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there was a demented, all screwed-up, backward-thinking alien creature named Eggzaborg who, under
the misconception that he was laying the groundwork for alien invasion, was actually looking out for the
human race and this pitiful planet . . . at least for the next three thousand-plus years.
For the next three thousand-plus years nothing terminally awful could happen. The Flib, whatever horror
that was, held fear for the unie, but probably was so alien it would have no effect on the human race.
Henry was in clover. One day he d be out of jail. One day he d be back in the world. And he d be the
happiest guy on the planet, because he was the only guy, theonly guy . . . whoknew !
His ruminations were cut short by the rumbling of his stomach. An hour earlier the inmates of cell block 4
had marched lockstep to lunch, and even though Henry had smiled at the scrap of wilted lettuce on his
plate, he couldn t eat what had been doled out; he was still hungry.
Pretty miserable meal, he mused. Then the remembrance of the third fortune cookie in his pocket made
him smile. Dessert! The guards had left it in his jacket pocket clearly no escape potential, any more
than a stick of gum when they had searched him and taken his belt and glasses and shoelaces and
personal possessions.
He fished it out. It was still soggy from the bathwater in Apartment 5-C at 6991 Perry Avenue, but itwas
edible.
He pulled at the fortune. It came loose and he read it, choking on a slice of air. He remembered what the
unie had said about the Flib. The fortune didn t sayTuesday . Horribly, ominously, it said:
Wednesday.
SENSIBLE CITY
The lesson here is pretty much like the lesson in the previous story, except it s stated differently. So don t
give me a hard time; sometimes I have to write a piece of philosophy half a dozen different ways, just till
my weary brain gets the message. Let us not forget that I was getting into trouble even worse than yours,
years before you came out of yo momma, squealin an pukin , which makes me dumber than you, earlier
than you. And it takes me a while to catch on. But one thing I know for certain: when I go to what my
wife charmingly refers to as a face-sucking alien movie, and some actor we ve come to like a lot
ventures off my himself, or herself, into that dark room or down those basement stairs or, the way Harry
Dean Stanton got offed inAlien , wandering into the storage bay with the water dripping down those
clanking ceiling chains, and we justknow the acid-drooling alien is out there somewhere, and he s just
wandering around like a doofus in a Pauly Shore flick . . . well, I don t know aboutyou , but I m shouting
at the top of my lungs in the theater, GET THE HELL OUTTA THERE!!! And even if he hadn t read the
script, he should know from the creepy music and thepro forma pre butchery scare of a cat jumping out
of nowhere that within two beats there s going to be a blade at his throat, a fang at his ear, a power
mower going for his wazoo. It s a convention of scarey movies. So I got this idea for a story, in which the
protagonist (I won t call him a hero, because he s a creep) is aware of this time-weathered convention,
and will not, absolutelywill not go into the equivalent of the dark room. Wherein lies the lesson to be
learend here. Curiosity kills blah blah blah. More than that, though, the lesson is: what you do is gonna
catch up with you, kid, no matter how far or fast your run, what you have done will always circle around
behind you, get ahead of you, and power mow you in the wazoo.
During the third week of the trial, sworn under oath, one of the Internal Affairs guys the DA s office had
planted undercover in Gropp s facility attempted to describe how terrifying Gropp s smile was. The IA
guy stammered some; and there seemed to be a singular absence of color in his face; but he tried
valiantly, not being a poet or one given to colorful speech. And after some prodding by the Prosecutor,
he said:
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