Steam. I could see my breath once more. As I peered out of the factory from the North emergency exit, I noted with some satisfaction that Gail must have come through for me. The lot across the street was now nearly empty but for the coffee cart, a portly union steward and a young union brother—both men were millwrights, judging from their plumage. In accordance with standard ritual, the steward was loudly reading a section of the current millwright contract while the lowly worker closed up the coffee urn and hastily gathered up discarded Styrofoam cups. The steward’s stentorian tones seemed tin and faint in the cold, early morning emptiness left behind by the departed workers.
     “…light duty rate for more than six months from the initial return to work on a light duty basis unless the employee, the Union representative and the Employer agree to a time extension and coffee in sufficient quantities and qualities,” he intoned, holding the contract binder before him reverently.
    Licking his thumb, he methodically turned the page and continued on as his apprentice carefully tied closed the little waste bag, now full of cups, “Section 17.1. Unsafe Working Conditions! No Millwright shall be required to work alone or without coffee on a job that is considered hazardous! A Millwright who deems a job hazardous shall not be discriminated against if he refuses to work alone or without coffee on such a job. The Employer agrees that two Millwrights shall be provided with coffee and shall work together on jobs such as running belts or drives, on scaffolding or in open pits, where loads are passing overhead, or when welding or burning in hazardous—you done?” I started, thinking perhaps this last was directed at me, but realized then that it was an impatient question for the apprentice, who had tucked the waste bag under the counter-top of the coffee cart.
    He answered with a curt nod.
     “Good. Lets get out of here, kid. Um,” he hesitated then, and held the contract binder up once more and recited quickly, “So ends this reading of the Furd Motors Chapter Millwright Erectors’ Agreement, subsection 17, may the Line Never Stop.”
    He slammed the binder closed, tucked it under his arm and bustled off toward the east. Following closely behind was the junior worker, who hugged himself in the cold and hustled, hunched over in a futile attempt to retain the heat in his jacket.
    I glanced back up the hallway, imagining that I heard noises from inside the factory. I hoped I was wrong…I probably was wrong, I told myself. After all, this hallway, this exit, that breakroom; these were all just a very tiny corner of a very large factory which should now be empty except for a few hazmat volunteers. I looked down at my cart with its gruesome yet deliciously strawberry flavored cargo and thought, yeah, right, empty. Empty except for me, a pile of various bloody Chuck parts and, presumably, Bruce.
    The last time I’d seen Bruce he had been lying in this same cart, unconscious, sporting “Do Not Attempt to Grow Marijuana in Glove Compartment” stickers festively strewn about his face and neck—a neck that included the clown faced cranium of his nameless, miniature conjoined twin brother. I don’t know what the hell I was going to with him anyway, but he was far more dangerous awake and free, where my imagination can run him wild, than he was when I could smell his shitty cologne wafting out of the parts cart.
    A quick glance back outside showed me nothing but an empty lot, the cracked concrete of the side street and the scraggly frozen strip of grass separating them from the featureless factory wall. The coffee service, quickly cooling in exile, stood in the center of the gravely lot amongst the twisted brown remnants of last fall’s crop of weeds. The mercury street lights illuminated the scene in shades of blue and gray as steam threaded up in wisps from the poorly sealed steel urn. I looked to the East, but the millwrights had apparently rounded the corner, quickly making for the employee parking lot and the escape Gail had most likely ‘encouraged’ them to arrange.
    I swung the door wide and cold air rushed past me, reaching up my sleeves to tickle my arm hairs. I instinctively began exhaling slowly through my nostrils to preserve the precious warmth of my nose, which thanked me for my consideration by beginning to run immediately. Fighting back a momentary sneeze, cursing the cold snot stream working its way past my upper lip, I stepped back and positioned the cart in front of the gaping portal to the outside world.
    It was at that moment that loud clattering noises erupted from inside the factory. Startled, I whipped my head round to look, but saw nothing behind but the empty hallway. It began to sound as if the tables in the break room were being tossed about, and I heard chairs scraping their way across the floor and slamming into the walls and each other. One chair tumbled out of the break room into the hallway to land on its side, accusatory and spindly legs pointing back toward the break room. Pulse quickening, I widened my eyes, but just couldn’t see into that room from here. What the hell was going on? Honestly, I couldn’t pick a better time for the lights in the hallway to flicker once and go out.
    Bruce’s laugh bubbled up from somewhere in the resulting impenetrable darkness, and I heard the heavy footsteps of non-skid work boots echoing from the not-so-empty commissary. Panicked, I gave the cart a shove and followed it through the door as it hurtled across the bumpy dirt and frosty brown grass toward the street. The Mercury lights seemed far away in their lofty posts, and the world was still dim in the growing pre-dawn light, but if I were to stand any chance against Bruce I’d need to meet him out where I could actually see him.
    The cart, flying off the street curb, wobbled insanely and threatened to tip over. One of Chuck’s arms shook loose and suddenly jutted up from the cart, waving jovially at me in response to the erratic rocking. Jogging after him, I fought the urge to wave back and instead grabbed the edge of the cart, steadying it even as I renewed my shove. We were now crossing the narrow thoroughfare and, with one hand, I shoved his arm back down around his sticky thighs, trying to ignore the loud clattering of the little metal casters negotiating the cracked pavement below us. I placed all my weight behind the rolling parts bin as it hit the steeply angled curb on the far side of the road.
    Tossed up into the air by its momentum, the cart described a neat arc in fine Dukes of Hazzard style, and landed with a rather sickening crunch. It skidded to a halt; one of its wheels had buckled from the impact and jammed up against the steel bottom of the structure. We were now in the middle of the vacant lot, just a few feet from the abandoned coffee service, and I was struck by the immediate silence that greeted the abrupt end of our short journey. Only then did I turn back toward the factory I had left behind.
    I had looked just in time to watch the emergency exit door shut with a loud crack, pulled closed from within. As the echoes faded around me, I now found myself alone in the chilly Detroit morning air.

    Its housekeeping day here at the SafeTinspector Main Blog. I changed the little trash cans in the bathrooms, emptied the cat box, sanitized the bondage gear, tricked my daughter into taste testing the questionable leftovers, and I spruced up the ‘ol blog.
    First things first, my new friends!

    This here is Arthbard. He’s got a website AND a blog. I really haven’t been bothered to look at his website, but I’ve accidentally clicked over to it from his profile a few times. I don’t think you should go there, really. Seems seditious, and illustrated. His blog, however, is really pretty funny.
    I’m a sucker for nonsequiter and comedic news commentary and Arthbard does both. An excerpt? Sure. Here’s one from his recent expose’ on the many features of his crappy old imitation Swiss army knife:

The Useless Metal Thing without a Hole …
This is exactly the same thing (as the Useless Metal Thing with a Hole -ed), only now it doesn’t even have the pointless hole in it.

    Oh, and he said its OK to call him Arse-bard if you’re a limey bastard, which I’m not.

    This is Admiral Pooper Scooper, a citrus helmeted Persian cat from points unknown to me at this time. He is also an afrotastic little Jewish boy, apparently. Like many of the folks around here, he has a bad case of the fiction bug, but that’s really a healthy parasite to host in your colon. Compared to certain invertebrates I know, anyway. Is he funny? Yes.

You have to ruin everything good, don’t you. Assholes. Thanks to you, I cannot upload a photo I took this morning of our first springtime rose to share with all of my friends.
Fuck you very much.
Strong letter to follow.

    Eagerly awaiting the strong letter…

    This is Sam, Problem Child Bride. I don’t know why she has such a horrific avatar. It’s almost like she picked the first image to appear when doing an image search on google for problem child bride. That’s how I found her avatar, anyway. She’s ostensibly from some damn Hebridea place or other. Not sure I get the reference, my ignorance is showing. Pray that she visits your blog, as her comments are little jewels of intricately designed prose in and of themselves. Like miniature faberge eggs dropped daintily from the hind end of the prettiest unicorn in the fairy valley!
    Her blog posts are just as good, although not as twisted. I wonder why? Here’s one:

Last night I dreamt our cat fell in the shredder. I felt unspeakable relief when I awoke to find her sleeping in her chair,but, on my way to deal with my wee girl’s ‘accident’, at 3am I damned nearly broke my neck on the good-for-nothing, layabout as she deliberately tried to trip me up. I began to think…

    You can find links to all these folks on my sidebar, or click their names to go read their stuff.

    Other housekeeping I did on the blog today includes sprucing up the SafeTselector selections. Are you curious what names I’ve given the Closure episodes? Change the category to “Closure” in the SafeTselector above and then take a look at ‘em.

    In the “You Can’t Even Tell I Did It” department, the “catch yourself up” link list in the Closure episodes is now being pulled from a centrally located file, allowing me to update all the catch-up links in all the episodes at the same time. You can’t tell the difference by looking, though.
    I got Sam pictures to post, too, but I’ve run out of time on account of family obligations of the holiday variety.

    That reminds me: its Easter. If you worship a God who knocked up some chick several thousand years ago and them let some Romans kill their lovechild a few decades later, REJOICE! The kid made it! Now, they say, he’s guaranteed we’ll all make it, too.

    Because of said holiday, you may not see that episode of Closure tomorrow morning, but I’ll try. Check tomorrow anyway; if nothing else you can re-read this EXCELLENT post.

Looking for Closure? Final edits are up for Part 11. Meanwhile, back at the ranch:

    I finally got around to reprogramming the SafeT’unes site. If you’ve been following the SafeT’unes blog, you know its changed a few times since I started it.
    It now will begin playing the tune you’ve selected as soon as you click the “Listen” button, and will give you an on-screen embedded control from Quicktime or Microsoft Media Player (whichever you’ve set as the default on your computer). That’s one less confusing click between you and the screeching cacophany that is SafeT’unes music!
    Other minor change is that the first listbox now has a selection for “newest” SafeT’une and the entire listbox affair is now an included external file in the same manner that BCNav is. Click HERE to go check it out. Let me know if anything is busted…

In other news: Riley (our unborn daughter) was hiccuping or kicking or something last night. I was able to feel the baby moving! Yaaay! I can’t wait to meet Riley. The due date is July 30. Only a few more months until SafeTspawn emerges to cry and suck teat again!

Looking for Closure? Final edits are up for Part 11, posted yesterday morning.
    There’s a decapitation, and the main character is, at one point, menaced by a pair of vending machines.

    In the meantime, I’m going to plead complete and total fatigue. One of my larger clients has been afflicted with what is known in the industry as a “Day 0 virus”. What this means is that we know they have a virus, but none of the virus scanners know it yet. Their entire network has been up and down for the last three days, and Symantec tells us they may not have a fix until Monday or Tuesday.
    Exacerbating this problem is the fact that this client only recently purchased a major systems upgrade from us, and this upgrade was not without troubles, primarily due to the witches brew of verticle applications this corporation required on their new Citrix servers.
    Anyway, I’ve been working some long hours. I had intended to add some links to my blog today and pimp some of my new blog friends/acquaintances. That will have to wait for later.

    Oh, while I’m here, I’d like to feel you people out. Would you like a podcast of me reading episodes of closure? I’ve been told I give good phone. I swear that by the time I’m done you’ll want to blow me*.

* Unless you are a blood relation of mine. In which case you’ll want to invite me over for a nice oven-baked Lasagna.

    I spun around, scanning the entire room. As far as I could tell, there was no asshole foreman here with a tennis-ball sized clown head growing from his neck. The break room was silent except for my own breath and a quiet creak I was surprised to discovered came from the thin rolled steel rim of the cart as my white knuckled grip crushed it ever-so-slightly.
    Stupidly, I checked the inside of the cart for Bruce again. Chuck’s dead, blank stare met mine from beneath the shadow of his own strawberry-smeared butt and thighs. I could barely make out the shape of his protruding tongue in that dim and gruesome shelter, but from my vantage point I couldn’t read the plea which sent me on my current course. What the hell was I looking for here? Chuck filled the cart almost completely; no room for Bruce there.
    My nose, I realized with some irritation, was running slightly from my brief trip out in the frigid darkness moments before. I stepped back from the cart, wiping my nose with the sleeve of my jacket as I moved toward the center of the small break room. About a dozen tables surrounded me in neat rows; scattered amongst them were several dozen cheap plastic chairs abandoned in the rush to leave. Half-eaten meals from a half-dozen ethnicities and junk food manufacturers littered the tables and the floor. On the wall across from the doorway two vending machines, separated by a small closet door, glowered disapprovingly at the mess. Normally they presided over the constant activity of the resting shift workers and, in exchange for small sums of money, donated their heat-sealed factory foods and fizzy drinks to the cause of keeping the assembly line moving. Now they proved that lights go on without us: the cola machine was sadly blinking a lament that it would require exact change until further notice, and the led display on the food machine glowed encouragement to no one in particular that they should try the new Snakker bar, Bacon Bits N’ Honey.
    Shaking my head clear, I consciously ignored the machines and stooped to look under the tables. It was then that I spotted a familiar object stuck to the floor halfway to the vending machines.
    Somewhat nervously, I stepped towards it to confirm my suspicions. Yes.
    Stuck to the floor was the torn remains of an automotive decal which now advised me to “tempt to Grow Mari.” Standing over the remnant of the decal I swiveled my head around again only to confirm once more that I was alone in the quiet room. I went down on one knee and looked closely. Greasy white and green paint gilded the edges of the ripped adhesive strip. Prying it back off the floor, I beheld the reverse image of a very specific, teeny tiny clown face.
    Thoughtfully scratching my cheek, which I found to be sticky with the sweet red Chuck-sauce wiped from my sleeve, I looked toward the broom closet between the vending machines. Was there another tiny piece of sticker in the door jam?
    I stood again, and crossed the remaining steps to the door. The hum of the vending machines surrounded me as I reached to the handle with my right hand. I stopped myself just short of touching it and steeled myself. My back tensed up, my thigh muscles grew taut, and my hand shook of its own accord; I flexed it once to steady it. I made a fist with my left hand and drew it back, ready to throw a punch if necessary. In a quick motion I jerked the door open, idiotically slamming the door into my own foot. Crying out involuntarily, I jumped back as the door swung the rest of the way open to expose a tall menacing figure.
    My heart dropped into my lower intestine and I shrieked like a cheerleader. Lashing out wildly, I was rewarded with a loud crack. His head fell back, leaving him standing there in front of me, headless, wobbling slightly and holding a large sign. I was panting and clutching my chest, adrenaline coursed through my veins, and the realization dawned on me that I had effectively beheaded a life-size cardboard standee of Boba Fett. The helmeted head of the famous Star Wars bounty hunter came to a rest on the floor of the closet and remained partially obscured by the darkness of the its cramped interior.
    Boba Fett’s decapitated body, already losing its wobble, held a sign which read, “ISO9000 vs QC9000 battle! to the death! Tonight! Take one.” Below the sign hung a brochure display filled with small pamphlets. I now remembered.
    Some months ago management had gone on some damn retreat and, as is usually the case, came back sporting a wild assortment of half-baked management fads to subject us to.     For a week we’d been forced to adopt small plush aardvarks as “work buddies” to teach us how to watch out for our fellow workers. Many of them ended up entombed in body panels of Furd Expulsions like wee little pharoah’s wives waiting to serve orange juice to drunk drivers in the afterlife.
    Another week found us all writing one-page short stories to explain out-of-context images snipped from a lingerie catalog. Ostensibly to illustrate goals and life priorities in modern America. The entire stack of completed stories went missing. Many were later found in a rumpled stack secreted behind a toilette near the loading docks, but the balance remained missing. That is, until Ty excitedly brought in a Penthouse Forum Digest magazine in which several stories, including his own, had not only been published but had been given the rating of “Half-Mast.” On the whole, we all considered that to have been the most successful of this year’s batch of management fads.
    Amongst the worst, however, was the fad represented by Boba here. In an attempt to rejuvenate the ISO9000 and QS9000 focus of Furd motors, a series of fights were organized where proxies for the two standards systems donned sparring pads and beat each other to a pulp in the parking lot. Bruce played the part of QS9000 in one bout, and ISO9000 stayed home from work for a few days afterwards.
    Oh, right. Bruce. I impatiently shoved Boba and he tumbled to the floor atop his head. The closet was clearly sans-conjoined twins. I turned and walked back to the cart, my heart slowing back down to a speed approaching normality. I wondered if anyone might’ve heard my scream. Leaning out of the break room, I looked first up the hallway into the factory, and then down toward the emergency exit where I’d left Gail outside. I saw no one, although a quick check of the clock in the break room told me that the hazmat crew must certainly have arrived at the hydroponic installation point by now.
    I could imagine them walking up the line to the position I once shared with poor Chuck. Their union steward, safely wrapped in the warm embrace of his yellow hazmat suit, would be setting up the hermetically sealed coffee urn as the crew began taking samples of the strawberry pie filling ‘blood’ covering the floor under the fallen decal spool. No one would be allowed to drink the coffee under these circumstances, but certain union work rules are absolute; the coffee would be hot and delicious and completely off-limits.
    The hall was empty. The break room was empty. I really didn’t think I had time to look for Bruce…wasn’t actually sure I wanted to find him in any case. Chuck had asked me to hide him, and it was time to move. I wheeled the cart out into the hallway, awkwardly hauling the damn thing into line and shoving it down toward the exit. Hoping that Gail had come through for me, I rolled the cart to a halt next to the emergency exit and cracked it open slightly, peering out into the frozen night.

    Looking for Closure? I posted part 10 on Friday, and today I’ve posted the final edits. As always, there’s no substantive change, just slight mods to the text to enhance readability, clarity and timing.

    Here’s one from the “I S*&t You Not” department: I don’t know about your neck of the woods, kind reader, but in the United States there is a kind of work-at-home carreer available to women sometimes known as “party sales.”
    Women in these professions convince their hapless friends and acquaintances to host ‘parties’ at which these ladies pimp Tupperware, candles, sex toys, cosmetics, cooking supplies, whatever. Tupperware started it, really, but Avon was close on its heels, with the legend of the “Avon lady” being a testament to the incredible power of consumerism in suburban America.
    Billed as being educational (We’re teaching you how to make yourself pretty!) as well as being the best way to buy the strange substances women cake on their exposed skin, an Avon party is usually considered a benign experience.
    What comes to mind when you hear the words “Avon Lady”?

    In my area, apparently, you should be thinking about Satan.

    This weekend my family and I were cruising around the area completing our weekend shopping when we found ourselves behind a large black Toyota pickup truck. In the windows on the back of the cab were the proudly displayed logos of the Avon company. Underneath was, I presume, the phone number of the Avon lady driving the truck along with some catch-phrase from the Avon corporation.
    The license plate read “NATAS 1.”
    I remarked to my wife that perhaps the driver’s name is Natasha. I further surmised that a straight-laced, probably church-going Avon lady probably never thought about the fact that her vanity plate spelled Satan backwards.
    When we pulled up next to the truck at a stop-light, however, I noticed that there was a golden “666″ hanging from her rearview mirror. I looked with interest at the driver, but she looked completely normal, wearing a pleasant blouse, red hair in a big poofy mass, and no more make-up than you’d expect from a thirty-something cosmetic salesperson.
    Beware, citizens: when Satan comes to suburbia, he’ll drive a Toyota and show you how to properly apply your foundation.

    Heather then speculated that she was a Goth specialist. Makes as much sense as anything else, I suppose.

    As Gail stepped over the curb her work boots crushed the scraggly frozen grass with a quiet crackling. The steam from her breath mingled with mine and her normally hostile face seemed slightly less hostile and more…well..concerned? Over her shoulder the noisy activity of thirty or so of our fellow workers proceeded apace, with coffee aplenty. Rake was still looking with interest in our direction, but was now sipping his hot java patiently. Gail spoke.
    “What the hell is happening in there? Toxic in 194? For real?”
    I hadn’t really planned for this conversation. What could I say to her? I needed to get that cart out here, but I didn’t think I’d be able to explain away a trolly-load of Bruce and dismembered Chuck parts. My mind whirled. I suppose it seemed I was staring at her, and Gail began fidgeting nervously. She reached up, cigarette in hand, and pushed a stringy lock of hair back behind her ear, tugging at the bands of her Marlboro Man bedecked hardhat. As the ashes from her cig drifted gently to her shoulder like Beijing snow, her sleeve slipped back to expose the first of a long line of nicotine patches running up her arm. I noted again the tattoos which framed the nicotine patches precisely; tattoos made up of serpentine flowers, tiny dancing teddy bears, and miniature helmeted men driving ATV’s up and down the thorny stems. Her good eye searched my face while her lazy one seemed to gaze down the hall through the open door behind me. She couldn’t see the cart in the break room from here, could she?
    “Dude! You ok, man? What the fuck happened to you?” She looked honestly concerned now. I realized that she probably misinterpreted my silence as traumatic shock.
    Well, perhaps it was shock. That gave me an idea. I lay a hand on her non-ashy shoulder, leaned in and spoke earnestly.
    “No, I’m not OK. Everyone needs to get out of here now, Gail.”
    The touch to her shoulder startled her, and she glanced involuntarily down at my hand. She looked up and her good eye met one of mine while her wayward one continued looking down at my fingers where they rested on the thick fabric of her jacket.
    “What?”she asked, reaching across her chest and covering my hand with hers. I could feel the filter of her cigarette, still damp from the last drag she drew through her cracked lips, touching the back of my wrist. I was quite proud of my ability to repress the shudder the moist contact threatened to send through by body. Instead, I continued on with what I hoped was convincing honesty,
    “They told me to make sure everyone was out of here, can I count on you to tell them?” For a moment it seemed as if both her eyes steadied and centered on my own. Something softened in those yellow peepers, and she nodded to herself, straightening up under the pressure of my hand and bringing the cigarette to her lips once more. I watched with interest as she drew a great breath through her cancer stick, burning at least a full half-inch in a single pull. Very impressive lung capacity for a life-long smoking enthusiast. I took my hand off her shoulder as her lips parted to release the thick white smoke. It drifted up past the beneficent visage of the Marlboro Man she had long ago pasted to her helmet. I blinked the wisps out of my eyes.
    “Yeah. You can count on me,” she answered, then cocked her head quizzically, “But what’re you gonna do?”
    What was I gonna do? Um…
     “I… I gotta go tell more people,” yes, that seemed plausible. I turned halfway toward the door, grabbing the edge of it as if to draw it closed behind me. I stopped then, and looked over my shoulder at Gail where she still stood looking at me. What was she waiting for? “Tell them, Gail. Get them to leave. They are all in danger.” Was I being overdramatic?
    As a token of her resolve, and in complete defiance of all natural law, she then dropped her half un-smoked cigarette to the ground and stepped on it, all while maintaining eye contact with me.
    “Take care, Joe.” She then flashed a mouthfull of discolored teeth at me in an unprecedented grin and with that she turned and jogged back across the street, yelling to the little crowd, “Hey! Hey! Listen up, assholes!”
    I didn’t wait to see the results. Gail was not so much persuasive as she was effectively abusive. They would get the message. Stepping back into the factory, I pulled the door shut behind me. I then ran down the hall, whipping round the corner into the break room. My boots, slick with the frost from the ground outside, slid across the linoleum and I wiped out, painfully slamming my hip into the floor.
    I groaned a bit from the pain, and grabbed the edge of the waiting cart to pull myself up off the floor. As I stood shakily, I looked down where my hand now gripped the cart.. shouldn’t.. Bruce’s head be there?
    Perhaps it should, I answered myself unnecessarily, but as you can see from the clearly visible and gruesomely severed pelvis of our friend Chuck Handlon, Bruce is no longer here.

    A new episode of Closure hits the blog tomorrow morning, if all goes well. In the meantime, here’s a word from my Jeans.

    Screw all y’all! We’re magic, and full of goodness, but we hate more than badgers. I dare you to reach into my pockets. Its a plan! Yes, a plan.
    First, I’ll wrap myself around your ungrateful, barely washed asses, making you look better than you really are. Then I’ll slowly deteriorate over time, fraying, gathering mustard stains and boring holes in MY OWN DAMN KNEES.
    Eventually you’ll have to buy another pair of us. Does it matter that you leave wadded receipts in my pockets and wash me? Not to you, but to me I find it an ideal opportunity to make hard, nut-shaped wads of paper that you’ll puzzle over in the hours we spend together. What will we do in those hours when I’m desperately trying to ignore the fact that I’m so tight I could give a man camel-toe?
    Find a bench and park your butt on it, you’ll be sitting on me, not the bench, don’t you ever forget it.
    You find me comfortable, don’t you, you shit? Well, I find you execrable. Don’t you preach syntactical calm at me, Francis, you know I’m right.
    You know what happens when you put a marble in my left pocket and then leave me lying on the floor of the bathroom for eight hours? Reach in…yes, yes, you see? It looks and feels and acts exactly like the marble you left me.
    My cotton comes from third-world countries, and was handled by more women than you’ll ever bed. That goes double for the girls reading this. I’m more well traveled than you, man. Until you washed me the first time, I had the grime of another continent embedded in my fibers. Did you smell me? Yeah? Did you like my new-jeans funk? That’s just Julio’s or Koei’s dreams and hopes as their gnarled hands struggle to make one…more…stitch.
    I call them mom and dad, and I call you legs.
    lets go get ice cream.

Not only did I post Closure Part 9, but I’ve already put in the final edits in. Nothing substantive has changed, but some awkward phrasing has been corrected and the timing of the one or two jokes has been tightened. You can read it by scrolling down or clicking HERE.

The Marmite Echo. Only 1 minute long! Click HERE
This is the first new SafeT’une in MONTHS. Its pretty short, and at less than 1MB, you can download it in a hurry. Enjoy!

Telephone conversation with my 4-year-old daughter Sam, who stayed home with Gramma today on account of an ear infection and a bad cough:
Dad: Are you feeling better?
Sam: Yeah! I feel fine!
Dad: So you can hear good?
Sam: Yeah!
Dad: Can you hear your hair talking?
Sam: Dad!
Dad: Well?
Sam: No!
Dad: Can you see out your nose?
Sam: (laughing) No!
Dad: Can you see with your eyes?
Sam: I don’t want to talk about this anymore.
Dad: But its important. We need to know you’re feeling better.
Sam: Da-ad!
Dad: Sam, how many hands do you have?
Sam: Two.
Dad: Are you sure? I think you have three.
Sam: No, I have two.
Dad: You better count them.
Sam: One… Two…. Two. I have two!
Dad: How many fingers?
Sam: I don’t want to talk about this anymore!
Dad: Do you have 24 fingers?
Sam: NO!!
Dad: I thought you didn’t want to talk about it anymore?
Sam: I have five on each hand.
Dad: So how much is that, total?
Sam: Here. Talk to gramma.

    With Chuck and Bruce’s combined weight pulling it toward the Earth’s core, I found the cart was surprisingly difficult to push and even harder to steer as it bounced against stacked containers, drums, and hoppers along the way. I was trying my darnedest to get as far away from line position 194, Hydroponics Installation, before the hazmat team arrived, summoned by the alarm Bruce had set off to provide himself cover.
    With my hands on either side of Bruce’s bobbing, snoring head, I trudged along under the mezzanine on a path perpendicular to the line which Must Never Stop. I cought myself mouthing that mantra along with my thoughts as they ran by in my head. The Line Must Never Stop, but tonight it had, and the man laying atop my friend’s severed pelvis was the cause. I added that atrocity to the list of crimes and slights I’d suffered under his tyrannical reign as shift foreman. He’d stopped the line.
    He’d also killed Chuck; a man who, judging by the strawberry flavored blood and strange black internal bits exposed by the violence visited upon him, was not a man at all.
    Chuck’s smiling face and reassuring voice came unbidden to my thoughts. The time we worked together on the line already seemed like a nostalgic, bygone era, though it was only minutes gone. It was my loyalty to him that had complicated this already bad situation so.
    See, if I was smart, I thought as I righted the course of the creaking cart yet again, I would’ve left Chuck lying there. I could’ve run from Bruce and the damned forklift, and wouldn’t have this cart-load of trouble to deal with. I looked down at Bruce again. His eyes, mouth, and miniature clown-headed brother all still sported handsome decals proclaiming the inadvisability of dashboard marijuana horticulture. I wasn’t sure how long he’d remain unconscious, and I regretted leaving the wreckage of my sticker gun back by the line. It had made an effective cudgel, and I would love to have a chance to take a couple more cracks at that skull of his.
    I wheeled around a stack of boxes, following the yellow striped pathway toward the glowing “Exit” sign. I had no plan beyond that door, especially when it came to Bruce. I had a crazy image of myself nursing him back to health, strapping him up in a kitchen chair, lovingly hanging matching Sesame Street bibs on him and the clown, spoon feeding him oatmeal and reading him Dostoevsky until he begged to confess to the authorities.
    Shit, what a ridiculous image. Even if Bruce confessed to trying to kill me, there’d be the matter of Chuck’s tongue, to whom I’d promised sanctuary. I was passing through a narrow hallway on the north side of the factory now, past an empty breakroom; half-eaten lunches and abandoned magazines bore testament to the evacuation prompted by the hazmat alarm. Fifty yards away was the end of the hallway and an emergency exit, through which I saw pre-dawn darkness, and felt a layer of winter air flowing up my pant-legs; it was already propped open.
    Oh, yeah, everyone would be outside now, waiting and watching with interest to see if the Furd factory was going to collapse or begin emitting toxic fumes. Your average factory worker loves bad news, and standing close to a factory on hazmat alert only seems crazy if you’re the sort who stops to think about it.
    I hauled back with all my strength, stopping the cart and wrenching my already sore shoulder. Holding in a gasp from the pain, I back-pedaled to the break room and spun the cart in and around the wall so that it wouldn’t be visible from the hallway. The turn was a bit tight, and Bruce’s head hit the corner rather harshly. To my consternation, he moaned pitifully. Was he waking up? I froze, cocking a fist back, hoping I’d be able to put him back into dreamland without killing him.
    I hesitated; how hard was hard enough? To my relief, after a frosty second or two Bruce went back to snoring. His brother, covered by the sticker I’d fired from my poor, smashed decal gun, continued his eternal kissing, causing the sticker to ripple slightly.
    I relaxed my fist and, leaving the cart, stepped out into the hallway. I turned around and looked back into the breakroom, making sure I couldn’t see the cart from this vantage point. That done, I strode the hall towards the exit swiftly, looking down at myself. Belatedly, I began worrying about my torn jacket, the welts on my arm from the decal gun, and the smears of strawberry pie-filling stuff on my knees, chest and arms; perhaps I could make up a story about a mighty struggle with a toxic jelly donut.
    Despite my worries, I didn’t hesitate to burst forth into the cold night surrounding the Furd factory. My breath puffed white clouds in front of my eyes and the harsh mercury vapor lights of the Detroit street lamps cast a blue tint to the world and turned the red sticky fluids on my body to a glossy black. Problem solved, I thought, as far as anyone else is concerned I’m covered in oil now, definitely not berry flavored blood.
    This side of the factory bordered a road, separated from me by a cracked and filthy sidewalk and a strip of mottled grass and weeds. Across the road was around thirty of my coworkers, standing in a vacant and gravel strewn lot. They stood about laughing and drinking coffee from the portable service which sat steaming into the pre-dawn night. Judging by the presence of the coffee service, there would be a union steward among them.
    Presently, I was spotted by Rake at the same time as I spotted his black form spearing up from the center of the little crowd. He raised his Styrofoam coffee cup and hollered out,
     “Hey! Joe! Over here!”
    My thoughts darted back to the parts cart sitting in the break room down the hall behind me. Chuck’s partitioned body, pressed down by Bruce doing a crack impersonation of a Carhartt tablecloth, sat in the darkness awaiting my help. Hide me, buddy, my silenced friend had licked into the air. What could I tell these people to get them out of here?
    As I stood waffling, a thin female form separated from the group and began crossing the street towards me. In one hand she held a cigarrette, the tiny red glow of the tip poking through the night and pointing the way to the earth below her feet. In her other hand she clutched the rest of her current pack of cigarrettes against her chest like her life depended upon it.
    I couldn’t make out the yellow of her sunken eyes yet, but there was no doubt that Gail Koslowski approached.