Rudy Christian wrote:

> Where is ][<en these days?
>
][<en is been busy taking care of health & business. I like to be 
healthy and our customers like it when I pay attention to business. 
Other than that...

Together they had long since perfected a game of moving people's junk 
furniture.

Homeowners from the heights would put out a sofa for trash pickup next 
morning. Wendell and John would grab a plushy purple Victorian sofa from 
one house and drive it around until they found a substitute, like a 
broken black n' white television. They would then drop the sofa and pick 
up the television and return the television to where the sofa had been 
left out for the trash. Wendell in a flash of epiphany once says, “This 
will really confuse them.”


In the middle of the lake a mile deep right after the last big war the 
factory on the hill dumped hundreds of tons of surplus munitions. It 
made historic sense for the guys to decide to dump the cig machine out 
there. Out on water where it would sink and never be found. A clean 
heist it was. It was with precedent.


They all stood there to look to see what would be next but it was kind 
of black. As if they looked for God to speak. Show a sign, any sign, do 
something. The assemblage of the canoe and the guys and the dead cig 
machine moved away out onto the quick water and smooth.


Then all on shore that they stood in a gaggle could pick up was sound of 
swish and clank of paddle as Wendell and John hit against the side of 
the canoe. It went like on forever. Swoosh... clank... shit... swoosh... 
clank clank...


Then there was silence.


A rumble of silence like a bloated stomach.


Pregnant to explode out there in a blunt darkness that they were there 
wrapped in, Wendell and John. A thick waft of weed scent drifted on the 
cool night air. A difficult silence. Nearly unbearable, the prospect of 
nothing other than the blackened canvas to stare back at them. A dog 
barks on the opposite shore. A black dog with reason to bark. A rabbit 
involved or a fisherman who walks alone in the woods of the farther 
shore come upon a still breeze. You could hear crickets chirp. Small 
waves swished rounded shore pebbles. Entwisle farted. It was a polite 
pop of a tight noise but just the same.


"Barking spiders," says Karton.


"Shush," says Skeezuks who was now horizontal on his backside along the 
shore with the waves lapped against the ancient stone. He winked his 
eyes and dreamed of the twinkle stars in their far away constellations 
and wondered what more he could ever hope for. Then he was in a rush, 
his feet flashed up through his stomach and in a crushed wave he felt 
like he flew bass akwards out the top of his head.


There was a low mumble across the water before the noise struck out, 
"You don't know shit."


Then splash.

--
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