Imagine a group of folks show up in your driveway, deconstruct your car, plant the axel in front yard (at least four feet down, these guys are interested in doing a job right), reattach a wheel on to the protruded end of said axel, and then proceed to strap your body over that tire. Your wrists are bound to your ankles, around and beneath the black rubber, stretching your stomach and chest to the sky. The folks that did this to you bring up a chair, take a seat, and wait for the show. You see it's always a good time 'cause you never know if the weather, or birds or even a simple failure of biology will bring about the act's climax - that's the fun part! ...but Mr. Wellman might say -
I tried to speak to the spirit of your dead grandmother last night. I set fire to a piece of paper on which your mother’s name, who is still living, was written. I drew a circle with a black china marker. On the outside of the circle I then drew the most cryptic things that I could think of at the four cardinal points. I stood in the center of the circle as the paper burned and sternly said out loud in the empty room, empty except for all of the garbage, “Your grand daughter is sick!” again and again until I felt ridiculous. This was at night. The following morning came on like the spell had been cast incorrectly, or like it had conjured the spirit of disgust, or of some anonymous shit-head who had died like they all die: of sadness. The atmosphere and the sky had spilt ink everywhere. The people were a reason to revive eugenics as a form of American bravery. It said in the newspaper that women in Africa had their vaginas shredded into jelly-like black mounds by adolescents with some African-sounding weapon that, from what the description attempted, was a lot like a broom made with steel wires, long and thin.
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