Composite view of Eberhart. Races unnamed, unknown, lacking discovery, escaping classification. Buried prisoners and glass keys. Throws the car into reverse after striking down the commandant, the goal being to back over the body several times. Turns to me and explains, “One bump may give a bit of comfort, but you’ve gotta go back and finish the job, make sure it’s done. You understand, don’t you?”
People speaking in tongue on the street, various criminal figures plying the tourists for location of a certain bar that is just a rumor, “But you must know, an inhabitant and all.”
“He’s talking about us, Jim. Can you imagine? We fit right in here.”
And off with the wallet, a return to the barter system, the old bait and switch.
Phones ringing day and night, overlooking terraces offering a prime spot for ejaculation on the unsuspecting crowds that pass by.

It got so the commandant had no faith in the people of the city anymore and resorted to torturing suspects for his own purposes. In my investigation, I discovered that not only was he unfit for law enforcement, lacking all necessary attributes and skills; but also that he is Bolivian. This is a tricky situation as Bolivians are known to be fiery orators when placed on the gallows.
Commandant corners a Mexican in an alley and two deputies restrain the wetback. “Now what’s your name, boy?” the Commandant commands with urgency. “And don’t give me none of that Jesus shit, you know as well as I do that Christ was nothing but an invention of Richard Nixon’s foreign relations team.”
“Que?” the Mexican replies, mystified, confused, bamboozled, run amok.
“Your name.”
“Ben.”
“Ben, Ben what?”
“Ben Gay.”
“Get fucked, queer!” the Commandant shouts. “Reach for it!”
And then his gun is out and ready to blaze but he’s forgotten he traded his piece for a green banana, a visiting official who happens to be a red-assed baboon. He squeezes the banana and its pulp gushes forth on the ground. The deputies guffaw in hysterics and don’t even notice when the Mexican slips out of their grip and calmly advances on the Commandant. Naturally he slips on the banana and knocks his nose cartilage right through his brain, ending the unlikely saga of Ben Gay.
“Well that’s sewn up,” Commandant says. “Never a man to take his words seriously.”
The deputies are still in hysterics and Commandant becomes agitated, screaming at them, “Pull yourself together, men! You represent decency in anti-civilization!”

Old Clem has stories about Lend Lease era, prohibition era, is known for once standing six full days naked in Times Square.
“Ever had one of our eggrolls?”
“Old computer punch cards, that’s all I know anymore. Used to be a time when things were simpler. There was no gravity, things stuck to the earth because they loved it.”
“Would you prefer a sedan or a compact?”
“Compact? What the fuck is compact? Have you seen how much I’ve laid out? Government pension and all, best left unsaid. I say drag out the god damn jet engine and strap a seat to it, I’ll fucking fly there on my own, you cheap Cockney bastard!”
He’s up on a dais trying to communicate the importance of the event when the Commandant shows up posing as a member of the press. “Eberhart Weekly Amalgamated and Consolidated,” Commandant says, gruffly. “We know you have access to enriched uranium and are worried about the safety issues this will cause in Eberhart.”
“Not to worry,” Clem assures the crowd. “I went and shoved a piece of that nuc-u-lair material right up the old pisshole to insure it’s safe passage. As one ventriloquist said to the other, ‘Easier to knock on wood when you’ve got a hand up your ass’. “

To illustrate his point, Clem drops his pants and immediately begins shitting worms. “That’s not any old Methodist earthworms either,” Clem explains. “That’s a genuine Baptist tapeworm family.”
The Commandant feels he now has enough evidence to make an arrest and gives a signal. Lassos entangle Clem and drag him off by the neck. Commandant stands before the crowd and explains, “He’s a control freak and wanted to incinerate the whole lot of you. His kind gets off on seeing your face before you burn.
“Why, he once burned a group of niggers up Brown Eye. Let them burn so long that the skeletons crumbled to ash on contact. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, I’m just passing along the info.”
Southern gentleman stands in the back and yells, “I was at Brown Eye and those niggers had it comin’! Now you let that Clem go and take this guy,” and pulls up a small child. “He lost the good remote.”

“Now people,” Commandant says, “let’s not get into who sucked whose dick. We’re all Turkish by nature, bath houses and bedrolls, we’re not on the plus system. But there is an honor code in this town and that man went and damn near violated every single rule. He sold poison milk to school children-“
And the Southern gentleman yells, “Yeah, but fair market and all. You’ve gotta make exceptions.”
“That old man shit out a five pound infant on the street and then tried to nurse it on mercury from a thermometer. And he gave the poor bastard enemas with formula.”
The Southerner again jumps to the challenge and states, “He would have kept walking but there were cops everywhere.”
“This isn’t a tinkling contest,” Commandant reminds the crowd.
The Southern gentleman offers as a rejoinder, “You’re short in the distance round but you make it up in volume.”
And then he is beset by angry policia, smashing hard with their clubs while he shouts about states’ rights and if he’d been alive during the Civil War, he would have seceded from the Confederacy.

Angry giant wanders in from deep sea home and strolls through Eberhart before stopping at the city park. Begins to unroot the trees and toss them casually into traffic, beasts of burden confused and stampeding, dozens trampled. Riot breaks out and men beat women in front of news cameras. Before long the whole area is dotted with newscopters hovering and recording the fire, the mayhem, the terror, the destruction. Enterprising youths build high pressure slingshots with rubber hoses and milk cartons, begin flinging shit at the helicopters. News reporters in tears as they exclaim, “We’re better than you, we’re on television. We report your shit, we don’t touch it.”

Soon the giant is tempted with a large vaginal sculpture stolen from an art gallery. He is led down back streets to the ocean and then the large vagina is thrust into the water, it’s burgundy creator crying through cracked leather skin, crimson tears, and the giant fucks it mercilessly and shoots cum all over a beached whale. Commandant follows the giant into the water and tries to cite him for public lewdness but is casually tossed back onto dry land, his hat askew, lands in the pool of spunk covering the whale. The artist instantly has a new project in mind: Man’s interaction with semen. He will focus on women and children before unveiling his masterpiece: A tub full of sperm that gallery visitors will be instructed to jump in and struggle until they drown, women becoming pregnant in the process, men dying in their own seed, children enjoying themselves before death. He strokes his chin and watches Commandant struggle to free himself from ropy jissum and thinks, “That oughta scare them out in the sticks.”

Anthony casually walks up and touches the whale and another light goes out in the universe. “Scrimmage games,” he explains to me. “Keep order here when you see disarray.”
“Those trampled people,” I suggest.
“Not half, I wouldn’t. Ironic, always ironic. External forces. Lots of etc. Paperwork for the boys back in…wherever. Can’t disclose the location for security purposes, you understand.”
“Need to get myself a piece of trim,” I say sorrowfully. “Man can’t have a proper time of the day without getting his hole. Root up and all that.”
“Spastics,” Anthony says. “Saw a man deliver a stillborn rhinoceros one time. Was outweighed three to one and still pulled it through. Of course, stillborn. What memory is there to compare?”

My blood has turned blue and my whole body is a strange shade because of it. Commandant appears, wiping cum off his face, and he says, “You two can vouch. Did my duty. Wouldn’t have, normally, but on account of the visitors…” And he motions to two praying mantises, full-size, that are wearing business suits and going over paperwork.
“Important dignitaries, say no more,” Anthony says.
“Who’s the guy in the cloak? What’s he hiding?” Commandant wants to know.
“This is Death,” I explain. “He’s here to bask in the socialist paradise.”
“Socialist! Socialist, would you! God damn if this isn’t capitalism at it’s finest. We’re set to have a seafood eating contest, could draw the best Japan has to offer. Now Chinamen, they’ll wear you down on a wheat diet, but those Nips know just how to eat a fish. Cold and raw or grilled, they’ve been through the wringer before. Caught my own tit in it one time and it took me near six months of crab cakes to undo. All in the best of fun though.” And Commandant hikes up his pants and blinks his eyes and twirls his moustache and says, “Cold wind blowing in. More visitors. We’re reaching powder keg situation here.”