OOOMPAH

The bomb-dog may be trained either for treats or toys, a kind of mini-Halloween at intervals to un-costume hidden dynamite. A mask makes The Man of man, sugar coating the surveillance he is asked to perform until he identifies primarily with the process, this marching music set of instructions a-b-c-d-etc running like a ticker tape or closed captions live-typed the wrods missplled as the operator gets frazzled by the escalating pace with which Doctor DDT has hacked how he was raised and remade his morals as stiff and brittle as a steering wheel, maintaining all the while that he is, if nothing else, being consistent. It ceases to occur to our Captain that the villain is a village, that as the dance-floor empties, the entropy accelerates until the spin is frantic and at half-integers, too many Boylarinas occupying the same dance floor that had previously been quite ample for twice their count. And that the wallflower will at the end triumph over the evening, the lights flickering alive like an exhausted fish pulled to net, the flimsy cross-marketed happy-prize of retribution by divine right, this pompous Aristocrat.