When I couldn't stand no more of Aunt Polly's

When I couldn't stand no more of Aunt Polly's civilizin' english lessons I reckon'd an Adventure like Tom related with real Cowboys & Injuns were just what was needed so I lit out

and hit legs hard. I stopped and bombed a couple of trains with my esh lad friend jisoe. But the the PSO gronks came round and I dropped my tinnies as I was leaving. Fucken metro!

the next train south from the Gare d'Austerlitz to the land where the ancient Cathars lived and died and where the life-force is strong. At Montségur, at the base of the pyre I dug

a mosh pit. I wanted to put a kind of Burning Man together in Montségur. All I need to do is convince Tool to

play a time signature that isn't all square roots, or at least a song less than 8 minutes long; these Montségurian moshers are exhausted. I stole Tool's acid, hoping their sobriety

would last more than 8 minutes. Using my third eye I spied on them backstage. Like a useful idiot I could not dissuade them. Tool had a secret stash, including an opiate or two.

But I had secrets of my own. I never left the house without my cummerbund, a servante, and magical apparatus I cannot mention. But those rock lovers grinding at the Tool show

certainly did seem to have a fancy for magical apparatus, so what was I doing not mentioning what it was? I sat down on my couch and began pondering to myself

. "This... is quite a pickle," I murmured. "A pickle?" the couch said, "Hardly." I told it to shush, after all, how could a couch know the moral of the story?