Spuz spuz spuz. It's a spuz spuz spuz and an it's on. I am a man. I have a plan and it's a spuz spuz spuz. Is your kitten a sputtering bird wing oven? Or are you another congressman in disguise? I hate you.

It was two years ago today and it was a smoky Sunday. The kind I cook and eat on cold winter Saturdays when the snow creeps through my shoes. But that's when everything explodes and I fly unwillingly through the mind of a dead inmate whose clouds stole the muffler. Could I -- or rather would I -- see his tie clip and fan the implications? It costs twenty-five cents now but I'm willing to pay. I'll lay my money down any day. I fight the implications.

Smoke rises. Night falls. Everyone leaves. I leave. I come back. And the smoke diffuses my briefcase and suddenly I am suffocating in a blue thunderclap -- Pow! the lion smiles and removes his sunglasses -- Pow! the bell swings and tugs on its tether. Pow! the weatherman laughs and grabs me by the necktie. Oh! The chair is swivelling and now he's pulling me down the hall. Waves are crashing on the beach. I dream, and then fade out...

"Wait." I hear vaguely. I am in some kind of museum.