We're in a prison cell in Alcatraz. Squawkers

We're in a prison cell in Alcatraz. Squawkers won't tell where the motorcrash victim is. He stares at the patch of blue sky through the bars and sighs. In a garage in San Antonio

a shady mechanic is doing bodywork on a T-bird damaged by the motorcrash after filing away the serial numbers. Det. Manatee thinks he can get the Birdmanakete of Alcatraz to sing

sing before sunset. Once there, Det. Manatee would interrogate the Birdmanakete of Alcatraz to 'fess up. "...and if you don't" threatened Det. Manatee, "I will pluck the red plumes

from Cardinal Ximinez' hat -- and that will be the end of that Inquisition!" The birds began chirping in a chorus of delight and grandeur, the clouds parted, a shaft of golden

showers poured down on Cardinal Ximinez's face. It was hot and warm, spraying his cheeks, vast roiling steam and splatters sprayed around him like a field sprinkler in summer.

It was the first time he had seen rain since everything had gone to hell, and even with the sharp acidic smell that hung in the air, it was a heaven beyond what

Biggie and Nirvana set in motion. Burning Man was over with and the census was being tabulated. Biggie and Nirvana drank the Devil's Orange Juice as they studied the statistics.

Biggie pointed out a weak methodological model used in the Cambridge study which allowed phoned in data with limited notes. Data that seemed to lose coherence daily at 4:20 for som

-e, for others it lost coherency at 7:54. Biggie blamed the problem on sunspots, but the other scientists only scoffed and drew rude pictures of him on the chalkboard. In a fit of

rage, Biggie threw the chalkboard across the room. It flew and cracked over one of the scientists heads.