|fig 12.) Without any judgement, it's just shit in the shape of a cock.|
The chambers and the swivel chairs above the street are all empty, He-Man's gone home for the night. The Masters-at-Arms are waiting with the old clowns and the other wig police down the way. The pills are bright, there's a few on the table. They're in a lumpy bag. The word, vote has been printed on the side of it in blue with four bright stars.
"Lumpy bag of polished toads is more like it," The Masters-at-Arms grumbles from his stool.
"That's what's passing for goodly wig to wig talk these days," I mutter along silently while breathing in and breathing out. "The city has no qualms watching us as we go about our tiny spider-business. Cast a wide enough net and they might even find one of them unicorns with an eyepatch or a deviant attorney, Serena Serena-Ha. Who knows what danger really lurks below the gunshots. What actually measures the distance between our paychecks and our pornography. As Cities go, this city likes to watch. It likes to patrol the streets at night with its bald toothed Mayor in hand. Quickly quickly's a must. That was my mistake."
"The shovel on the bar is a tool for between drinks," The suit that I'm wearing tonight is brown with frayed elbows and a bad split. There's a quiet knock and then another quick one. "Wait here."
The door opens and a head creeps in. "Let's keep the balance in our shed shall we," The old slump-tinker reaches round for his broom on the wall. "I do like it in the shed," He says before leaving again.
"The last gas station on the left is where you'll turn than."
"Turn left," I ask?
"No, turn at the gas station," The Masters-at Arms comes back from the door. "But you have to remember that the shovel on the bar is a tool. It can either help you or hurt you but it can't do both."
The hole I've been digging is getting noticeably deeper. It seemed to be only casual and ankle deep for the longest time. Now I'm in it up to my waist. I can make out gum under many of the nearby barstools. My hands are bloody from the work.
"It's not about grandfathers at all, not even about genetics," He sits and puts his hammer on the bar beside the shovel. Let's-Call-Him-Carl, That's Carl, like the Beach Boy Carl. He pours himself a long wet line of brown bourbon. "I've never known why. You start talking about grandfathers like they're the tax code things seem to get more important. The sound bigger and more full. But then that's not really my job. No matter how late it gets, it's never late enough to be my job. That never changes. It never gets old."