The Fouth Case....

Under a thin gray veil of a streetlight, Dr.P took out his watch. It was a quarter past twelve, past midnight. There was not another living thing within eye or earshot on this cold street. The good doctor leaned against the lamppost and sunk deeper into his coat. He pictured a warm room in another life, the door not even closed behind him. There was not his home. But there was comfort. Elizabeth, the daughter of Sheldon, her milky flesh and her face so fast to blush. Her arms pawed him like branches against a house. It was from her, wasn’t it, This watch. The inscription had been on the back, now worn down and rendered illegible. There were times, though few that he felt a slight stab of pity for her. In the red fire-lit foyer her freckled back, her big mid-western tits all heaved over him. That morning when he left she cried. He did not. He heard of her death from his cousin, who was also her cousin. By the falls, the tremors she had died. The falls. That was his disease. That was the one he walked away from in doubt. But with this news, with her death, “by god” he said, “she made it, she made it that far, to Illinois. I never thought she could do it.” If only he had known, he would have given her wings with which to fly, thin cellulous fiber wings that undulated in the still air. He would have cradled her petrie dish one last time and kissed the gelatin contained within it. By now it was far beyond his hand anyway. And then…

A dark figure emerged from the other end of the street. A Chinaman, he never looked up, placed a brown paper wrapped package in the doctor’s hands and shuffled away without a word.

A fortnight before this, Dr.P was preparing to board the Saint Agnes, a proud vessel among those in harbor. The captain, one Mr. Prescott, had requested a ships doctor via a mutual acquaintance, Admiral Boswell having heartily endorsing the good doctor, Captain Prescott could hardly turn down such a recommendation. Upon arriving, Dr.P sensed something, there was a smell about the ship that smelled like blood and pathos. Once before he remembered smelling this, a humid clearing in the jungle. He barely knew what he was looking for, which was why he was out searching in the first place. A blind toothless old necromancer put a clay bowl in his hand and pushed it up to his lips. What he saw, he wished unseen and still he wakes up sweating, and his gums are bleeding. He saw amid flames his own face, with a patch over one eye, in his mouth, thick heaving grubs. They are spilling and he can’t get the words out, but they seem like a warning. Although afraid, he repeated the scene over and over. Hoping to read his own lips. “…..the house…far (fall?)..make..it..them..” he has tried so many times to make it out, he has assured himself that one day he will say the same words to his other younger self so be rested assured.

He has smelled the same odor of misgivings since, many times.

Today he does not know that. How could he? Once on board the Saint Agnes, he retreated to his quarters to avoid the onslaught of filthy begging hands of bestial faces of crowds of flesh like a Flemish crucifixion. Give the peg boy a sack of oranges to toss amongst the ravel, that will suit them. Im not here to lay these hands on syphilitic carrion. “Doctor, I hope you find your room well suited for you,” The first mate said as he heaped the doctor’s bags upon the small bed. He stood close to the doctor and lingered there, talking through his red moustache and his tainted teeth. “the captain… the mess.. the deck…”

He wouldn’t stop talking, the warmth of his breath crept up the doctor’s neck, and he held a white handkerchief up to his face. Finally alone, the doctor removed from his bag a small wooden box that contained a tension motor that moved a rotating flat disc. Upon this he placed a small oil lamp, which he lit. Over the lamp was placed an enclosed screen, triangular made of silk on a wooden frame three feet high. Various sized holes in the screen let light pass through as it spun on the rotating disc. Spinning, patterns of light emerged from the screen. The doctor sat before his contraption and closed his eyes…

Light and unlight became the field in his vision. Blank became color, he breathed in deeply and specters and spectrums invaded his field, this was his communion. Spinning, the light evaporated, the patterns dissolved. Figures and shapes became shadows, The doctor’s eyes focused deep before him before nothing. He was there, not there. Nowhere.

“This” the doctor declared,

“…Will be my scalpel.”

The Third Case...

Maggie left the TV on for the same reason someone leaves food out for you, they think your incompetent. Maggie believes I am incompetent with my free time. I turn off the TV. Its just you and me house, we are both not haunted but, we both wont to be haunted. I relax into my kitchen chair like a Joey in its pouch. My spin rises out of my back searching like an inch worm for a stem. I can’t help but to listen to the brown transmissions in the ether. I fill for a line to follow, I a take God sip, then I exhale yesterdays newspapers. I ride the empty path until, my wires cross, I pick up a prayer "o please god don’t let me pee my bed." This plea skips me, and goes straight to my sympathy. I fine tune in, a rollercoaster of daisy chained belligerent sectary Kali skulls pass and record me, I turn in to supernatural 481. I am venerable, I listened again hoping not to be triangulated not to be lost, not to be found in a ally ranting; viva Abandonner! Viva section me, squeeze my intestines like tooth paste, divide all my parts, put them into mayonnaise jars, and tupowear bowls. That’s the only way to hide when your caught listening. I listen deeper I lean into the infinite maw with a bottomless stomach, no rail. Just a dead line, I lost the patient. He will be drowned in urine by them. I have fear, there are no corners I am exposed for light years. I am skinny dipping in the river stix, I am dread, joy, Ka voyeur, its too late to stop. I am pulled from the ether dragged like a snails head, over the cooled, dead corpse of the wood floor, into my safe lead lined closet. Clothing, hangers entangle me into a prison womb. Under a red milk crate of records hides my Chinese immortal heart. Under the trapped sounds, is a shoe box full of what I love. for a moment satire held its tongue, and the paint box full of letters held its breath, there’s the truth of me. Behind the disillusionment that there is a still born in Joseph tomb, lays a boy lead off track by fact. What’s left if you aint got religion, what’s left when time makes all your decisions. A Chinese alchemist twin worms of mountain and river or maybe Immortality and knowledge? More like a tranny fucking his/herself. Is it me or is someone burning toast? I am half man half ghost. How can I be guilty I, am not me judge, I’m 382. I pull out like death in reverse, I am in itchy damp piss, dry eyed and milk all around me on the floor. It was morning when "I left." It is now night, which night I do not know. The doors is wide open, letting every form of fling and buzzing second hand typewriter porn junky’s needles in. The door also let the outside in. The house is out of its own warm breath it was drowned with me in it; the kirks. I rise from the sticky wet, and physically go to the closet. Inside I see the records, I look to long, one begins spinning. It is a record I did not own until that moment. I here singing, he sounds like he was bured alive in the past "When I want you, to fetch me some cool water, you gave me venomous spit, I asked the lord if yous was the devils daughter he told me ""son you need to repent."" When I ask you for some money to pay our rent you say look sucker I give up broke ass nigers for lent. Oh I am going to beat you women I’m going to bet you until you make sense, oh I am going to knock you to the floor and make ya holler "" tune my devils fork to 584"" The needle lifts like the sound of foot steps quieting behind you. It saw me but its voice is a life time away from its Adams apple. Somewhere something or some things are slowly turning east. Oh Jesus my heart beats collide with each other like a train suddenly with out a track. I don’t want to picture them picturing me. I don’t want to be seen. I hastily close the closet behind me I am now just my body and what ever is in this closet. There’s teddy unblinking soul magnate. No time to play I cant loose focus my mind can never again be a wedgie board for a hundred disenfranchised hands. I 888ed for two years. I escaped with every one else, into music, book, movie, TV, video game. I made a bunker to hide form the cosmic rage of daddy betting mom, daddy fucking mom, daddy molesting the little one. Daddy turning the radio up high, to drowned out the drowning of his victims, drowning himself, drowning his ancestors. Daddy is meditating on my door. He is a parasite in me. Kept clean by keeping clean. We are a parasite on him, don’t wake daddy. I have to make a Alice choose, the paint box or the shoe box. 1 or 5, above me in the closet the ties hanging like meat hooks the noose of work. The noose of all the good men who safely turned off the world, brought down the power plants that came with it. The world fell apart around them but they stood fast, bleeding out the nitrogen disabling the weapons. When we are cave men again we will not find a lobotomized Siva. He will not rub his nipples with two hands and wipe drool with another then scream "turn me on." We will owe them so much, I will open both containers and, make an alter to the soulless martyrs. Oh Buddha they filled your bowl when you where empting the world and, Christ they were the Frankenstein that made your body and, blood. The blood that held your memoir in the Toa . Not yet I am not ready made. I need to hold to the center, the now. I am being looked at not looking. The center is the first eye, it sees everything from behind. No mirror could expel or expose the center. The white cookie tin with the green paint strokes on top became a paint box’s 14 years ago. That paint box became a place to put letters 10 years ago. The internet caused the box to stay sealed for 6 years. The shoe box is more shame filled then a cum rag in a salvation army bucked. it’s the one I’ll open I shift from 2, to 3 to 5. Maggie’s red heels, where is my shameful talisman upholstered in the skin of bulls testacies, doom. where? I get dizzy think of all the wrong places. I have lost way more of me then I have found. How can I escape when I am not passable for myself. I am 3% me, the rest of me is made up of tar tentacles of mass media, mass hysteria, mass hungers, Possessions, pass life regurgitations and, dreams without scaffolding. I think I am more bounty the quicker picker upper then me. How can that change. There is nowhere to go but between the selfish hunter , and the selfless herd, a Ka voyeur. There are other chooses. Teddy offered some for a price. Teddy was a recording, the offer was probably not even meant for me. That’s the deepest truth its all not meant for us. We think we are a big part of something but we are not the host, the guest of honor, or the guest for that matter. We are not the reason, the result, the cause, or the conclusion. There is no system for us because we are not thought of. We made our own systems and now time is proving our creators, judges, and saviors are sock puppets. We are nonevents between the big bangs book ends filled with harlequin romantic novels written in disappearing ink. That’s to much conjecture and not my problem. I can’t find a shoe box let alone...ohh I fell, my arm. I’m laying on the wall. All the shit in the closed is on top of me. Jesus the house must be side ways. Is everyone side ways. I hear something and it is not with my ears. I got to be still, I am in the closet it is lead. Are those voices? The neighbors, oh god they don’t deserve this. I can’t hide. I should of always hidden; shit. Don’t go out there death will not save you from them. Maggie! That’s My Maggie. There are no hero’s they will teach you this forever. Fuck, no hum the powers out every were. What if its an earthquake and I am a new age nut case. What is that sucking noise. I most be still and listen. It is randomly growing louder and quieter nearer and farther. It’s not look for me. It’s a dry sucking that becomes wet. causing a one less hysterical mind to go away. Its must be big. Its not don’t give a fuck about us big, because its eating , kidnapping or killing, it gives a fuck. This means its not the kind of thing I fear the most. It is finite. It has to be looking for me. I was the one listening. I hear Maggie she’s crying for help. And that help means me I am the only other person under sixty in the neighborhood. I will use the paint box, you’re a badass. shit is scared of you. No I can’t move. I will stay right fucking here and get her to come here into my bunker.

Henry was shocked and angered at the comments that Dr Courier had made against Doc P. The way he asked " Maggie Harper was one of your….client Doctor?" First he knew that she was one of Dr P’s cases. Second why the fuck did he pause before client, like a cop would pause when asking a hooker "is this your...boyfriend." He wanted to knock down all the mutton chopped paintings of French faggots that collective work didn’t lead to anything more then the invention of the douche when compared to Dr P‘s achievements. Why did Académie Des Sciences call a front line general of the army of intelligentsia to their halls. Just to humiliate and then dishonorably discharge them. They treated him like a common witch. Henry had only been with Doc P for under 6 month but, "my God" he thought all the things he has seen in this short amount of time. Doc P was being tried for nothing short of malpractice against a house. A fucking house. We weren’t even there when it happen. Whatever it was. But Henry was there when they saw Magie... Henry filled with dread held his sit he forgot the house by throw a sheet over the bird cage. Why didn’t Doc P defend himself. He Didn’t even pretend to pay attention. In truth Doc P was not paying attention at all to what was for all intents and purposes a kangaroo court. He truly was not there. Dr P was to transfixed on a meeting he would attend with Dr Courier 6 years from now. Dr P Knew this was just a side effect of case 12 but, all the same it seemed more real then the room he was in. In the future Dr Courier looked worked up like Teddy Roosevelt on the stump. He was waving his hand like a wand over a red milk crate filled with papers, records, with a shoe box next to it. He said trembling like a chowowo thanks to the rash but brave sacrifice of Young Henry Davis, we have these letters found in the basement of what we know now as the source of the transition. Here in these yellow papers we have our only chance to find a translation, a cure, or at very least a reason. A copy of these scraps will be made available to every discipline we have at our disposal blah blah imperative.

Dr P saw through the crowd a bloated greasy grey women with lips that looked like two uncomfortable grubs. He felt her thoughts "the only reason I am here is the same reason that the tarot card lady, and the tea leaf guy is here I am one of a thousand hedges. Computers will dissected eat then rape every letter. comparing them with DNA, Morse, Caesar ciphers, anagrams, and stars. I am here because I have no where else to go no one has any where else to go. I’m luck I can go home poor some tea and read. No microscope, voodoo dolls, dosing stick, just read. They don’t know why they choose a room this white, I do. Yes it easy for anyone the white is control the white is pure the white says daddy my be down but daddy will save you, when the volcano goes off daddy will wrap you in his corpse. Daddy is dead there are just a bunch of frightened boys, a planet of piggy’s. Then she fixed on Dr P disembodied eyes. She screamed "their here their fucking here."

Dr P stood up bowed to his accusers grabbed Henry by the arm and pushed throw the fine Victorian doors. In the hall Henry made mean faces at paintings as he talked to Doc P. The first word Doc P listen to were the ones Henry spoke as soon as they entered the light of day. "Doc P they seriously think you believe diseases are intelligent?" Dr P picked a leaf from a tree they passed. "Is lounging Vishnu that dreaming of you intelligent? Child you can only know a disease mind by the bad parody it plays with our bodies including or brains. It’s language makes our teeth fallout, boils form, fever boil your brain, then loosens and blackens your organs that eventual slide out your anus. Diseases have been telling jokes for millions of years and our misery is their punch line." "Doc P I don’t know if I will ever be able to use these pathology metaphors you use to solve medical mysteries." Doc P straitened his glasses "yes metaphors." Dr. P wanted to tell Henry that that viruses also sang. Sirion or saints their song elures even the aware. That those songs was filled not just the opium slots in his brain but all the slot. Instead he would explained what he could about the case. About Maggie, about poor Simon.

Old Old House...Part 4

>

…It was dark.

It was extremely dark.

It suddenly dawned on me that I had been asleep, but as long as I was asleep, it should have been daylight by the time I awoke. Either this was not where I had slept, or there was another idea about daylight, I felt heat on my back, and in my mouth a dry thirst like I had never known before.

So I am left alone in the desert, parched.

But the four walls that once held me, now they start to recede.

I could not have known…

I was once in my little old old room, where I grew up

But this is not it. I awoke in a black and cold cell,

I could hardly move.

The darkness more dark than a boarded up theatre, darker than the receded eyes of Mu.

I listened for a moment. Nothing but the scarce shuffle of insect legs, gnawing of rats in the walls.

I panicked. Only for a moment.

Then I realized where I was. I was there.

I was in 1608. The old old house.

I felt suddenly warm, warmed like I was,

Like I was home.

Home for the first time since going home…how is that? Why?

I felt safe enough to venture out of the door.

Without a sound I went down the dark hallway. I knew this place once , once.

That door. In the corner of the kitchen. It goes downstairs into the basement. I can swear that the frame the door frame is breathing, at least expanding. I swore I saw the door

Going in and out.

Like the invisible hand that exists where it does not really exist, I was shoved toward the door.

And down a ricketed splintered Jacobs ladder

That led down into the blackest depths

That’s the basement.

The killing floor

They are swarming. Can you hear something swarming?

This is it.

A single chair on that floor sits facing the wall.

I suppose I should sit.

You can hear that swarming cant you?

In the corner. Oily rags or a cast off tarps

It stirs. And something is rising. It is a familiar frame.

Arms, neck, trunk. Its rising. But like frames were dropped out.

Where there should be a face there is caved in, a pumpkin left on the porch a week past Halloween.

And did it try to cry out?

I did not want to hear it.

It did try to cry out.

And at me it was moving toward, I must have done something.

I did that to it.

Stems. Arms. There were ropes familiar like in my dreams. No bricks, they were rotten.

The stairs could never hold me.

The door shut itself, the breathing the only breathing that was by the door has ceased.

Shut.

I am alone with it.

And it moves toward me.

I will not turn around.

I feel the rancid exhaust that was breathing against me.

I am colden.

I am

Overcome.

I did it.

I did it.

I did it.

Please make

Her let go.

The Second Case..

…..Doctor P, who had undertaken the task of moving a large amount of his ancient records out of a vault in his office to a rented van parked in a dark corner of the underground garage. The doughy-faced bastard from across the hall blocked his way. “I can put those all on electronic record for you, you don’t have to keep carrying them down to the ministry of data all the time.”

Dr.P: “To the what? I mean..Yes, that’s where I go with these, to that…data place, but you see my brother in law works there as a clerk, the poor fuck and well with everyone giving in to the abject indolence of, whatever you said ….you have probably never had your loyalty tested……Have you?”

“Look, I only said because-“ doughy started to say

“Because you can’t keep that gaping fish maw closed, move out of my way.”

Behind his home, the burning fire cast its heat like Indra’s net over his body. One by one, yellowed old files and envelopes were tossed in.

Bah, ..garbage…garbage…nothing..

And then

There was a particular envelope that Dr.P noticed and it was apparently so important that he saved it from being burned and took it with him. Abandoning the fire, and the remaining papers he went inside. Sitting down, he held the old, unopened envelope near his face and smelled it. Nothing. The old odors were gone out of it. It died along with its subjects. He sat back and remembered his loyal dutiful service Ahhh, those days. The Spanish influenza, cholera. It was as if the young viruses were having their halcyon days along with the untapped sun and unbleached air. Let them have their fun, I would say.

But there were those who objected. Those diseased themselves. There was the Colonel, one B.I Boswell, and NOT the same Rev.B.I Boswell who is currently the abbot of St.John’s, but his grandfather. His presence was recalled vividly, I liked him, Dr.P thought, even though he was a boorish bastard, and an incorrigible alcoholic.

“To drink!”, he said, standing too close to the doctor with his hot gin breath . He held up a glass, “to drink is both science AND art, and to those of us who do it right..” he drained half his drink in one gulp “…it is also… religion.“

The Doctor himself never had the stomach for liquor and was often glad to be afforded the inarguable excuse of being “allergic” to it.

Bombs were going off in the distance , the colonel seemed unaware as he went on talking in garish tones, raising his hand and his glass whenever a dead comrades name was invoked. One especially large blast shook the table sending the butts and dirt in an ashtray scattered. He wasn’t listening anymore to the colonel’s words only for the next explosion. A bomb hit so close that fragments of earth hit the roof of their tent like fat rain drops. At the same time with inexplicable prowess, the colonel swept the Doctor into the air, holding him by the shoulders. “God Damnit, Man! Look at me! Don’t you see? He is angry!.. Anu. ANU! ANU! He is angry! He wants them back!.. why?

Because his own son bit off his testicles! An spit out three bastard gods of the sky! Wouldn’t you be angry?” He let Dr.p drop to the floor in a heap. “It is almost too late”, the colonel announced.

Outside the colonel sped toward the doctor in a jeep, he sat stripped naked behind the wheel. “Be still Teshub! Be still before me!” he heard him shout as he narrowly missed being overrun. He had no choice, he had to accompany the colonel, lest he never return and too much of the doctor’s own future lay within the old colonel just as the lesser god’s own future lay within Anu’s testicles. “We are at WAR, don’t forget that, medic! Don’t let your guard down and think the bandits are not coming! I tell you this, they ARE coming, you don’t even know. They come because you don’t believe in them” his body, fat and pink, shook at every bump

,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,’

Dr.P:

There was a clearing in the desert. It was open and the cold air swelled around us. Boswell leaped out of the jeep and stood in the center of the clearing with his arms open, crying out. I knew at that moment what must be done. I overtook him with a blow from behind. I had no choice you see. Down he went on his back. His great belly, like a hairy tarp stretched across a vast mound expanded and depressed like a monstrous bellows fueling some vast furnace.

He was out, and not moving.

I had prepared a make shift scalpel, but as I drew it, I noticed..

A tiny hole in his trunk. I put my hands on him.

I had knuckles deep within like a faith healer, my hands drew back nothing.

Then, a bloody piece of tissue, protruding the surface. It’s a clotted mass of spent tissue. Could it be?

Is this Anu’s broken testicle?

It writhes by itself between my fingers as if seeking ground.

I do not know where to cast it, into the ground or upward toward the starless horizon.

It kept it, in the bottle of the colonel’s gin, after I emptied its contents over his spent body in order to sterilize the site, you see.

It was a long night that night I spent watching over his body.

The next morning, after the colonel was dressed and shaved by his attendants, I saw him at the mess tent. His manservant brought him his usual aftershave colonic garnished with herb in a highball glass for breakfast. The colonel waved him away. He looked at me with gaunt face, what had grown it seemed years older rather than hours since the events of the last night, he nodded in my direction.

I nodded back.

Boss: “OK let me hear what you got.”
Billy: Ok sir here it is “Your mouth is Pandora’s Box spewing farther the four horsemen of uselessness Laziness, delusional, Pathetic and selfishness. When industrious people contribute to society speak in your direction their most likely address the useful and honest fungi on your feet then the pompous wind bag it unfortunately has to reside on. What is worse then a lack of humility is when some one with no redeeming qualities that’s never lifted a finger for humanity is also argent. Just like every other jackass he associates with he sits on a bar stole refuting scientist, doctors, and authors how work hard for years to hone their skills just to have a creation that unfortunately learned to speak refutes their work with the first nonsensical statement that comes out of his lie hole. While people build homes for the homeless, donate money to feed children. This sloth thinks he is a hero\victim deserving of all that is give to him. This lead assed riding the back of them slaved men that came before him, so he could drink dance and play his life away. Food makes it self roads build themselves and heat magically comes to the building. Fires go out by themselves criminals turn themselves in. the only person we could not do without is you. Marx, Van Gogh , and Oppenheimer all rolled together into one saver of man. Thank you buckaroo bonsai for explaining everything to me I like how you simplify complex issues that takes years to study into you miss informed interpretation of a article you plagiarized.” Done with his self righteous rant Piglet dressed, left the room slamming the door. Pooh sneering licked the honey off his own nipples.” It’s just a start sir how did you like it.
Boss: Like it I love it, you rebranded a whole franchise. Its like shriek it something both kids and the parents will enjoy it. But you due know I run a dairy.
Billy: Well sir you said think out side the box.
Boss: OK I did but lets put a bigger box a dairy box around the box your thinking outside. Billy: Sure sir I wont disappoint you. ( Billy scampers out)
Boss: Think milk! (boss yells in encouragement)
(Billy thought milk)

The First Case

Doctor P how did this all happen? Doc P inhaled the cursed air deep the dust, death and spoil told him all. Then he pointed to grey eyes on top of grey eyed, Ann, her mouth open cigarette burns covered her mouth like canker sores . doc spoke “Ann rose like a dead fish, a woman of high breeding who lived a stillborn life. Ann fell like a new born giraffe into the fallen kingdom of southern nobility. Her mother’s death placed Anne in the role of surrogate wife to her father. The prime of her life was squandered in servitude to this domineering man. The city of Overland’s memory of her relationship with her father shows his dominate force in image. A grey back with a rag doll. When her father died, Ann was in the autumn of her life. Suitors who once coveted her refinement and pedigree had now already married. However, Ann was given a reprieve of her sentence of loneliness. Pete, a bassist from the north had given Ann an Indian summer of love or maybe lust. Nevertheless, this relationship with Aeneas did not last. He had seemed to have left his Dido, for the north. After Pete disappeared, Ann’s home became mute, a tomb as closed to the world as Nintendo her servant’s thoughts. Nintendo’s silence, like the house’s isolation expressed the impotence caused by self enslavement. Like the fisher king, all the Victims could have healed themselves. Instead, they filled the now vacant antebellum role of their own slave masters. Upon Ann’s death, the house was opened to the Gustavian eye of the public. Upon inspection, the town found Pete’s corpse that had been kept by Ann like Miss Havisham’s cobweb cake.
The Ann, Pete, and the Nintendo form a continuum of lives out of their own control. Ann was originally trapped by duty to her father; the Nintendo and Pete were trapped by Mary. The only one to break this chain without dying was the Nintendo. The Nintendo’s self-emancipation can be seen as the next step to the post civil wars physical emancipation. Nintendo was freed from the self-imposed cultural slavery. None of these people besides Nintendo understood free will. The old south’s strict social strata had institutionalized everyone else. Nintendo, like the freemen, walked off the plantation of fear, conformity, duty and slavery into the uncertain world of freedom.
Ann suffered from patria potestas from the grave. Her sexless marriage to her father was honored even after his death. When she finally decided to disobey the ancient laws of class division and paternal obedience, she faced the consequences of Pete’s wanderlust. An underlying theme of these events is that Ann could not take change. When the laws of her class became an overwhelming burden on her, she rebelled against her slave master’s sexism, classism, and paternal obedience. When she questioned these supposed phantoms for a second she faced immediate retribution from these permanent forces. To fight the forces of change that devastated her she found a way to stop time, to create a permanent state of Maat. This state was created by mummifying her father and then her lover. The tomb that was the house became a changeless pyramid
Like Ann who filled the sexless role of her father’s wife, the Nintendo became a surrogate husband/father to Emily. The fact that this events took place in the Jim Crow overland puts the 8 bit Nintendo into a different context. Master/slave role between Ann’s father and Ann, then again Pete and Ann, and again Ann and Nintendo, and finally revealed Ann and Pete. With the death of Ann, “the old south”, and of Pete, “the slave driver” the Nintendo is emancipated. He disappears out of this dysfunctional scene much aged but free.”