For a while, there was some talk about turning my stories into a series of comic books but such "big talk" usually goes for naught. You have a gregarious record store owner from New Jersey, a throw-back to the potent, hairy stench of Cheech n' Chong records who keeps in his employ the clonking, dead-fleshed unfit who look like the worst that neurotic, cloud-eyed apartment scum can generate. Among their number, he sees a golden steed who will carve out a niche that will slowly take over the world, what I see is a broken-down old hack who is terminally-unreliable and an effort that will peter out with the essential aimlessness of man.

What I'm reminded of, is if you've ever been inside a New York City comic book shop/magazine kiosk and seen the bald-headed owner who looks like Alliester Crowley. If it isn't tricks, or illusions, or "black magic" dubiety played on wide-eyed 13 year-old's, it's these strange video game magazines that offer"inside information" on these far-off systems found across the ocean via rusty cargo ship or Hong Kong airplane, where international currency trading works like a high-risk video game and suicidal businessmen go "SPLAT!" in the street from office towers.

Who can take account for these volatile commodities whose depreciation rate goes down so rapidly and only leaves you standing there with worthless merchandise? But it's the world of brokerage, where values are somewhat arbitrary, luck is fleeting, and "the good deals" have been mined out long ago like tomb robbers spurrin' off with the loot on camels.

Sounds like what you need, friend, is a more positive orientation! Sounds like what you need is an honest job! Until then, let the clear-cutting continue until I run out of things to write about and people stop sending in money!

Or even then, I can think of more
holy ways to make a buck. . . . .

With Televangelism!

(-- Robert Tilton, notorious con artist)

And may lightning strike my wallet!

*******************

"You want a-nuther song? Well I ain't plain' one mutherfuckin' note until someone comes up here and puts sum money in my god-damned tip-jar! You know I only came here for one purpose. . . . . to take yor fuckin' cash! Why, I could make more profit puttin' out my meth-head neighbor's asshole and ringin' a bell, hollerin' 'Man for sale! Man for sale!'

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

(Rheeee of Crickets)

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

("I heard that, Missy!")