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In May of 2012, the Fourth World ended along with its codepency on information and useless data about old classmates, tentacle porn, emails.

Mortgage rates, cyber-dates, steel pates made transparent by one sad genius, Kindred Tate. Slouching toward Bethlehem according to Yeats.

Yea, it doesn't rhyme, what of it? K Tate was an old man of forty, aged by radiation twixt over, beholden to the Mayans death calendar.

In the weeks prior, 4th World coughing, 4th Wall pushing harrowingly close, K Tate saw(ed) through everything, the hard drives of infinity.

Or so Dick Overtone thought. In 1969, all was safe, copies of floppies hidden in basements of Joy Motels in three realities. Just because:

Dick O liked his pull over Tricky Dick N, follow Apollo as they dropped a flop in the Sea of Tranquility put yourself behind a Pepsi, NASA.

Another tale, another time, not to be lost like the Metatexts of Ur, the Visagery Menagerie of Babylon's Inverted Tower. Future floppies.

Dick O getting the heebie-jeebies in a fevered mid-summer's night scream waking quaking shaking baking from the Malibu heat compromised.

Being Watched from afar, anew, a future now, if he snapped his fingers nothing would change nothing undone cocky Dick had to show off.

Oddly, it was rocks rolling down pyramids buried in Central American foliage (iceberg memories of Culhane, 1957) that sounded the siren.

Seriously so. Crumble rumble p-k p-k p-k words through weeds and trees palms and fronds (as Kindred frollicked with blondes), Dicky O wept.

Overtone had to create the Joy Motel just so he could have a door to walk out of, another door to open, he was on the set with Dean Martin.

He grabbed a swizzle stick, read the alcoholic fortune, stabbed the lead cameraman in the eye. Whipped out his pistol, audience gunned down.

Cue cards scattered on the ground, FIRST GUEST: SHARON TATE. Son of a bitch, getting sloppy. Kept his wits, K Tate 2012 would never be.

Went back outside, his watch ticktickticked, applause, Tate must be on, door open, manydead bloody rich Dean-o passed out on the piano.

Overtone stumbled back out into the shank of the night or the cool cool cool of the evening, depending on which jukebox had rumbled first.

Honk honk, there was Kindred, rented Dodge Polara, those two chippies, Seashell and Coronado PJ, cottontail moons in each passenger window.

Losing his cool, frosty fucked, watching them hoot and toot called him zoot suit, worst indignity, PJ had a mustard stain on her butt cheek.

Sweat-soaked in his white shirt straight jacketed from the government for a small allowance he checked the turbines shining from his drips.

Watched the Polar spanking clean and shiny new drive away girls laughing, canned applause from Dino's morgue, down Dick N tried to snore.

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