R and me walked through the open air artisanal market which had become an open air artisanal hospital. Cuck and Truth and man shaped mosquito were pulped by the bronze Confederate army that rumbled through our town where the trees bled black and the leaves always crackled beneath your feet and the empty Miller Lite cans never stopped filling the dried river bed separating the town from the open air artisanal market.

How bad is it, R asked Alex. All of the Cucks became Alex when they joined up with the Cucks, a tribute to the leader of the information war they worshiped back when a phone line or a cable was a gateway to poisonous knowledge. I kept track of all the Cucks based on what they wore or what scars or what (little) facial hair they had and this Alex, the one R was talking to, I refer...

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