A story of one soul during two lives

“Okay, I want to talk about Ireland. Specifically, I want to talk about the Famine. About the fact that there never really was one. There was no famine. See, Irish people were only allowed to eat potatoes. All of the other food, meat fish vegatables were shipped out of the country under armed guard to England while the Irish people starved.

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It feels good to walk out of prison, even after only an hour. Bad vibe doesn’t begin to describe it. Penitentiaries, are, after all, the closest thing to Hell which actually exist.

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“John Barth,” I insist. “We talked about fucking metafiction when we read fucking Lost in the Fuck-I mean, Funhouse. Metafiction. Who can tell me what it means?!”

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Stephen King? More like Salman Rushdie. “Thank you, Trombone, that was…interesting.” Seditious? Libelous? Paranoid? A good way to get yourself permanently silenced?

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The people of Murica were duly outraged. They took to the streets and demanded the heads of Assume Ibeen Plottin’ and Madman Insane. Evidence emerged that these shadowy figures with the strange names had masterminded a plot in which everyone in or from Rug Country was implicated, except, of course, the Hash-fiends who had actually done the deed at Mr. Pink’s behest.

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