Angular knit buddhas stare carelessly at me through the reflection of my late wife, Jane, in the kind of window/door to my upper left, all the while reminding themselves that yes, Wednesday is archery testing day, and that fresh new bows must, must be found. I find myself reciting phone numbers to my aunt a week later while police scour the extensive grounds for clues to shed light on the as-yet-unexplained murder of Mrs. Edgely, finding nothing but the curious track of m&m's I left in the back yard which leads to the tiny bridge over the water which bubbles in anger and indignation even as we speak, carbon dioxide not swirling above the pond but being sucked in, swallowed by the endless whirlpool in the center. A treefrog drips from the ceiling above me; an enormous one, covered with tiny campaign posters and buttons ... I wonder which way the North Station is, now that I've ended up somewhere in Tunisia, having taken the wrong train. I also wonder if today is the day I have been summoned to appear before that district court in Alabama; I hope it's not, because then I'd have to wash my car, which is frightfully nervous and confused and hides whenever I try to give it a bath. At least, though, I have my credit card so that I don't have to carry cash around underwater. Simpson glares at me from behind his V.P. desk and harshly reprimands me for the poor investments I've been making lately; I don't hear him because I'm busy playing with his tiny mechanical dinosaurs, who are by now of course steadily increasing in size until they fill nearly the entire room. I barely manage to escape before he's swallowed by an angry Tyranosaurus Rex and run to the elevator, where Karl Marx is waiting for me.

"Quick," he whispers, "Down here," and we rush down an elegant spiral staircase into the garage where his motorcycle and sidecar are waiting, jet engines purring in the stark growling Sahara evening, sun orange but still blistering, with no water in sight. I'm now quite certain that I'm deeply in love with Sarah, but she's so angry and determined to win the next street skirmish with the failing local government that she has no time to notice. What does "time" matter to me, anyway? Soon I'll be diced and stir-fryed with the rest of my water-chestnut companions as we hurtle down the track in our formula one cars, stopping only for an occasional press conference and perhaps, just perhaps, a four year bachelors' program at the college of our collective choice. I peer over the edge of the drain to see where it leads, but find only rising steam; No Dice, I think, and wiggle my whiskers aimlessly before dragging my tired tail through the sewage pipe back to the above-ground area, where huge numbers of human beings have gathered to listen to one of them make strange babbling sounds.

"What seems to be the matter with your toe?" I ask Marsha Jones, the patient, but she doesn't answer me; she's come here to seduce me and not to have her toenails cleaned. Molten pewter glows in the steamy blacksmith shop and I straigten my ruffled collar, ears cocking to more acutely judge the distance and range of the enemy cannons. At a rough estimate, I can remain safely for possibly two more hours before Sun-Hwong has to leave. She's dead, and all I can do now is accept it, KNOW it, carry it with me. My cigarette has burned down to about half its original size and I'm still unhappy with the dancers; they lack the precision I need and demand. This only makes me lean more heavily on the railing, frightening my already distraught parents.

"Jimmy," they shout, "Be Careful!" and I'm falling, accellerating, attaining terminal velocity before I strike the field in which stands the Eiffel Tower, young life about to be whacked out of me by the largest object I will ever collide with; the Earth. Yet somehow I feel uneasy about having married Vanna White. I'm made up, on the whole, of about thirty thousand separate polygons, so it takes a while for me to plot.

FOR GOD'S SAKE, DON'T LOOK BEHIND YOU. THIS COULD BE THE LAST THING I EVER SAY TO YOU. I can't find the pedals on the tricycle and the handlebars appear to have rusted solid, turned slightly to the right. Fifteen billion years go by.

Charles: Edna, when was the last time we went to New Orleans?

Edna: Wasn't it last October?

Charles: I thought it was more recently than that.

Edna: I don't think so.

Charles: Yeah, on Thanksgiving ...

Edna: Oh yes, I remember now. Or, wait, wasn't that two Thanksgivings ago?

Charles: I don't think so. I think it was last Thanksgiving.

Edna: ... what did we do there? Were we visiting -- uh -- what's-his-name -- Ben --

Charles: Ben Thatch. That was last October.

Edna: No, but it was the last Thanksgiving we were there. Don't you remember? He made us a turkey dinner ...

Charles: I'm not sure I remember that.

Edna: It was two Thanksgivings ago. I remember it very well.

Charles: But I think we were there this past Thanksgiving.

Edna: Are you sure?

Charles: I'm pretty sure. We certainly weren't here.

Edna: I guess you're right ...

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm. Whisper it and LEARN!

Clyde P. Walpole is a man who needs no introduction. Ep Ep Bean monsters. Adjust the contrast on your set to get a better view. Of.