"Something smells gross," she said, flitting

"Something smells gross," she said, flitting her hand in front of her nose. He said, "That's my sausage." His sausage had been stinky because

it had been sitting out in the sun all day. Life in the trailer park was like that - it was mostly old people living in tin cans and the hot summer days drove 'em out for fear of

dying where no one would find them for weeks because the heat made everything smell like dead bodies.

So many had died in this desert. A place where even at night the mercury is well over one hundred. General Patton himself had trained forces in this god forsaken place

Patton himself would not have believed the Galleria that was her now. It even had a Starbucks. Such is the march of soldiers and progress, hand in hand, all over this land.

Heaven of Capitalism. It was worth it. We are dead but the Great Circle of Consumption will continue going on and on. Sorry if I sound rambling - being dead does this to you.

"What's that? Sorry the psychic channel has a lot of static. No, Engels isn't here. He stuck to his principles and ended up in the great proletarian purgatory.

You want to talk to Marx? Groucho or Karl?" "Hey, you're the psychic," he snarked as he walked out through the beaded curtains into the sunlight. His sense of foreboding continued

to the end of his days. Forty-five years later, breathing refined oxeygen in a nursing home, a black cat pounced across his bed. "I knew it!" he exclaimed and died.