Sneaking Up On Underthings

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It was high time to visit my undergarments silos in Denver, but after what happened last time… No. Better leave that alone for now, except to say I nagged my solicitor, Worthbottom Hoon, into joining me.

Hoon agreed, said he needed a break from post-sexualized poetry. His most recent submission to Verse Quarterly—

Stump!
Stump!
Oh, gentility!
David Cronenberg!

—was immediately forwarded to the editor’s office, where it was brushed with jellied alcohol and burned.

We met at Hoon’s warehouse in Medicine Hat to coordinate our moves. Traveling by boat was discarded on the grounds that diesel fuel is spendy, as well as on the grounds that there is nothing but grounds between us and our desired terminus. So we elected to travel by foot and, if our luck held, by stowing away on a mule train. First, though, was the matter of kenneling Slough of Despond, Hoon’s totem animal, a semi-sentient grass carp known to everyone as Senator McConnell. Anticipating trouble, we armed ourselves with black-powder rubber-band guns, and each of us carried a supply of NSA-grade Cyanide Gummies.

Underway at last, we made Denver (and she made us) quickly. Bidding our new skinner friends adieu near the Capital, we took to the rooftops and found shelter beneath one of the many haystacks atop the Ramada Inn. After nightfall, we crossed Colfax and, using several forged documents and forged forge tools, achieved entry into Friends of the Derriere Unmentionables, which, it bears mentioning, has been mentioned in all of the major fashion titles.

One look at the books told me all I needed to know: I was stuffed to the gills with filthy lucre. Hoon studied the ledger, staggered, tore at his breast, clutched his heart, and fell over dead in a bloody mess.

And that, as anyone can tell you, is cause for donuts.

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