the undead masons in the walls of the house on loon lake

[ornithomimus]

i climb a tree for a better view of the sunrise and fall asleep. when i return home i receive a frantic call. "can you come in as soon as possible? i need someone to clean out my car." . . . "clean your car?" . . . "yes. its gonna take you a couple of hours. you need to make sure that every hair is out of the car, that every spot is washed off, clean out the trunk, wash the tire treads, there are some . . um, . . stains on the seats. just get rid of them. its extremely important." its not the first time this has happened. im starting to suspect my boss is part of the velvet mafia. i get the sense that the hair im removing from the trunk is the hair of a deadman.

we are being stalked by men in planes. the pilot suits up and revs the engine when ami and i get too close to the cove. if the giant shark doesnt save us well have to destroy the airport ourselves.

at waters edge i drown in her mooonlit eyes as the loneliest peeper sings a song only we can hear.