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Washington said: "Meanwhile, don't jump off of any bridges-" (Strange: I hadn't even thought about it.) "-we haven't had a case like this in ten years." (In ten years? Who was the last poor sucker?) "So?" I asked. Mr. Bukowski," said Mr. Los Angeles, "report back to your position." I really had an unquieting time (or is it disquieting?) trying to find my way back to the work floor from that underground Kafka- esqueish maze, and when I did, here all my subnormal fellow workers (good pricks all) started chirping at me: "Hey, baby, where ya been?" "What'd they want, daddieo?" "You knocked up another black chick, big daddy?" I gave them the Silence. One learns from dear old Uncle Sammy. They kept chirping and flipping and fingering their mental assholes. They were really frightened. I was Old Kool and if they could break Old Kool they could break any of them. They wanted to make me Postmaster," I told them. And what happened, daddieo?" "I told them to jam a hot turd up their siffed-up snatch." The foreman of the aisle walked by and they all gave him the proper obeisance but me, but I, but Bukowski, I lit a cigar with an easy flourish, threw the match on the floor and stared at the ceiling as if I were having great and wonderful thoughts. It was con; my mind was blank; I only wanted a halfpint of Grandad and six or seven tall cool beers- The fucking paper grew, or seemed to, and moved to a place on Melrose.
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