Why not let's grease the skids with a bit o' false modesty, shall we?

 

It's just not true that I risked my life to save a shy person from the consequences of his inadequate personality. What I did, though, was hover silently in the background, let him get his footing, and then compensate his enablers commensurate with their stake in the final outcome. No one knows better than a kid from the South Side what it takes to live an entire life free of chemical infusions. During the lean years, one of us always felt free to create a very large circle inside of which we would routinely vanquish thrill-seekers everywhere. The problem was, some of them had just returned from the Interior Theater and required immediate attention. A few would claim to feel a mystical pain. I used a device on loan from the Agriculture Department to root out the spots where their parents had hidden their collections. With that in hand, I felt we had enough to go on. I wouldn't put my foot in one, but that doesn't mean I'm any taller than the next guy, despite what you may have heard.

Ivandola Crepatura was the name I was given. This person was reputed to be all but totally bereft of retinues and could only continue if we agreed to begin an imaginary exercise program. In earnest this time, if nothing else. So, I suited up, swept some odd wrappers through an antique frame and, for the first time in my life felt the pressure release itself from my ever expanding bilge-line. Anyone who was known to scamper could now be held for up to forty-eight hours, no questions asked, no answers given. I  could put one in a headlock myself, if needs be. Instead I sold my vintage corduroy sweatpants on Ebay for a sweet fiver and started to fix up my place. I was expecting a load of them to take advantage of my offer. And not a moment too soon! Within a month there was a plaque at the base of a statue. Staffers young and old would repair to a dusty lounge to relive the glory days of just a few weeks prior. Now that I'd lost vertical function, everyone felt free to lie about my age in the gutter press.

When you live in such a way that constant intrusions become a thing of the past, it's time to ask yourself a very pointed question. However, if like me you never had much to do with yourself beyond mandatory mirror-time, then you could ill afford a moment to reflect on where you'd be if the game became transparently artificial in a depleted nonce. Because, after all these years, what would it take to get you involved in our experimental surgery protocols? The benefits are second to none, but if I were you, I wouldn't let that stop me from pretending to lurk within striking distance of a disgraced tenant advocate. And, if you think you might find one in a rock-bottom railyard, think again, my friend. Consider long and hard if this is what you want on your gravestone. Because, like it or not, not one of my customers can be trusted to canvas an entire area without air support on the topside. And that's only the beginning. With truth on your side, no one can sneak a bitter spool of thread into your portfolio, beyond what your random Chairperson might think appropriate. And then some. (It's okay to look now.) 

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A fully vetted account of likely events.

 

I am carefully warming a pretend dish inside the sanitizer. Just to the right of the sanitizer, you'll find a precious booklet decked out with commemorative stickers. My step-brother waits outside. His curb is still littered with detritus. I'm done making calls, the likes of which have kept some folks active for days. I have been warned to not attempt to relive vaunted moments. This seems like a good time to circulate photos for maximal effect. The habits of our elders provide no excuses when our own regulations are on the line. I have taken some myself. The impact was nil, but no one ever said boo about the incandescent sound values which would erupt in  a shallow quarter. People are better off when they believe something is being done. In their own name or not, you'll know them by the way the powder snakes across the parking lot in their stead. No use giving up the ghost if even one child can be saved. Or, at least that's what they want me to say to avoid subliminal repercussions. It will all come out.

As I try to lead our newest trainees in a Festival Song, the structural integrity of the Rec Center is called into question. I lead the last available witness to describe the process whereby most of us can expect to be shunted. As he gently delivers his remarks, I can't shake the feeling that one of us has swallowed a bill of goods, hook, line and sinker. He sits in the back seat of my sedan while I confer with a veteran officer. The officer lays it on the line pure and simple: there's no choice but to get this kid to the hospital on the double. If I told you right now that I was somehow totally ignorant of the fact that this guy was lying through his teeth, then you'd have every right to call me on my shit. But since I have no intention of laying out an entire panoply, maybe you should just relax for once in your life, okay?

So, once we were certain that our names had achieved pride of place on a transnational waiting list, I felt that I could now guarantee no less than six period-perfect lineaments would be deposited in our duty locker. It's all we would ever need to start enhancing our appearances before one or more mobility-challenged miscreants had absorbed all the lessons and made a clean break. My own timing had been decidedly 'off'. There was a noticeable snapping sensation in my left foot, which wouldn't earn me any plaudits from accessorized bensonites. I felt certain that a person in my position could no longer afford any cracks in my probationary heptacion. What with all the runaways in our midst, someone would have to speak ground-level truth or expect to find an anonymous note in their folder. I outright refuse to hold our leaders hostage to contemporary fashion trends. If anyone doesn't like the looks of this, then I've got news for them. As for the rest of you, please.

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