by Casey Bush

as the Insurance Salesman stepped into the shower he
forgot to doff his hat or loosen his tie. he was
surprised when Nothing came out of the faucet and tried to
view his experience in socio-economic terms. little could
he realize that an entire generation of men, such as
himself, were at that moment disappearing into their
respective showers, coagulating into the nucleus of a
black star that was to be the negative sister of our own
sun, wandering the solar system, a vortex that spells the
end of all time and space.

that evening his wife got a headache paging through the
confusing maze of policy, trying to make sure she was
covered. it was a new self reliance slowly garnered,
learning the facts of life from that time weathered maxim:
Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day, teach him
how to fish and you feed him for a lifetime.

pushing the shower curtain to one side she cast deep into
the bath pulling out bits of her husband, serving the
fillet to her children, telling them it was hamburger.

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