By Henry Goldkamp

Putting on the suit was humiliating. My enormous, pit-stained manager waddles over with the 60-inch spotted pants. “Hold this sign too,” chimes Brian, smiling like a light bulb, teeth full of gaps. He puts Maggie’s head on me—an initiative right to commence my journey.

“Maggie is now joining our souls, Brian. It’s a miracle. I’m without sense of being or self-individualization—a living corporate logo, a new age pusher, saving my generation’s economy. Can you feel it?”

“Yes.”  He’s not kidding.

Walking out into the machine gun summer on Olive, I reach my hoof to the sky, flipping off Brian beneath my fuzzy cow mitten.

HDG=deadbeat. He was born in a town that’s French for “broken heart” and his parents met each other as they failed out of acting school. That about does it.
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