years from now, i was a traveliing performer, looking for a place to stay in the big city. i ran acroos an old friend and escaped the overbearing clutches of my troupe. i was let alone at this home, curiosity won the day and i began to explore the residential contents. amongst other collecter normalities in plain sight on a table next to the door is a purple Crown Royal bag, a grenade, and some random ceramic and cloth statues of dogs. a creative wave comes to me and i immediately place all the dogs in a bowl, pull the pin throw the explosive ontop and cover it with the bag, run into a bedroom and return after a bang. the air carries a familiar scent and i pull the bag away. through the hole that has been created, its contents remain in the bowl: small baggies of pot and something else that resembled uncooked fried ice cream, but i knew it to be some other illicit substance. paniced i wrap them in a tight ball, stuff them back through the hole, arrange everything as close to its origin as i can, then remove my self to the alley. here i come upon a couch and amidst police chases, streetfights, runnings of bulls, and all else imaginabe, i watch little house on the prarie reruns on one of the monitors that are everrywhere these days. soon enough o doze off. i am jostled awake at the wheel of my car, which i thought had died years ago (being chased through mountainous drainagee systems such as this will only make it happen later, but still ontime) then i arrive, or more-so the road turns into a skatepark, i ride the night away.