He woke up groggy and sore from mysterious

He woke up groggy and sore from mysterious rug burns in yet more mysterious places. His nakedness was covered by a carelessly tossed afghan. The only sign of life was a blinking

Pakistani who was helping the Afghan up after the toss. Everything about the place ached, and he wasn't an exception. Trying desperately to go back into the dream he'd just left,

we swam upstream in the blood tunnel. He'd shrunk himself and was doing the back stroke through this Pakistani's arteries. Just then a giant white blood cell smoking a cigarette

moored himself at the side of the running stream. He got out and pointed his cigarette at the swimming man, and said, "I don't want to catch you

running out on me. I won't brook desertion. Nor will I harbor cowards. Channel your inner strength. Feel it's waves of power.

Gird your loins and guard your lions for on the marrow we will smell the Napalm. Napalm! Damn it I had forgot make fresh batch of napalm! I must scrape the linings of their Jockstr

chaw on this BBQ!" he smiled at me with a toothless grin and waved the bone under my nose. This was my third time at the annual Rural Cult Sacrifice Cook-Off. It had gone down hill

since they cooked all the decent chefs. I picked at my chef's salad with lamb blood dressing. "You forgot yer grace," said a cult member. I muttered, "Oh, Galactic Order, lift me

away from this depressing amalgamation of crackpots and digery-don'ts." The cult member grunted and walked away, leaving me to my cannibal salad in disgust. Life sucked.