It was the most ascetic of times; it was the wurst of times. Legend of the slipped biscuit.

And yet, sunlight pierces through the tree canopy, lighting here and there, like liquid gold, and I was thinking of white-out, erasure, fixatives that doth crawl and creep and broach into the inner darkness of the spirit, a place where none of the trunks and cabinets are locked, because there is no need for security when they can never get past the doorman.

The national guard was out there in it somewhere, looking at the tracks, with a cadre of tormented dogs leading the march.  They were saying that the tracks favored the heel, as of either a prodigious weight or an over-sized shoe, like he wore the shoe to throw them off, that they would think maybe he was taller or something, get the ID wrong so that once he reached the highway, he was gone like a wetdream.

Troutman was saying, "here in the States, he can't even get a job working at Taco Bell, but over there, in the shit?  He flew million dollar jets, tanks, shot missiles."  The deputies all sniggered to themselves.  Whitehead drew a picture of a child kicking a bandana-wearing figure, squarely in his testicles.  It was enough one would think, to make someone willingly throw their snowcone in the trash.  "You go in those woods, all your men die."

"I SAID NO SNIGGERS!" shouted Whitehead, tossing his pad onto the folding table, and them people looked just so stressed.  It was like, if the whitebread lieutenant got them like that, what would happen out there in the sticks when it really got hairy?  He would take their bazooka and use it against them.  Indeed, he knew how to use all their weapons, and only one of them in the National Guard unit could actually even halfway aim the bazooka.