There are times when the left hand knows

There are times when the left hand knows nothing of what the right hand believes, and so it was that gloomy day in Moscow in 1968, when Gorsky put on his overcoat and stepped into

a pile of Pavlov's dogs bell-sounds-turned-into-turds. "дерьмо" he cursed accurately. Gorsky's left foot didn't know what his right foot was doing when he kicked

While neatly folding a story. The corners were so well done that the concierge complimented him on his driving, here in the middle of nowhere.

He rolled his eyes and creased the edges of the story. He handed it to the concierge, who accepted it with surprise. "I'm trusting you with this," he told him.

The concierge bowed and withdrew from the recluse's door, folded paper in hand. He felt a tug in his mind, and a compulsion to deliver the story so far to whoever lived in 12A. Ma

Baker welcomed him into the suite with an amicable wave of her tommy gun. The shaking concierge emerged clutching his folding story (decorated with holes) seeking more appreciative

readers than Ma Baker and her gang of elves. The concierge was so shaken that he didn't even make the tip gesture he was the master at. The holes in his folding story were tinged

with melancholy and weighed him down more and more with every step he took. He forgot why his was clutching the folding story before him above the fray. The furies and vagaries of

the folders led to this but he knew creativity & humor must be preserved for the human race to endure.He was crushed to death by the mob but the folding story lives on to this day