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The Garbage Man Returns, But Things Have Changed...

It happened at Rump's Bar one Friday night...

After my stay at the Salem State Sanitarium, Planetarium, and Hair Care Centre, I returned to a hazy Rump’s Bar - the scene of the infamous crime - and things had changed.

Now sporting the stylish reverse Mohawk, affectionately called the Escobar Air Strip, one could spin me around blindfolded and I’d always find Uranus. My neck wound had healed, but I’d lost my hand-eye coordination. Eating, drinking, and personal hygiene were now problematic. And sadly, no more juggles for me.

Gill and Bag Lady, both clad in translucent polyethylene blue and matching cocktail umbrella ear piercings, sat at the bar rubbing each other’s distended gestations. Yes, I’d played park-the-garbage-truck with both, on the same night, but were they really carrying my little garbage pail kids?

Recycle Man and Compost Boy were lovingly embraced, slow dancing to Perry Como by the jukebox. After accepting his Kathoey fetish, Recycle Man no longer ignored his angst-ridden, internal screams for his tiny Thai side kick. They were wed the previous month.

Rump was behind the bar, naked as usual, using ventriloquism to tell off-color jokes through various parts of his body. He was now disinfecting a low-ball glass after having just finished his complimentary nuts rib tickler.

I reached to scratch my head, pondering where to begin, when I realized that I was still straitjacket-swaddled, and was hearing two distinct, yet familiar voices.

“Yes, Mr. Bickle,” Nurse Ratched devilishly grinned as she administered her own brand of physical and pharmaceutical psychotherapy, “I’m talkin’ to you. Mr. McMurphy’s attempt to silence me was unsuccessful. The note pad was a ruse. I still can speak, but soon, you won’t.”

The evil nurse then, in preparation, shaved the rest of my head. Finally, with an indelible felt marker, she drew a black line around my smooth cranium, connecting the line just above my eyebrows, between my eyes.

Help.

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