Fiction for Artists, presents--
Universal Particle .com
------------Book II-------------
The charger emits a low ultrasonic pitch, too low for the ear but affects the frequency of the owner’s mind, anyway. “Once a month is not a habit,” he thinks to himself.
No, it’s not. Every act leads to its own nemesis, its own consequence, just as every thought is a new thought, but of course he doesn’t think about this; he’s not in the mood to abide in Ideas. So, ignoring the scruples to his gut, the mettle to his conscience, —he opens the medicine-cabinet.
He reaches for the container; grabs it before it tries to run away and pulls it out, unscrews the cap—safety-locked from children. He holds it against his nose, the stem penetrating his right nostril.
Tzzz. Tzzz.
Two shots, in the dark.
A pause.
Then again, Tzzz. Tzzz.
The user waits.
Brrrr...
The user shivers, with pleasure. The puffs had soaked his bloodstream, into the chemical nervous-centers directly into his brain. The mucus-linings clear up. He breathes again.
“This is… this is… amazing.”
He steps outside the door, steps unto the green-ground carpeted by grass, beneath the pines and firs and oaks. He takes another breath, —noting how easy, and long, and fresh it is.
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
This. He had almost forgotten about this. This feeling.
This diametric opposite to the usual drudge, the usual grey, brown, oily-smuck that coats the city air, thick and indifferent. “This,” is different.
This, is like stepping into blue ice—clear and free and slightly, oddly pleasant, like something you suppose someone once said “you’ve never quite experienced before,” and yet, you knew, was very familiar.
His body warms up.
His vigors are renewed.
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And he soars like a damned bird.
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“Phoenix”
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--a tale of pirates, magicians, ninjas, and lumberjacks--
* Fiction, Fiction on the Wall
--who's the truest of them all?--
* Voyage of the Times New Roman
--the hunt for the thousand-year-old clam--
--a crime/supernatural detective story, starring Jeff and Franky--
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BOOK TWO: "Summer on the Beach."
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Particles, ignite!
What, flowing central forces, say,
Make up thy splendor, matchless day?
Aphorism #37
Art is the highest philosophy.
The truest philosophy is poetry.
The deepest poetry is belief.
The wisest belief is silence.
In All Things You I Deserve
--a tale of pirates, magicians, ninjas, and lumberjacks--
This is a tale from long ago, an age when the mountains sang and the mountains roared and the mountains whispered secrets, of buried treasure—and men who took upon swords and sorcery, to find them. The year is 1646. An alliance had just been reached between pirate-captain the "Four-Leafed Clover" and a representative from Starbucks on 43rd, —Jeff Summers,—in a concerted
effort to save Princess Madel—
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Aphorism #84
Every book is a quotation, every quotation is a house, every house is a quotation of every forest and stone quarry, and every man is a
quotation of every ancestor who ever thought, —every thought is Plato.
Fiction, Fiction on the Wall
--who's the truest of them all?--
The execution is scheduled for sunset, Sunday.
The people are celebrating, party in town square!
—when an unexpected stranger arrives.
The Magician: Halt! This madness must be stopped!
Townsmen #1: You, good sir, must be new around here. You see—
'Tis no ordinary criminal: it is the Fool, himself.
The Magician: And 'tis for the Fool, I speak.
—For what is Plato, without Aristophanes? Or Shakespeare, without Montaigne?*
Grant me audience to the justice of your land!
(Judge enters.)
The Judge: On what grounds dare you obstruct the will of Heaven, and the joy of many, from our persecution of this madman?
The Magician: What is the charge?
The Judge: Piracy, lad. This Fool here has plundered more web content onto his virtual drives than all of The Pirate Bay combined. His gross negligence of the law—and disrespect, for the intellectual property of others—must be stopped. For in my career of thirty-six years never have my courtly decision been met with such unanimous revelry the four corners of the Earth.
(Crowd cheers maniacally; various catcalls.)
The Magician: And 'tis for that very reason, I must speak.
The Judge: (snarling) What do you mean, boy?
The Magician: For true Justice must not be rendered by mobs and vengeance; surely, as Judge, you must understand that?
The Judge: Boy, it's been a while since anyone lectured me the difference between law and justice. You wanna know what happened to the other guy?
The Magician: My audience is not to you, kind sir, but to the criminality of persecution, at large—
The Judge: Uh-oh. Another live one. Guards, ready the cage—
The Magician: Wait! Don't you see... By virtue of his existence, the Fool is necessary to the dynamic of our stories, unfolding?
The Judge: Don't talk -meta with me, boy. I'm a one-time character.
The Magician: All right, then. I see my idealism is too lofty for the darkness of your souls; then I shall proceed to argue on practical grounds, on which, even you, men of Science, cannot deny:—
The Judge: And what "grounds" is that, dude?
The Magician: Only that line which renders every man foolish before Fate and Freedom:—
(Its names are many, but its means is one)
Causation...!
Uncertainty Principle, Quantum Entanglement...!
The Butterfly-Effect...!
Take your pick!
The Judge: The who and the what now?
The Magician: Exactly. Allow me to offer a summary of crimes, by method of our most common practices:—
1. My client, the Fool, who tested positive for genetic factors determinate in compulsive
tendencies such as clicking "Click Here Now!" and downloading "Oh-no don't that,"
2. ...is the victim of a liberal upbringing and unusual circumstances, --and a cultural propensity
toward tentacle-related materials from Japanese websites, a tragedy in its own right,
3. ...whose sudden exposure to materials which might not otherwise alarm another man caused an
influx of spinal fluid in my client, the Fool's, pre-frontal cortex, filling his blood with discordant levels
of serotonin and oxytocin, impairing his ability to fully rationalize the events around him,
4. ...and my client, the Fool, was simply caught up in the "moment," and wasn't "himself,"--
his actions resulting merely from a random sequence occurring at the subatomic level...
The Judge: All right, all right. What' your point?
The Magician: My point is that they are equal yet incompatible;
varying in degrees of agency, varying in degrees of "Will."
Each of these causes stand as likely stories in their respective fields.
They can help us communicate or describe the events with others,
but none of them can, alone, be construed as explanation—
because explanations settle the question of intent, mens rea, which these stories, together, do not,
and stories alone do not adequately help us render a verdict in matters of guilt and innocence.
The Judge: ...
(crows krawing, grasshoppers chirping, someone breaks open a bag of chips)
The Magician: (damn that was smooth) Look, guys, let's be honest with ourselves, shan't we?
Every one of us deserves the noose, - 5 or 6 times over.
It is the shallow bastard that has no regrets and tears.
So he downloaded a bit more protected content than the average American—
("16 terabytes!" shouts a representative from Brazzers)—wha—
The Librarian: He rubbed boogers all over my priceless manuscripts!
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The Priest: —And spiked my cocoa and hijacked my booth and charged for confessions!
Fool's Mother: He "kidnapped" himself and sent selfies to his relatives, asking for money!
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Fool's Uncle: And toenail clippings!
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The Magician: ...
(looks at the Fool)
(The Fool looks back, smiling sheepishly.)
You're on your own, Franky.
* Plato was reading the comic-poet on his deathbed, according to Niezsche;
and Shakespeare's private library contained only the works of the famous skeptic.
Aphorism #459
"Well!?" growled the Thousand Eyed-God,
(—Frankfort under his paw,)
"the Chicken or the Egg? —Answer!
or I shall crush your friend! "
"Trick question, Google!" Sir Geoffrey cried out,
"We are all just eggs inside eggs inside—"
Voyage of the Times New Roman
--the hunt for the thousand-year-old clam--
Franky liked the man George. George worked behind the counter at the local seafood section at the nearest Whole Greens.
The man George liked him, too. Franky had that effect on people—twinkling eyes, sense of humor, winning smile—at least,
until they got to know him better.
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But George confided in Franky. Told him about his marriage. That music thing he was working on, on the side.
And why they stopped carrying lobsters—"Couldn't keep them alive," George said. "Some problem with filtration."
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One fateful afternoon Franky was making rounds for his weekly groceries: sausages for breakfast; burgers for lunch; steak for
dinner; and bacon-lard with sugar, for dessert, when he finally stopped in front of the seafood counter, and considered the clams.
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Franky usually bought clams by the dozen, $15.99. Today, however, he was with Cole;
he stopped to consider if he needed more for his party-sized bowl of clam chowder—
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"Cole, if I make my party-sized bowl of clam chowder, will you begrudge me for not sharing?"
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"No mind, Franky. You know I don't eat clams."
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"Oh, that's right, you're vegetarian."
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"No, I'm a proxi-marian.* but I —specifically— avoid clams."
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"Why's that?"
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"Reminds me too much of that one time I almost shed the blood of
a god to save the life of someone I love—left a bad taste in my mouth."
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"Whoa-hold on—my story with George can wait. The what and the what now?"
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"It all began long ago..."
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I have seen some things. I believe in the existence of gods.
I often came upon them in the woods,
such pure-willed beings as talking trees, breathless turtles,
and giant nine-tailed foxes—but I have seen stranger at sea.
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As you know, I grew up without a father.
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My father left us, my mother and I, when she was pregnant
with me, in search of the "Thousand-Year-Old Clam."
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"You must never begrudge your father," my mother would say.
—"He was a kind man, and he lived for this family."
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And I believed her... at first.
But then came grade-school,
and the kids started picking on me
—"Ha, you stereotype!"—
and though I wanted to believe him,
believe in him and his memories,
I began to doubt.
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I asked the Creator—:
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"Hey, author, can you please show me what kind of person my father was?
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...and why, exactly, was he hunting for some clam when my mother was pregnant with me?"
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The Creator took me to my flashback, back to Brooklyn, 1984—
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Building 119.
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My old home. The street-facing window, open. I peek inside.
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"The child is too strong but her body is too weak!" cries the midwife.
My mother, in a makeshift bed of blankets on the floor, is shivering in anguish.
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"Shaquita, please, stay strong," a younger version of my father says.
He looks fierce—but worried.
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"At this rate, she won't last two weeks," says the midwife.
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"Then I must go now," my father says.
"Go where homie," ax the midwife.
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"To search for the Thousand-Year-Old Clam! —it's my only option.
I can't afford anything real on this healthcare—"
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"But, Tyrone,
We are cityfolk, plain and simple—
what do we know about hunting clams?"
—wheezes my dying mother, Shaquita.
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"Shaquita, I must try," my father objects.
"The shell has miraculous properties,
and is the only thing that can save you."
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And with that, he runs out the door. I follow him.
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A crowd of men from the block had gathered around my father.
I sneak around to the back, amongst them—
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"Listen, men. Tomorrow morning I set forth for Lake Hudson,
in search of the accursed clam, to save my dying wife and child—
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"Who is with me?"
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The men look from one to the other. But no man dare raises his hand.
They have two jobs each, and need make rent for their own wife and children.
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"I will go."
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"Lad, this is no fairytale," warns my father. "It's cold,
and it's dangerous. The Hudson spares no man, faint-of-heart."
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"If you're going to hunt for that clam," I say,
"you're going to need a helmsman—you can't steer your boat alone."
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I usher my bravest, most self-assured look.
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"Very well," says my father—
"Suit yourself."
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He smiles.
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We pull out to sea in a makeshift boat
of plastic metaphors and empty milk-cartons—
my father, standing up front with harpoon in
hand, and I, myself, rowing in the back.
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We begin to hear the clamsong from afar,
then closer, closer—
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"Shh. Hear that? The ancient white man called it, 'Wajcudiita Malou-samohi,'
—or, 'Wailings of the Hermaphradite Clam,' more than 2,000 years ago."
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"But, sir, the earliest Caucasian settlers were from the Netherlands in 1700..."
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"This is a story, not a history lesson, kid."
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Meanwhile, the song is getting louder, louder—
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"Look over there!" points my father in the direction ahead,
where three tall geysers of steaming white fury are spouting abovewater.
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—Then, before we can say 'Wajcudiita Malou-samohi,'
an omnious form approaches, precariously underboat.
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The metaphorical organs begin blaring Beethoven's 5th.
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"Damn, that was fast!" shouts my father, Tyrone, but he is ready—
and he aiin't gonna let some steam and a little shaking stop his willful aim.
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"But wait!" I hear myself shouting.
"That's not steam!"
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!?
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"I said, that's —not— steam!"
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"I know, kid, jeez, just a figure of expression—the white fury."
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"No! stop!"
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Before I realize it, I had already stopped rowing.
Instinctively, I dip my hands into the foul water instead.
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"What are you doing!?' shouts Tyrone—
"It'll burn you!"
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But I raise my hand cupped with water,
and urge my father to take a look.
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"...Baby clams," he says.
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"..."
"..."
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"Gross."
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The clam lets off another song, and we realize then
that it's no song of fury—it's a song of love.
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"It's so beautiful. I've never seen a clam giving birth before."
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Tyrone pulls out his cellphone, and snapchats his dying wife—
"Shaquita—" says he. "I'm sorry. I have failed you. I can't kill the clam."
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"Huh?" says my mom, deliriously.
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"—But know that, in the grand scheme of things,
in the natural order of the world,
Fate has fought valiantly back, and taught me, along with this heroic young man—"
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He pauses.
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"Son, what is your name?"
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"Cole."
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"—taught me, and Cole... (that's a good name,) the sacredness of motherhood,
and the beauty of life, in all forms, — so if for some odd stereotype
I don't make it back before your dying childbirth, please name the child—"
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"So that's why I'm named Cole."
"I thought you were explaining why you don't eat clams."
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"Oh—right."
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"—And if your mom died giving birth to you, how'd she tell you about your father? Your story doesn't make sense, Cole."
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"This is a story, Franky, not a history lesson."
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"You gonna get the dozen or what?" groans the man George.
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* When asked at table which dish he preferred,
Cole's response was, invariably, --"The nearest."
Aphorism #122
Euclid's lost mathematical scripture,
the Book of Spines, states,—
Man occupies the y axis,
the infinite of the vertical scale;
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the x axis represents
evil, —the spineless Snake.
Man in the Woods
--an Aesopian fable--
Æsop is known for two things:
1) his great stories, and
2) his unforgivable ugliness.
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It is uncertain which of the two won him freedom from slavery.
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We do know, that, while his selfies made his mom cry,
made heathens out of saints and killed the dinosaurs,
his fables are the earliest seeds of Western humanity, with—
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timeless simplicity —birds of a feather flock together!—
evocative wisdom —slow and steady wins the race!—
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...even the most practical man, ever, Socrates, idled poetry on them before his trial.
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We've transcribed one of our favorites, below.
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MAN IN THE WOODS
—an Aesopian fable—
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A man takes his rest in the woods nearby—
Alarmed by the presence of a stranger, all but four of the forest's inhabitants are frightened away.
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As man sets up camp, he approaches his first creature.
"Turtle," he asks. "Are you not afraid of me?"
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"Terrified," Turtle replies. "But this shell is heavy, and I cannot
move fast enough to run away. So I wait, to face my fate."
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"Here, Turtle," says the man, as he gives the blue turtle a gentle push, into a nearby stream—
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"Curse you, cruel beast!" says the Turtle. "I shall come back and haunt you!"
...But he does not drown. The chambers of his shell fill instead, and buoy him against the burden on his back.
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So man teaches Turtle how to float in the water—to go with its flow, instead of fightings its current.
The Turtle becomes serene.
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Then man addresses his second creature, circling overhead.
"Hello, Bird. Do you not tire spying on me from way up high?"
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The green bird flies down and perches upon a tree.
"Psh. Don't flatter yourself, human. My home's the sky. You know not
the freedom of wings, as I soak up the views from wherever I please."
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"Silly Bird," man replies. "You cannot fool me. You fly and fly, —but you fly over me to mask your feelings
of insecurity—for, while I am here, and the other creatures away, you can finally take your rest."
And so man teaches Bird how to nest—
and the Bird is relieved.
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"Come out, Fox. No use hiding in the bushes, I sensed you when I arrived."
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The red fox comes out of hiding.
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"Ah. I was only keeping an eye out for you," says Fox. "To protect you from other strange beasts."
...But he was there to outwit man—to procure for himself a fat, juicy supper.
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"Silly Fox," says man. "You can outwit birds and beasts, but you think you can outwit man? we know of your tricks: you steal and scare our chickens away. But you have angered our villagers and they will not take fondly to your kind. They will set up traps, skin your coats and mince your meats. Then they will tell tales of your folly to their children."
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"Well, shit."
The Fox may be proud, but he is smarter, still—and knows when he is bested.
So he learns he cannot outwit man, and to keep his tricks to necessity.
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Finally man turns to face his fourth creature, a yellow hound—
"Whats the matter, Dog? why do you sit there so quietly?"
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And Dog responds: "Something's wrong with me. I can't eat. I can't sleep. I think I am sick."
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"Silly Dog," says man. "You are not sick—you are lonely. You have such natural gifts—you must share them
with the others. Here, come cheer up Turtle. Be kind to Bird. And a companion, to Fox—so god help us."
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And so man teaches Dog how to be a bro-dawg—
and the Dog is happy.
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...And came next morning,
the man was gone.
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Aphorism #16
There is one common to those awake, —
but each sleeper dreams a world of his own.
The Obscure, #89
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Beauty and the Beast
--A crime/supernatural detective story--
The darkest crime is the horror we inflict unknowingly in our sleep. The strangest mystery is the solution we readily dismiss, from the council of our hearts. All sins are one: man's dishonesty with himself, and thereby with others. These are the shadows that plague us when we wake up, or shine a light within ourselves.
This is a horror story. You have to promise not to laugh. —Or, if you must, at least take care to remember that sometimes, we laugh because we're uncomfortable—because, in the face of an emotion so dark and mysterious as "fear," we don't quite know where to place it except in a joke, to shrug it off and blow a raspberry because hey, it's just a story, and not a story about... us. But I digress. This story begins with a favor.
Something like—
"So will you guys do it?"
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Franky is hesitant. That last time they agreed to a favor, they spent an entire weekend
polishing the priceless spoon-collection of her aunt, who is single and owns eighteen cats.
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Jeff, on the other hand, is ecstatic—
"Boy oh boy that's awesome Maddie thanks wow this sure beats sneaking into the town-one's at night to get a smell when can we start?"
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"I don't know, Mad," says Franky. "On the order of things, this feels about as relevant as—"
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"How about... $25 a book? and you'll have access to the pool and the jacuzzi—"
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"—that wonderful time we spent with your aunt Susan, her exquisite silverware, and those darned kitties. We'll see you Saturday."
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The James' estate lies center in the old-country between New England and Old,
where the names are familiar, the blood is thick, and the syrup is pure and sweet.
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It consists of a four-story brownstone mansion, dating from the late 1840's; a lake, a courtyard, a ten-door garage, and a twelve-
-foot metal gate which sprawls around the four-acre vicinity, with one of the nation's old iron knockers, shaped like a gargoyle.
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Franky and Jeff arrive early Saturday morning, just as Maddie and her family are leaving.
She hands them her keys. "And if you need anything," she says, "give me a call."
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"Aw don't worry about us, Maddie. Enjoy your trip!" they say.
So off she goes.
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"Beat you to the jacuzzi!" says Franky.
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They start about task after a nice swim and a brief lunch in the library—
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In and out Jeff weaves through the bookshelves, picking out titles from a list in his hand compiled meticulously in Maddie's handwriting
(and a few more, of his own selection); meanwhile, Franky begins clearing the tabletops where they had sandwiches, then starts picking
the shrink-wrap off the erasers he bought in bulk from the art store.
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"Ergh, this is only slightly better than last time," Franky grumbles.
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"Franky," says Jeff, philosophically. "A good book ripens with age." He presses his nose
into The Plague, by Albert Camus— "Ah~ like warmed stone, and jasmine." says he.
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"Dude, you have a problem," says Franky. He picks up a book and starts flipping through the pages—
"Well," he grumbles. "At least we won't have to read them." —and he thinks about mothballs staling, in his dead grandma's closet.
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—3:00 PM—
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They decide to take a break, after a solid two hours of scrubbing.
They take a moment to appreciate their surroundings—
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The library, a later addition on the estate, was commissioned by Maddie's grandparents in the early twentieth-century. Arranged on the
scale of many prep-school libraries, it is furnished in the same vein of tasteful opulence as the rest of the manor: dignified
portraits, marble busts of dead philosophers, and heavy damask curtains, rising high over the windows, in majestic red and gold.
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Sighing with pleasure, Jeff treats himself to a whiff of fire and brimstone from
the pages of Faust, by Goethe. "A library is the best place for an imagination," thinks he.
"A library is the best place for a nap," thinks Franky; and he begins to snore.
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—4:00 PM—
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Working alone, Jeff can't help but draw comparisons between books and spoons in the silent monotony: how a spoon might reflect in passing, over the cereal bowl, who we are, but a book, —with its underlined passages, penciled stars, and dog-eared corners, —who we
were, and who we're bound to be. He remembers suddenly Franky's textbooks from their schooldays, full of flamboyant autographs and obscene stick figures.
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Franky, meanwhile, is still busy snoring.
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And of course neither of them notice the purple dripping from the ceiling, in the southern corridor.
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—6:15 PM—
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They have finished restoring almost thirty books.
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They reminisce fondly over childhood days spent in this very library where they might, on Maddie's instruction, act out scenes
from their favorite stories, like Beauty and the Beast. Unfortunately, things get a little tense and quiet when they realize
Franky was always "Beast," and Jeff... never mind. That the lights blow out mysteriously then, doesn't help—
and they resume, awkwardly, by candlelight. "You stay on your side," Franky says.
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—8:30 PM—
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They draw curtains over the windows to prevent the candles from flickering out—
the library no longer seems spacious and grand—but small, claustrophobic, and vaguely
sinister, like a graveyard of dead passions and forgotten lives. The air reeks of storage.
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Jeff could hear guttural sounds coming from a volume of Maddie's Lovecraft—and the
clattering of metal, as he passes by Homer to return books to their respective bookshelves.
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"A library is the worst place for an imagination," he thinks.
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"A library is the worst place for a nap," thinks Franky, and the thumping below ground, —beating like a heart,—
reminds him more of his conscience than stuffing Christmas pinatas with broccoli and dental floss.
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—10:00 PM—
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"Tombs, I say—no, something more alive—golems, imbued with life from the live of words and the secrets of their auth—"
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"I'll see you next week," says Franky, as he starts packing his things.
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But Jeff holds his ground. "Franky," he says. "Franky, we made a promise."
"Franky, he says. "We were paid in advance. We can't back out now"—
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"Kraw, kraw" kraws the raven.
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"—But we can postpone, until she returns," he says, philosophically.
They decide it is better to move around.
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They wander from one chamber to the next—seven in all—through colored drapes and
matching windows, oblivious to the eyes on marble busts following them as they pad on by.
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They are drawn by some energy, unharnessed like the full moon—and they, like
zombie bees to greened honey. They see a book. The book is unmarked, nearly unused.
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P-E-A. —Those are the letters they can make out from its binding, in big, bold copperplate.
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Principles of Economic Assessment? —the science of the devil! —thinks Jeff.
The Psychic Entertainers' Association? —I knew it! —thinks Franky.
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But those guesses seem silly next to the obvious one:
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Phillips Exeter Academy.
Maddie's alma mater.
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It's her yearbook! —thinks Jeff.
And the source of this evil power! —thinks Franky, —her frightful senior pictures!
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But how wrong they are. And they seem to have angered the spirit more, for the room starts
rocking and pitching, like an open boat at sea. Jeff tries to placate the spirit of "Maddie's Yearbook"—
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"Maddie, please!" says he. "We know you're ashamed of your 'Goth'-phase, but everyone makes mistakes!"
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You see, they had missed a punctuation. A minor detail, but significant:
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Not, P-E-A. —P-comma-E-A, as in...
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"Yes," says Poe. "Yes, it is I."
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"But why, sir? why are you doing this," Franky squeals.
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"Because!" says Poe. "All anyone ever talks about me is the fact that I was a lonely, scary, mildly-insane alcoholic with a twisted
sense of the macabre and a mutant forehead. They know nothing of my work, except in-passing—they know nothing of my work!"
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"Oh c'mon Mr. Poe, that's not true—"
"Have you read my work?"
"Um."
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It's okay, guys—neither has this narrator.
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"See what I mean?" says Poe. "No-one ever talks about anything I would —like— to be remembered for, —like, how I introduced
the hardboiled detective, to popular literature; my generous contributions to the critique of art; my exquisite silver-collection or
my tender relationship with my kitties, Bluebell, Pickles, and Mr. Dooglie. No-one ever talks about that!"
​
"Um," says Franky.
​
"—All they remember is that I got drunk, married my cousin, and crashed pennilessly on some sticky street-corner—one time!—yet
no-one ever talks about those thoughtful afternoons I spent by the lake, blowing clocks off dandelions, feeding the ducks and making animals out of shapes in the clouds..."
​
"Is that... is that something you'd like us to tell people?"
​
Poe pauses.
"Are you saying," Poe says, "you'll —tell— people?"
​
If there is a correct answer to that question, they sure don't know it. They try to smile.
​
"Well that's great!" Poe beams. "Will you promise to tell the others? to do what is right—and wash away this dark, stinking ectoplasm
around my unsettled soul that is the unloved vision of my noble talents forsaken under drink and gossip?"
​
No way, thinks Jeff. He is not a fan.
​
"You can't —be— an artist if you don't beha—"
​
Franky smacks his hands over his friend's mouth—
"Okay, okay! —we promise." says he.
​
​
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​
—4:45 AM, daybreak—
​
They leave the money in the cookie-jar. They hide the keys behind the bush
third next to the mailbox. They start walking home—
​
They say nothing. What is there to say?
"—Did you catch the size on that forehead," Franky says.