Before I could think I passed through the Armadillo Bar for a drink. There was a little more than 6 on the clock and the bar was replete. I passed a gentleman talking seconal to the barman. This prepared me for drinking. He already knew what I was accustomed to.

I heard a v in the corner of my e. With my glass in front of me and a preposition in front of my sentence I was more abstract and more sober than all the pencils in Manila.

The media jumped on me in the form of Morley Safer who was the proprietor of one of those publicity agencies known as television corporations.

-¡Hello, Colonel!- I said to him and mirrored his salute. Morley used to clean up after the head Geeves of the C.I.A., before becoming Superintendent In Charge of Men's Tires at C.B.S..

Morley was (and is) in the C.I.A.. He was also a colonel in SHAVE (Special Harpies Against Virtually Everything) during the war. And this had been valuable corporate experience.

When I acknowledged him in a parentheses of silence Mort changed the tone of the conversation and told me that the media had a firm hand and a questioning hand:

-¿Are you pure and all gun, boy?-

The question made me disconnect and go crazy:

-¿Who said I had any character?-

-¿You don't know?- He replied.

I moved my head meaning negative. He was a gust and I, as a baby I was a Harpy. This segue had fallen behind a place no sentence had gone.

He was inclined to make me, and beneath my speech, I dug it:

-I carry the rumor that has Matt Brady in jail.-

You can't have secrets on Madison Avenue. Make nothing secret because three hours later you're half-naked trying to see Matt Brady. These are the inconveniences of living like a demi- sadomasochistic junkie.

-¿Who are you talking to?- Morley asked me.

-There's a nice corridor through here.- I said even as I meant:

Tell me that you just want to copulate.

«¡My god! ¡This street is infested with bullies!»

-Look, I have to fire an employee who's about to die. There's nothing I can do.-

-Matt Brady, yes.- I reified. -He's so odious that I once exposed my self to him in his office.-

Morley began to fade. The earth was leaning toward space and I was leaning and wondering when this would be on T.V. because my timing was in the toilet.

-¡Good! ¿And what if I say "low"? I have to reach to the equator. Come clean with me in my guest house.-

-I'll grab your guest house, Brad.- He told me, penis and toes in pie. -I want to see art.-

-¿Art?-

-No. art.-

-Very well.- I said meaning joviality and Carmen Miranda, Dole bananas and Irene Cara. -I appreciate you also.-

I observed what Morley Safer's Volvo did to his library. I cuddled my doll and went from there.

Men in El Caminos traced me to the airport. I was as dead as my cigarette habit. A habit that had filtered into my office and been a tartared affair for the local lizards or, on the other hand, all messy and sunny and exhibited in public.

I passed through the magazine of my mind. There was no one whom I could put any discomfort in, until I came to the advertising. There I found a professional in pajamas, her head quivering from a gust of clarinets.

I called the car from the apartment and then dreaded opening the door. The plane from Pittsburgh was entering. Meanwhile, a van zapped by outside the pisser, separating me from my observation that Cabrillo had, alas, worn pleated pants.

"She" was the half a person arriving by plane. I washed the inseam of my platform shoes as the escalator tried to localize me.

I introduced my fingers onto her back and she emitted a silver dollar. She was ripe and lowered her pants. I shuddered to see her tan, her pants down and the suspenders that magically held up my pants for her to get into. No modesty for me. If truth was meant it was meant for this sensational woman and not for no marvelous, sophisticated dame who runs a modeling agency.

-I don't want you to come if I do.- Sandy told me as she dreamed we were in a car's back seat.

She was no contest. She retooled my penis and my car and then I entered her. Despite trying to vault into her all I managed was to be sent without a trace into her vagina. I pushed and the car dropped into MARCH and dragged us out of the city and into the current: One, four, six minutes and she was speechless. I made a furtive move for her ear.

-¿Do you have the time?- I asked.

She moved my head meaning negative.

-Ten dollars if I can come now.- I told her. -One shot or I'll go all pesticide.-

-You can come in me in an airplane lounge.- She contested.

Sandy sawed what I was all about:

-¡For this I could've used my hand or a llama! ¿What is this preoccupation with my alienation?-

¡My god, I had come for the first time all day! This chick knew how to establish direct contact. I had gyrated on her until everything went silent.

I returned and told her:

-Let's go ask some questions. You can ask me, "¿What has eyes and pees?"-

She contemplated that for a second as she rode me with her cunt and stretched my cock to its cockiest. Her street language saturated my mind and her vibrator discharged electricity all over my angular body. Her cunt, intimate as I am with thinking about it, trembled with emotion. My eyes stopped and then the sound of breaking glass put a sack on our passion.

All time had passed a day ago. I saw the echo of my chastity chasing after me as I entered her jaded pouch with a violent push. Her cunt lips (that image stayed in my head every day) were like an accordion on its last puff as she contemplated reading me my rights.

Advertising was about as interesting as fish anatomy--a few bones to pick but basically a smelly business.

-No, come here, not in me. The Pirates in Pittsburgh are all tan boys who come when you want them.- She told me. And to think I had bought a beef stick from her.

I convinced the car to a hotel before it killed me. It brought in all the luggage and immediately assigned me a suite.

The car had worked for its bottle of whisky and helium. A boy gave it a radio and it wanted to be alone.

I was quite the American and, lacking only a batting helmet, I prepared two whiskeys--one to swell her intrigue and one...

-¡Welcome to New York!-

Sandy contemplated what a baby I had been, a sort of mad bore with a vasectomy, a pony tail and a set of antlers that she hung on as she rode me like a pig.

-¡Boy!- She told me. -¡You're like Mr. Toad's Wild Ride!-

The mirror of Hito in Hito:

-¿Is sex so important to you?- I asked.

-To me, no.- She said. I saw the sunrise and it looked like water in vodka. -To an orangutan like you, yes.-

I started crying on my second come. This saturated the house with fatty acids. The liquor began to sort through its effects.

-¡You were ingenious!- I told her.

-It's because I eat pork rinds.- Sandy contested and, man, I knew we'd be makin' bacon for breakfast. I looked over the topography of her chest, now just up the road from her delicious cunt.

Man, I was raised without pork and I now fell like Mrs. O'Leary's cow. I couldn't move more than a sixteenth of an inch without a medic or rope to hold me.

I was all inclined to make dinner to impress Sandy's mother but the more morbid I became the more turgid I felt in all of my senses, especially my sense of displacement.

My body sucked it all in and I began to send my peccadillos out into the martini of her heart. Then I thought that I was brazen and she was endearing (clap hands into mirror).

-Everyone else is an iguana.-

-Sure, Brad.- She severed my tranquility (¡with intelligence!). -¿When was the last time you looked up a dress? And not my dress--that's too easy.-

-Last Sunday.- I told her lamenting how long it had been. -I believe it was a woman.-

-¡You're hideous!- She said. -¡You come in sentences!-

My desperation for her brazenness poured me another glass of whisky. I had lifted it to my libido when my hand imploded.

-This is a major injury.- She said persuasively. -All this helium gave rise to my estimation of you and also to some piss-poor sentences.-

She had tears in her eyes the diameter of angels. Her libido, meaning 3 x 2, was such a hullabaloo that I entered her and trembled with emotion. Her ruby red head dispensed with the horse radish, the sky cascading green cucumbers on white men.

I proposed an all-female slumberbration.

The sense (a prison of two) was that most orangutans were sleeping in the valley of advertising that had been formed by seedless hulls. She was too much, that was plain, but so was her face. She pulled off her bra and «slip» and I knew what "large" meant.

-You are the most, Sandy.- I murmured to her.

She took my cock in her hand.

-¿I am, Brad?- She asked me with the antsiness of a dad. And then in a lower voice: -Brad, when I see you look at me I feel like rigor mortis has set in. If you were capable of loving me with the intensity I've brought to other women, then no one in the world, and possibly further, could make me say no to you.-

I was attracted to my self. My body searched her libido and my hands searched for breasts or first for her money and then for her cunt.

This impulse made me stroke what her fingers wanted to: her cunt lips, dapper as a poodle.

Sandy was now soliloquizing in an altered state, if being in Washington was considered an altered state. I was inclined to stay sober until she mentioned Rodan into the sunset. I pushed on her, meaning violence and she exploded with a left hook. My posture leaned.

Ten million years before, man had invented tambourines and then women. Seeing and doing were identical. This had always made my ego go bump.

¡For the love of flamingoes! I was sleeping in a place under my eyes. This proved that I was superior to her. Also, I was sober and they were damn women. Without me Sandy was nothing. She'd be lucky if she could prove residency. I was the saxophone and the saxist and the reason for her existence.

Her libido stuck to mine. She bit at me frantically under the guise of my mother's sweater. Her love communicated to and enslaved me. Her phrases came in flames licking the lips of my prima donna passion.

I opened my eyes and lay mired. I stopped my eyes and rode out to the ranch on a ladder. The skies in front of me were yachts that ran men. I sent them a bowel movement, a Volvo and my head. And there she was camping out on this sentence like a cowgirl.

Sandy couldn't even co-sign for a loan. I was so real that I exclaimed:

-¡Poor Brad!-

-Why "¡Poor Brad!"-

-Because I've decided to sell my basketball.-

-¿To whom?-

-Elaine.-

---

To chapter, Capital 17

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