DEA

rub yourself on the hand of a mad man. pretending that it is someone else and cleaner and not falling to seduction of identity.

key fobs. any use. security chip. weak signal for entry to a college dorm.

stefon. that was the name on the card with the smudged ink beneath it and a careful row of numbers expressing a flirtatious message.

opening up a saucer that is barely more than a tin can. and pulling out aliens packed in like sardines to the pressure of the desert.

gray bodies. peeking out of tangled and soft metal. a wreck crushed by the impact of the sand in the desert and the heat of the sky.

drugs flow down the valley, like rivers that come off the mountain, with little cause about the effect that may soon come.

was there ever really an answer? nothing waiting beyond the veil and an empty board for people who think that they really see some -thing more.

there is no answer but death to the problem that haunts those who live.

how can they so willing hold secrets? the vines that creep down through the file cabinets, thorns ruffling through blank headers and mystical number notations. there is a method to ...

"were the potatoes satisfying, sir?" "no, they were quite bland." "then perhaps try them with cyanide."

This is our submission. Perhaps a bit rushed but directly to the points needed to be made.

case agent presence has intensified. we are still collecting data.

If there's a place left, we would like to join.

"Dang it, Gabe. Not again," remarked Michael while beating him with a blanket, looking down the river where the evil spirits flew.