The Unknown: The Red Line.
  Now just what do you want out of me, young lady? Sea anenomes’ bones? They don’t got bones, they’re mushy critters, and damned ugly, too. Why would you want . . . what was that? You got to speak up. My ears never were any good and now that I’m as old as a foul-mouthed pet store parrot, they’re about as useful as garbage can lids in an meteor storm. What? The phone? Is the phone ringing? You better answer it because I sure as hell can’t use the fuckin’ thing. Haven’t used a phone in over thirty years, I think. Unless it was one of those close-captioned things, but I can’t stand the typeface they use, you know what I mean? Why’re you shaking your head? It’s not the phone. Dadblame it. You just better write out whatever you’re trying to say. I just can’t hear worth a mule’s spermatazoa, if you know what I’m drivin’ at. Thank you. Sorry to be so much trouble. Let’s see here. Oh! The Unknown! You want my memories of the Unknown. Uh huh. Let me guess, you went out to visit my old collaborators and they were no help because . . . what are they, in their eighties or something? And senile as logs, I bet. Poor bastards. They started taking drugs way too young. Just caught up with 'em. Well, let’s see . . . the Unknown, hmmmm. That whole time was something, I must say. Lot of fun. Lot of heartache. We had our share of arguments, that’s for sure. You’ve heard about the huge Krass-Mueller stink, I suppose. They were teaching it in the schools for awhile there. The Unknown, that is. Yep, those were the days. I’ll let you in on a secret, though. Ain’t never told anyone this. There’s been a lot of bullshit shat concerning why the Unknown went their separate ways, gave up the collaborative partnership, and all. None of it true. None of it. The real reason is this: housekeeping. We just had different views on how to clean house. Admittedly, I was a bit more anal then, and probably a big pain in the patoot, but every time one of those weenies came over to my house, they broke something or spilled something or left a towel in the toilet, you know what I mean? It got irritating. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore and I just said, “Fuck it.” Walked away and never looked back. I still love those guys, though. Man, could they write . . .

novel META
al bull
shit sort of
a doc
ary corr
ence art is
at art live