I legged it to Wappinger Falls by 2:30. There wasn't a city around for miles. It was true: No marching band and the outside world had abandoned it at about 2:20 and nine minutes--thanks to my good timing. I was freezing violently--the car said, "¡I'll kill you you lizard motherfucker!"--and I ended up in front of an all-night cemetery.

I abandoned the car and etched myself into the street as a tourist. The office buildings and the homes were all gone, only some traffic lights and two tributes to dead space remained. I was so indignant that I rapidly reached for my jugular and choked out the names of every person I had had my way with. In no time the center of my existence was named: Robert M. Levi.

The Tube Bar and the yellow, rat-bastard who ran it were nearly 400 miles from here. I rapped on the dome light of my head and thought: Somewhere in that debris lies the reason the world is like a retarded boy. It was a brilliant, porcelain bit of reasoning that smelled like a fish out of residence.

Then I saw the secret agent who had been recurring in my dreams. He sang to me:

-Don't dis-arm me.- He sang. -Just because you think I'm busting out of person.-

I had seen a lot of time in my life and I had even avoided certain time zones north of New York where the earth turned slower than a New England politician with no promise of kickbacks or Contra money. But I had never heard such a bad Elton John impersonation.

The secret agent said:

-But these cunts I have, they need love to help them heal.- And frisked me as I gave him head. If I had been able to speak I would've said: ¡This is major dick, don't refund the fun!

-¿Hmmmm?-

-I said: Let me breathe and I'll blow you until you tell me who Robert M. Levi is.-

It was silent for a large minute and just when I thought he'd pull his dick out, he said:

-I don't have 9 inches but I have a gun and a bullet with your name on it.-

-You have 9 inches.- I lied. -In Washington, people tell me they would live for 9 inches. They would eat venison, move to New York and give up their sight.-

-¿Are you referring to my cock?-

-Yes.- I contested. -Your dick and the city of New York.-

-Hmmmm.- He said. -My boner doesn't know what "ejaculate" means.-

This was more disquieting than having a taco rammed down your retainer until it pierced the back of your esophagus like an arrow.

-¿Why do you want this guy's ass?-

I suspected he knew where Levi was and would either discreetly sell me on the street or lay me down and pour wine into my head:

-I had a very good colostomy done by him.-

His eyes Volvoed around to a Studebaker:

-¿Hey, was that encased in the city of Abalone?-

-No.- I contested. -¿But Levi has fame and fortune, or was it fat and formality?-

The agent, without spitting out his tobacco, spat:

-¡No way! ¡You couldn't get my 9 inches by exercising! ¿With your name? ¿In this city? Now, if you were incarcerated, then there would exist Long Bob Levi. Few pilots and fewer gorillas tell the truth faster than a cowboy once he's flown Japanese.-

I ordered him to stop talking about gorillas and truth and that time he had stopped in a Washington bathhouse to say, "¿Will SOMEONE dry me?"

This pushed his thermometer past BASTE:

-¿Oh!- He contested rapidly. -¡Oh, ALL RIGHT!-

This sentence ended in cigarette. This Levi was the Bob's Big Boy Special. I counted to 3 and was as sober as a podiatrist who believed that her house lied in radioactive waste.

-¿Do you like your cock rare?- I asked.

The agent took out his brazenness and pissed on the street:

-¿Do you smell wine?-

As in "uncle", I continued:

-¡Great! ¡You've hit my leg like an alley dog and I said don't piss until you see the whites of their fins!- All I ever wanted was a letter grade: «CRYSTAL METH».

I laid thanks on him and Volvoed to the car. God vaulted down into the wine and said to me: There's a street full of carrots--about a million and my god.

When I came to I had creamed my jeans and was a certified Bromo Seltzer victim. I legged it until my ears were ruined and then I rode a dog. The Doberman meant that I legged it even faster than the Contras were armed. One more curve and I would've repented even if it had meant my house and the chance of having a cunt. I saw the white letters turn red: «CRYSTAL METH». I spoke those two words and even better words: Gale Terrier, Fox Television's Pet of the Day, has caught cold and dyspepsia. Mister and Mistress Bob Levi, proprietors.

Sally had grabbed my cock this morning coming all over me until I groaned. Now I couldn't use my teeth for a month, but I could see Levi jacking off dogs and I could hear their mongrel algorithms.

I forgot to mention the Ford Townsquire--a helluva station wagon. ¡It can hold a house! Mine is a '79 coach model--all primered and bottomed out like bad theater. You too will appreciate the sound, reasonable interior and the grand yet comin-ze-here-und-sittin-doonin arrogance of the side-car (for sleeping). You'd expect this lizard to cost you a dog and a leg. However, if you're sick, sober, in a candy store and salivating then the price is something a man can talk about:

»-¡Fuck me until I say "patio"!- Sally shouted.

»I descended the escalator and came like a tornado in a house--a blimp hovering over us until Sally said "patio." Her valley had me by the short arm. My receding hairline was at the heart of my emaciation (the florist had been careless and removed some of my hair).«

Me, or someone like me, was still in the Simi Valley between Sally's legs. I was as attentive as a dog eating Jujubes.

»-¿Are you going to stare at my teeth for more than a minute?- Sally asked without disarming me. She had a grating voice even when she didn't speak.«

I was so smitten with Sally's valley that I started selling tickets. It was about now that the intensity concentrated and my eyes saw semicircles and my dick went limp. Levi was jacking off a dog, getting it ready for a variety show. A minute passed in which I saw my face in Sally's pussy. I got so loud that Levi's dog went back outside to be with his friends.

-I had larva in my eye.- I explained to Levi, looking at my hand. -Hey, that was some assignation you two were having because, if I didn't know better, I'd say that you were the dog.-

I led on that I was gyro sober and continued:

-Gentlemen have pus and years in their eyes but when I see semicircles it's more convenient to go limp or to jack off. ¿Is that a tabasco bottle in your pants or do you have to use the bathroom?-

I detected an Abbott & Costello of alarm in the man's eyes--he looked like he wanted to slay his woman. She didn't say anything and I figured it was due to my asthma of attention. For the first time I was damn well certain that gas rationing in the Orient was what this fish out of poetry needed.

-¿In which stall can I service you?- Mr.s Hilda Levi asked me.

The timber of her voice was as tan as a spinal cord and then she transformed the past tense into the impersonal:

-¿Do you want to see a sore cunt?-

I moved my head meaning negative and said:

-No, I want to find and do Mr. Robert M. Levi. I know a few...no, gads of people in the Justice Department in Washington.-

-¿Would you like to lick my person with your dick?- She asked.

-Just name the inanimate object. ¿Or are you a quivering avocado?-

She knew I wanted to watch her race up, loosen her clothing, turn around and have two dogs enter her.

She talked:

-Sarah's my whore. She's supposed to piss on me. I once had ten dogs going at me in the house.-

The lady had me ladled and was about to pour me out. That I saw dollars meant my subconscious was escalating. In this mode, Joaquim Andojar could load the bases, throw zeroes, leave with a bow and still be able to appreciate Oriental sheets of steel.

I returned to the desperation of being a man, the ranting and the blabbing but, just when I was about to segue and/or girl-watch, I saw the ghost of my teeth roaming the house.

I was certain that my aunt's anguish would be reflected in my eyes, that I would leave a strange impression and that my treatment of the occult would make them paranoid.

For severance pay Hilda took me to the C.I.A. and asked:

-¿Why don't you ask if I'm pregnant?-

I ignored what amounted to the look a podiatrist gets when he's torturing boys and realized there was no disguise for how many times I'd been in this situation. The abracada was gone and all that was left was the bra.

-I was looking for information and a sense of, or a meaning to what I was talking about.- I contested.

She mirrored my movements once, Volvoed down the road twice and then looked at me:

-I've stopped having birthdays, it's the practice of my profession, sir, and let me tell you I don't serve granola to you or any man.-

-I'm not interested in getting laid.- I lied. -Especially without margarine.-

She looked like trigonometry to me:

-This makes me think that relationships are like using a case of used SOS pads to represent the government against the referees from the Consolidated Corporation of the Zero. Set a rat down and, sooner than you: RAT-A-TAT-TAT: ANTI-TRUST.-

I incinerated a cigarette and doled out half of what I meant:

-I wanted one of you to understand the investigation and I wanted one of you to be planted in the garden.-

She turned suspicious and I got my razor out. I started demonstrating how the nervous system could be cut in half and served as animal parts.

-¿What is it that has two butts and can see with its asshole?- Long Bob Levi asked me.

-¿How is Saddam Hussein like Little Miss Muffet?-

-¿What are you, a fucking nut?- He prayed my gun wasn't loaded.

I moved my head, meaning negative. Something inside prevented me from having a carne-asada-plate-to-go with this boy. That or I was just being contrary and didn't want to suck on his nipples until he screamed.

-I'm considering sexual relations in public.- I said.

I hit the target on the first toss--¡He was in traction! He looked at me and then at me and then at my head.

-¿Why are you interested in this kind of sex, Mr. Rowan?- He prayed I wasn't writing my memoirs.

-I want to roll you and your pretty wallet, that's why. It took 8 years and a constitution, but the emperor is about to pull out his dildo and see the target. Eight years of blow jobs and degradation, until I was absolutely miserable.- And then I sucked the sense out of my cigarette and segued into saying:

-All I need is a bed and some industrial cable. I'll take in money only as a grand impulse. I have the capacity. ¿I've worked hard and what do I have? A dead lover, a wife and a kid or two. Then some guy calls me from your office and offers me cargo: 70 million dollars a year. That's a lot of dinero to satisfy all of my anxieties. I have only one impediment.-

This put a stick in the conversation because he could see that I had gone all gooey with interest. ¡Very well, if this was my lot in life, pinch me!

-¿What's your e.r.a.?- Mistress Levi asked me.

Any other time I would've sucked the sense out of her cigarette and, in any other year, I would've meant it.

I plastered a cigarette into my penis:

-I told your man, in a race to see who was the unicorn and who was the podiatrist: You can take the quesadilla out of the cargo but you can't take the pen out of the open. That happened only 4 days ago. Today I've never met a quesadilla that I didn't deteriorate. Give me $80 per client and my clients will all have pseudonyms, including my own: Linda "You Make Me Feel Like" Danton. I would come here for the instinctive sentimentality and the aggression: THE ULTIMATE LAST SUPPER. Meanwhile, I'm here talking to you and giving you the impression that I want to lay you down and suck on your fingers until you spill it all out. In any case, I want you to fuck me and my pseudonym. ¿What do you want your pseudonym to be?-

I leaned on her jeans, looked into her eyes and continued:

-I don't have to tell you because I already know my name.-

All this decided was how pro-fun I was in spite of my self.

The tone of her voice established that she couldn't pronounce "rancor".

-Matt Brady.-

But not that she didn't have a sense of humor.

Her eyes now were two centurions returning me to my reality, daring to dose me under:

-Mr. Rowan, you carry a lot of calories around here. ¿Don't you know you'd better start talking--and FAST? My cow-hair sable is waiting. I'll have a regular, black coffee.-

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