The name Doc Severinsen has entered my conscious mind for the first time in years, probably. What to do with it now I don't have a fucking clue. It sticks to the roof of my mouth like a pair of tights found floating in my neighbor's hot tub in mid-July. I remember that night—luckily I've forgotten it now. Makes you question the whole response team, really. Like, isn't that enough? To have given it a few seconds before tapping the wino on the shoulder and then stalking him through the night you left forever? You said it, not me, but that's all in the past, or wants to be. Not even lettuce can make up for the buoyant crap you expect me to reiterate till dawn, my pants doing double duty as Soviet-style air fresheners. I mean where do they get off, the bus? Its leathery clientele always jump to conclusions about the state of the world, not to mention the unused PlayStation under the air hockey table. Which one, though? Why refer to yourself in the first person unless you can't back it up with cold hard facts, a piece of what? Astronaut ice cream? Spare me. No, I'm not kidding. It's essential to our growing bodies that we filter every last drop of culture out of the atmosphere before stepping foot into the grand lobby, i.e. somebody else's idea of a modern airship hangar. It was supposed to have been built for the baron himself to keep his boots in, rows of them stretching like corn into the distance, out past the vending machines, past the pissed-off constable, past the lake of fire I used to like before it got all touristy.