After the two detectives left his apartment, Roger went straight to the bottle. The weekend kept spiraling out of control. First, the scream in the night, followed by the bum accosting him, then Cassandra and the face, then Ben burning to death in front of him, and now the two detectives linking him to not one but three of the burnings. He took a healthy swig from the bottle thank god the tall one was reasonable and picked up the canister once again. As he reached in, the print appeared to have lost the palpable mildew texture and he could easily remove it.

Roger rolled the print out across the counter and, for the first time since Terrasea had made him roll it up, and, with nothing much there to occupy him, he contemplated the surreal landscape if I’m buried beneath the sod that Dali had imagined.

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