It was all hibachi and hot rods for the next week - extending all the way to the ravine and beyond the trail of Infantry and Gnarliness; back through the Mecca-Niquelle Portal, mind over matter.  Trent had been dreaming of chicken parm on noodles all day - couldn't stop licking his lips.  Pippa had stuck to a cranberry juice and Salem Lights regimen.  Harris couldn't keep away from his scabs and bruises, and Melody wanted nothing but egg drop soup.  Something was amiss.  The shoelaces weren't tying right.  Then pennies didn't sound like pennies when they fell to the floor.  The air had this strange 'dumpster' like fragrance to it.  Vexing.  The maxim was Quotient Parallel to the Random Catchphrase-a-phobia monstrosity interrogation station (2.b) around the radical and manipulator-y opus that had been created on a whim - mindu - out of laughter and cadence and emotional trauma.  Still, the solidarity continued.  After the forest fire off of Canister Boulevard came the agents - one right after the other in hot pursuit of the stealth-like-memory and conflict that was already surfacing at the Pop Cell Paraplex.  Out came Morgan and Brooke along with Pippa's two second cousins - the red heads from Staten Island, and I can't reiterate any of this enough - that they were starving! ready for anything. 
  "I miss you.  Why don't you respond to my messages?"
  "I ugh..."
  "Who is this?"
  "Never mind.  You didn't answer my question though."
  "What planet are you from again?"
  "I'm sorry.  What was that?  Bad connection.  There.  Can you hear..."
  "YES!  I can hear you fine.  What do you need?"
  "Nothing.  I just wanted to say 'hi.'  What's eating your ass?"
  "Nothing.  Bye."
  "You really hurt my feelings last month," said Peachman. 
  "Is someone paying you to have this conversation with me?"
  "Not at all?  Don't you even want to guess who this is."
  "I have no idea.  I don't even really care."
  "I'm fine with that."
  "Not me."
  "Let's just go over to IHOP like last time.  You can get whatever you want there."
  "Screw that place.  It's alright in the morning, but I'm hungry for All You Can Eat Surf 'n Turf.  What did Pippa say at the convention?  Man she looked like hell this morning."
  "Eh - things like, "my internet's not working,' and 'shiver me timbers.'"
  "And..."
  "That's about it."
  Harris met Fenton at the GPB&G to discuss business later that day.
  "Any word on the next install?"
  "I'm sick of talking about work and business.  It's dream time.  Enough's enough for seventy two hours.  Let's talk about you.  What's the next step?"
  "I don't know.  The world's full of possibilities.  My oyster.  Remember?'
  "That's the spirit.  Waiter?" said Fenton.  "Grab my friend a - ginger ale."
  "Can I get a virgin Bloody Mary instead?"
  "Who are you?  'Lil Hunter S. Thompson?  Let me see if I can order you a cigarette holder while we're at it.  WAITER!!  Ugg... we'll stop at the tobacco store afterwards."
  "You got any?"
  "Nah.  Sorry.  You?"
  "Nope."
  "What are you doing wasting all that real estate on wan ton tooey?  That's exactly what they want you to do.  Go to the grill - get you a real steak with some scallop and margarine.  Buncha' soy on it.  I'm serious."
  "When you flying to Baltimore?"
  "Next week."
  "Yeah."
  "Got anything going on over there?"
  "Funny you should ask, but now that you mention it, let's have a looksie.  Five car washes, eight, wow, eight nail salons, coupla' chicken shacks, three liquor stores, two pet groomers, and check out this florist."
  "Mmmmmph.  Yeah?"
  "Yeah, and you should hear her on the phone.  She has the voice to match."
  "Damn Fenton."
  "Another Dr. Pepper.  Thanks."
  "So how was court?"
  "OK." 
  "Yeah."
  "Yip."
  "You're leaking a ton of oil I noticed."
  "That get's expensive.  Not as bad as a tranny or power steering leak, but none of it's fun.  I have some tundra stories I could tell you about trudging through the overpass of I-90 in the dead of winter, lugging bottles of Lucas Power Steering Fluid for an old Volvo. - a trail of red every time I made a turn.  No quick fix, but I'm getting full.  Some other time."
  "How's the exercise going?"
  "Not too bad.  I need to get to the foot doctor though - get these plantar warts taken care of.  It's heredity - I usually do a pretty good job with a little urea cream and blades, but it would be great to get them taken care of professionally.  At least I don't have the fatigue I used to since I stopped drinking."
  "Good.  I'm going to still drink though April."
  "And I'm not going to stop you - just warning you though.  The irony is it gives you confidence that's not based in reality.  I need to work on being more down to earth.  A better communicator.  Phone a friend.  Prioritize.  Yeah."
  "Is that your gun?"
  "Yeah."
  "Loaded?"
  "No." 
  "Don't you lie to me."
  "I'm not."
  "Let me see."
  Addison grabbed the gun from the table and emptied three bullets from the chamber.
  "What'd you pay for this?"
  "80."
  "You rusting here and here, but I'd say you got a pretty decent deal."
  "You got a permit?"
  "Nope."
  "You gonna try and get one?"
  "Why?"
  "I don't know.  Can't hurt."
  "No point."
  "At least watch some gun safety videos before you go doing any target practice." 
  "Y'all ready?"
  "For what?"
  "To where?"
  "I don't know."
  I felt like I was being harassed.  Who was this weirdo shotgun salesman/preacher calling at two in the morning and driving over to my mom's house waking up the entire neighborhood?  Granted, we had hung out in the past, but he was kind of creeping me out with these strange drunken messages of Camarillo Funding Company and some beautiful dream of a masseuse as I recall.  I wanted to write that morning in the hotel room, but all I could do was wast all my time on social media.  This girl was a fantastic storyteller, but not much to really say on my end for the most part.  I was merely an observer, and there was much to be observed.  Some questions are best left unanswered; even if the messages are coded and the prose never comes to an end.  Will it?  Hey I see whose style you're writing in.  Cadence, flow, lack of retread.  Syntax, grammar, continuity issues up the wazoo.  And all the best stuff out of anger and probable cause.  Because nothing is worse than having your conscious weigh on you when you can't sleep trying to make sense of animal impulse.  We're animals god dammit.  Over-intelligent animals.  Keep away mindu.  Like, why are certain phone calls made and others aren't?  Everything was better in the beginning, but now the whole process is getting much more complicated.  How does one get away from it?  Close this obsession up like some kind of FBI Cold Case?  Not likely.  There must be an easier way out, I thought.  So cold, callus, and irreverent for reasons that were unbeknownst to me or anyone else at the gun club that afternoon.  I almost thought about calling her that night to read her my entire novel.  I could tell she was already bored.  I really wanted to meet the rest of her family.  We were, however, only browsing.  Silence in the car.  Back from the 'stale-cation.'  Oh crap, not another 24/7 job, but that's how those consultant type high rise C-Level people do it.  They barely bat a finger, drink martini lunches, and make money hand over fist while the Mexican Carnies slave away at John's crib after the lumber run to Home Depot.  She smelled so wonderful - Mrs. Kin Joiners.  Getting the story was now more fun.  The sarcastic tones permeating from the living rooms of 'I know who you are, but I don't want to buy anything.  Not anything you have for sale anyway.'  Pizza anyone?  The longer she read it, the more she dreamed OF it.  Age just being a number and all.  Remember?  But that's only true for the really old gashes.  They really do feel their age, and see that shit in the mirror every morning before 'clown patrol.'  It was a productive waste of time, because TV and Film weren't doing it for me anymore.  Reading was the only activity that I found stimulating.  At this point it was all about quantity, the story not nearly as fresh as it once was in my head, but highly readable I suppose; a hazy mist of literature, poetry, and dreamlike sequence - once again, the big trip to the Sage Mountain Maverick's wide-eyed and sometimes bushy tailed laugh of hypnotic suggestion. 
  Hypnotic.  Why would they torture themselves like this?  Was it really worth it? 
  "You're working really hard on this writing project, but we need a break.  Micro-vape and Hardees anyone?"
  "I'm good."
  "Lysol?  What's more difficult:  journalism or direct sales?  'Challenging' I should say."
  "Hmm?"
  "You're busy.  Great.  This piece you're writing - some kind of love story I should know about?"
  "Your brutal dose of scrupulousness is really making me blush."
  "'Honesty' would suffice just as well."
  "Yeah," she said - her eyes lighting up like fireflies again.  They did all of the talking. 
  "How clean do you want me to come with this?  I said.  "I'm not going to give away the whole story and just spell everything out.  That's counter-productive to the process of creative writing.  It's much easier for me to show you and not tell you or Pippa or anyone else about it.  Go back to the crab shack you tool.  Or don't.  It's probably better that you don't know that I'm even thinking of it.  Here's a quarter.  Go to the mission if you have to.  It's better than jail."
  "Now I'm really hungry."
  "No time.  Nothing to be proud of.  I'm un-na drop you off at grandma's once again.  Room and bored?  Oxford education.  This HAS to come to an end.  We've been spending way too much time together.  You're not as cool as I had originally anticipated."
  "Calling ME at three in the morning? but I can't call you?"
  Probably wasn't the best call.
  "She plays it safe.  Did you see here coded 'puppy dog vid?'"
  "See it!?!?!  I could stop THINKING about it for like three days!"
  "Good.  Let's stop for lunch.  I'm not going out on a limb here by blueprinting another real life docudrama for you - cause all you want to do is smoke herb and cuss like a sailor.  God you're filthy."
  I knew my bed was as comfortable as it was going to get.  No one had to tell me twice.  But now the sheets and mattress reeked of piss and vinegar and I had already sent the maid home without her dinner, even though she had been busting her Latina ass all day long.  I called her later and apologized.  Then another round of even more mad dog rampage from the border actress that wanted to split the tab at the funny farm table of organicness. 
  "This isn't an installment.  This isn't a contract of service.  This is gibberish," I said.
  "We've been over this."
  "Good.  You still have that huge box of knives I gave you?"
  "No."
  "Good.  I told you Trent - you should have flipped them for five hundred easy.  Maybe they were just mementos.  I don't know."
  "Oh well.  Bye."
  "Yeah.  I've always been a great listener.  Get on the horn.  Call April."
  "Sure," said Katy.
  "He loves me deep down, but I'm fearless and too full of anxiety and steak burger from our first date at the speedpark."

PURPOSE

  "Hey Big Guy," said Satan.  "What' the meaning of life?"
  "Orange juice," said God.  "Not from concentrate."
  "Just the answer I was looking for," said Satan parking his worm-mobile.
  "In all seriousness," said God, "There is none."
  "Tell me about it.  If I would have known that when I was one of your wee little choirboys, things would be a whole lot different today."
  "Great.  What else you got for me Archfiend?  And make it quick - I overpaid for these Superbowl tickets."
  "What's a guy like You need Superbowl tickets for - much less the money to buy them with?"
  "Eh," muttered God.  "It's all part of the act.  It's the journey - not the destination."
  "I went to rehab for drugs," said Satan.
  "I heard.  What happened?"
  "I got kicked out for not taking my drugs at med call."
  "Wow Luce," said God, "you're just full of 'em tonight."

... Stale Catfood will be right back