by Brad Rose

Me and Nathan-Ray sure worked up an appetite burning all those effigies, but practice makes perfect. On our way back to town, I felt hungry as an empty plate, so we stopped off for some beer and eggs at The Shed. We sat at our usual table in the corner, while the busy music jumped like angry canines at the bear-brown walls. Nathan-Ray asked, Do you think plasma has a hidden agenda, Cole? Can it run uphill like Satan’s water? Nathan-Ray’s always thinking about things from the angle of the fire-prevention industry. He’s got hard-boiled hair and a trucker’s left-sided tan. He swears he never intentionally set anyone on fire. At least not to the best of his knowledge. I told him I didn’t know if Satan invented plasma, but I knew for sure that when we drive with the windows rolled down and the empty scrub blurs into a smear of speed, I feel sorry for myself losing all those years in Folsom. Just then, God walked in and took a seat at the counter. He looked dog-tired. He had a long, tangled beard and white splotches of paint dappled all over his cream-white overalls. If you didn’t get too close, you could barely see splattered on his clothes and shoes all the mistakes he’d made. When the music stopped, the place got quiet as an empty manger.  Let’s just say me and Nathan-Ray didn’t get too close.