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37 Bus boy

If this is how it will end, that it will NOT end, well, is it worth trying to go after the remaining witnesses? All of us, altered fates.

I'm thinking no one is going anywhere any time soon, I don't need to be dog-paddling down the big muddy, there's no need. Time floats still.

The insanity clause in my contract gives me a three day extension or a volcanic excavation, but I do not pass go Greyhound, I-57, 3:45 AM.

I'm off my meds again, they make me too reliable and we can't have that now, can we? Nine passengers & me, the driver does sign language.

I see his reflection, reverse shadow puppets on the glass, green from the odomoter, red from the fuel light and blinkers. Wipers splash.

I'm NOT lucid, I am. The other nine are snoozing, one with a Raleigh cigarette in his mouth, still lit, bopping like a deaf shadow puppet.

Dad left me with this guilt, straddled with confusion. I can hang myself from the luggage rack, I could! An auto-intoxicant infussion, sure.

Rural Illinois police will buy anything. Even my novels, covers torn off, no royalties, rim shot. My deadorant could double as a ball gag.

I am so despondent not nearly reluctant to find out if I hang up & tune out Ban roll-on shoved down my throat, do I walk back in, new life?

Are the remaining disciples reliving lives, exchanging lives? Explains why Calumet was dead then alive then dead, I killed his future past.

Wish I was back up there in the black, not down here in the grey, during the day in the green, searching on the floor for my reds & yellows.

I'm glad you are here to listen to me type, its like wiper blades, right? One person who will listen, well, OK, a bobbing cigarette ignites.

The bus implodes directionless. I can't scream a warning, having gagged myself. Auto-embolic failure, I DESPISE MY BRAIN'S INSIDES (help).

She was here, I had slept. Karin Offal, on this bus, in my sleep, walking through. My kiddie memories fractured fractals she morphs night.

When they are dead, THEN I die or will I keep reanimating myself? Off the bus in Effingham, 42 mi. to Space Command. Ground Control to PKD.

Leering driver handswipes me as I exit, sneakpalms me slyly. Helluva dame, he says, pneumatic. I mouth a response, it comes out empty. Wha?

He shapes his hands curvy and mimes a figure eight, or maybe an hourglass. Hubba hubba bub, he snorts, and I hop down doublebubbleheaded.

Black plastic, empty film canister, passed driver to me, surreptitious-like. I sit beside a statue of a bearded man astride a stonehorse.

Pop open the cannister and pull out a rolled up piece of paper. It's a photo, dad and Karin Offal. He's working at his desk, papercovered.

She's behind him, naked, arms over his shoulders, protective and smothering. The look on her face, feral. Dad oblivious, equation-brained.

I flip the picture over. On the back, Kindred, it says, handwritten, blue inkish. Kindred: Greetly. Knowish your mission. We all know. Yes.

Killing endeth now, disciples free to be, or I end life for thee. And there she drew a smiley-face. Signed, Luvly Karin. Dated: today. Wha?

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