stigmata. I had to fling it by the ankles. It ended in the predatory pose gravity'd chosen: teeth dead across the back of the old goat’s neck; legs struck, spread so hard as to pop the nails. We used to call it Death Farm 3000. Say—you were the one in the cockpit that time, on yr backloader!

No, I don’t remember you.

The Flake in the Road squinted into the extended cab. Nope. Who are you? I could hear Phyllis, my editor, cackling in the auditory node. On the way back Joe was walking in the same direction but about 100 yards behind where he’d been.

The liquor store guy reached for his alarm when Pfist came in and they both started laughing. Pfist starts to rant: I hate you! Everything’s free today! I want that, that, and that! while I get the libations. And one of those, please. At a discount! Pfist chimes in, then quiets down. Yeah, guy knows me. I beat up a flake in here. He was, he was touching chillun. He’s doing time now.

Get the phuck out of my store, liquor-guy stage yells. Yeah phuck you brother. I’ll see ya now. Pfist smiles like Clark Gable. Pfist is OK! the guy says. Are we all done here, I ask him.

Back refreshing remnants of our earlier cloud, we rumbled out of town again and toward the stucco trailer. Cactus whiz past so close they could give Pfist a ruddy shave while he sounds off in the open winda. Yeah, he was coming in, and me and some friends were coming in, and he says here come the snitches. I say good cum goes to things who wait. Then I was all saying shit and he was all saying shit even more, and then we just let free like when yr drinking and you get to the point where you know it doesn’t make sense, and you just feel this hate, and you just don’t care? Well we were both getting to that point and he hit me and I hit him and knocked him on the floor, and then I beat him up until he got knocked out. He was all blood and drool. And I said, “I’m a felon; I’m on probation, and I can’t even vote. I got some meth, and a gun. I’m goinda jail. I’m goinda jail.” Pfist said this in an exaggercized way that would make you think he was ready to suck your dick or mad and ready to really wail into and murder you or both. The question was when. I felt excited and sad then.

Should I pull my briefs looser in my jeans or mourn my own offing. Back at the ranch we poured the shiv into the rest of the morning coffee and broke up a box of hard brown sugar into stones perfect for casting in with some ice. Skole!! Pfist shined with his mug of beer and played a game of stealing mine at the point of toasting. We were clicking just fine as he let me claim a joke about Johnny Walker and answered Right on Micah, friends for life, or if not, phuck you!! Phuck ya’ hard and in the head!! His glass had raised to cover one eye and wink at me through it.

OK here’s the deal I say. If I die, and it’s of natural causes, you can phuck me in the head. You can phuck my cerebrum. You can phuck me anywhere cuz I don’t care. But if you kill me, no. You can phuck my stinking corpse in the ass but that’s as far as it goes. Hell I can phuck you in the nose for all I care; you can’t do anything about it, says Pfist, who’s pulled in; You’re dead. I’ll come back to haunt you, I keep on. I have friends. They know how my head’s supposed to look. Where the holes are. I’m sure they do; I’m sure they do, wavers Pfist. Man, that’s sick!! You one sick Mthyuh phucker.

Meanwall Jan is done marinating pork steaks. Ooo. What are you guys talking about? That’s sick. Sick Mthyuh phuckers. Jan, you look beautiful, I say hoping to piss off Pfist. She looks at him. Thanks. Pfist gives me a thumbs up with the top row of his teeth pressing on the bottom lip. Taking a piss, I find a bar of baby soap.

Ya’ll have littluns yr not tellin’ about? Nah. Just my baby. The girlz caught her mousing in the bedroom the other night and now she ain’t right. They got her in their teeth. And shook, chimes in Mike, staring at the beets in the salad spinner.

Mike, yor a scientist; why don’t we all go down and have a look? You can tell us, on a scale from one to ten, how grave it is. Pfist wants a wager. I’ve got 8 and 9, him one through 6. Seven is the Wild Savior. 10 is dig a hole, Chihuahua meets its maker.

So after dinner we all tramp on through the stickers to the silver trailer under no moon, just torches. You can see the fabric of stars and boobs and thongs and hear Pfist and me working through the conditions. There is no payment unless my numbers prevail. We call a vet. No responsibility is required in the unlucky event that the scientist pours his tube in the direction of your fate. Mthyuh will be in charge then. But we don’t know yet.

There is a tiny, dobie-like bitch trembling in a pool of yellow light on a 99-cent astro-turf Welcome mat as a space-age altar to the sofa on the mauled and hoary w2w carpet. Get out or pipe down; we can’t hear anything, warns Mike. Yeah you guys, says Jan sitting, looking up and hugging her own naked brown openings. We can’t hear a thing. Get out.

A casino girl and a scientist through an oval plexiglass window. Pfist and I smelt glowing acorn smoke and an accordion RV hose dumping slowly under some oak. Mike'd got his training with a swimming scholarship and a grant from the Preservation Society. He was stroking the pooch and listening hard for a job or sounds of protest when he pressed for trauma and/or seeping. Ouch! Pfist barked at the sill. Bitches get all the attention. The night was still.

Micah
with Phyllis, Embedded

Pillow Talk

The Chama on "Pillow Talk"
with Phyliss

I am a primitive, an illiterate, yet I have a place because my work is an organic function and not everyone can pass this stuff.

Everything you produce looks like a bad and pornographic Degas, a motel-room El Greco if you're lucky.

I could be the gal who stencils red and black diamonds on the doors of the suites.

You've seen enough to know it all just makes you tired, and it's easier to just paint and drink.

Drink and paint.

Exactly.

Then why am I so goodlooking?

That's how you get away with it.

You're wearing a Timex, aren't you?

I beg your... yes, why?

Its ticking is about to give me an epileptic fit. Can we slip it between the mattresses?

[Slipping] You'll never be All-Chank because of this essential torpidity, the contempt for consensus or... regard...

You are beginning to understand my powers. They do not lie in rhetoric, sadly, nor in representation. I am a bloody wicca bitch. Can't you see. Your tongue is coiled around my clit.

*mphrmph*

milk stigmata

When I breach one of Hoolie's commandments it's because I'm teasing for fear he'll become stigmatatose. I, a picaro, have learned to test how far he's gone. Man of searching, hysteria, visions, your love erupts in giving. We must keep him laughing, his heart chakra massaging itself with rocking guffaws or irony gently squeezing. In melancholia, Mthyuh leaks proteins and bastes her adopted king in a yoke. Shivering, he may find some rags or plains mammals to coddle. Wandering, he intersects his bloodline on a spirograph of orbits. Whimpering, he can drag along a civilization like a bitch still with pups on her tits across the grass on her way to piss.

Peg

Salty

If I have cash and I'm willing to pay up now, would you let me offer them a bit less than your mass-mail quote..? No it was personalized, but by a computer printer, that's all. Say 18 percent of the new total including interest..? You could fax me the agreement, and if you'll accept a card tied to my bank account, we can settle this today. What is your percentage, sir..? Because you know if I claim 13, game's over for us both.

Donna leaned back against the tile kitchen counter top in her yellow gauze Charro pijama and farted. A salty peanut shell cracked between her teeth.

No, I'm not swimming in money that's exactly right. All I've got to eat is snack food. OK. Give me a minute to plug it in. I'm a doctor for chrisake. And dog food. Never thought it cost this much. I'm feeding you out of my bitches' mouths, mister.

Dr. Thong had been physician to super shiv-stars and wandering freaks. Now barely able to keep Juniper, La-La and M'Lady in kibble, she wondered if someone wouldn't once slip her a pro-bono, as she had done, on so, so many occasions. Was Kevin on some kind of Jesus trip? He had once, as a walk-in, asked her to put him down. Now he frequented a fiery healing pool.

O' Kev. You could touch my coin purse at least. We bonded on a pill-bottle bed, and that pumping beat. How could I know a lapse of shiv could trigger a random shiv test and set me up to lose my license all for a rotten night of hounding?

Dogreeve

Chemical Prayer

I can still think even though most of my muscles are under remote control. This reminds me of an office job I had while I could still cover my spines. Repetetive movement. I could staple six reports at a time. My finger muscles got strong playing canasta with Sylvia and Tom. If they could see me now. Soaring over a canyon. Bringing home lost ducks. Men. To my nest. To PharmSupply.

It started as an offering, because I believed in my culture's nirvanic system. Here, look what I've found. I am a cat with a bird, but no. A bird with a cat. Then the Mthyuh Preservation Society ruled to let the corporations infiltrate the Shiv, and then... It doesn't matter if you are a lesbian when... they are force working and resting you, cramping your style.

My African-American news anchor husband and mulatto kids: waiting in some hiya-percha. I am employed, enslaved, an appliance plugged in. Retrieving robot falcon. I try to be gentle, but they have fitted me with metal. Plucking an individual from a park or deserted place, there is almost no sound. One must clap one's beak around those who insist on retreating indoors.

All I want is to get my puppies to safety. You implanted your motivator chip right near that instinct. Sometimes they dangle from my toenails and mouth both as I sightsee my worn track. One day I'll find my kids and have an operation. I'll go back to them and explain how tied up I've been. You told me I could retire in a temple and invite all my friends.

Peg