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July 17, 2005

Volume 3, Issue 17

What are these guys looking at?

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The Eschatologist: A Lonely Road

Fourty-one days and colder nights we all spent on that hiccuping old Trailways, listening to static on the FM with occassional noise patterns. It sure sounded like morse code, but no one on board could tell. Twice a week I sat my shift on her roof, scanning the highway for traffic, pleading for any soul to pop out and yell surprise! Still, I didn't lose hope, not even after the twelfth abandoned mom-n-pop shop, and when I did have free time, eating candy that would never be made again, I just smiled at the world gone bye.

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Tanya: Outright Terror

They watched from the window during their approach, Phillip with mild trepidation, and Chip bravely, chin up. Thinking of the suitcases stored under the seats made them less nervous.

They came every year, but neither had ever seen such a crowd, especially here at the start. The view wasn't encouraging. The teeming masses didn't look happy, but once they saw the feathers and dancers, Chip knew they'd cheer up. Just like in New York and Chicago.

And if not, well, he was wearing his good running shoes.

Finally the bus arrived. The 2005 Salt Lake City Gay Pride Parade. Showtime.

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Michele: Fading Reminder

They stared straight ahead at the woman, who noticed and played along. She tilted her head and swayed her hips and her breasts and ass moved like fluid. Damon found himself thinking of a quarter rolling down the woman’s left breast and up the right breast and down her sides and hips and over her ass, where it deposited itself in her crack, where it developed an eye, which winked at Damon as if to say, come on over and fish me out of this bitch’s ass.

The prison bus jerked into motion as the light changed. Their journey resumed.

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