By Jim Meirose

Th’ chief bluesuit’s arm rose, silencing Pig right there; and, the words he spoke ran ‘long the arm, which by some magical means accelerated his words into, Pig and that other pal, he think’s he’s been speaking to, saying, Never mind. No more is required. It looks like everything’s in order here. There is nothing to see. We can repairback whence we came here out of and back further from that even and an’ d d na dna—so. Being far above any normal pup’s protests, the three tallboys in their blue zoots in ackrian’s whirlwind ‘bout the body swirled packing it up, sealing it down, cleaning all down and making the way out the room hall then the entire building; so—an immensely meaningful silence formed on the autopsy table, cricked out a vastly finespun blueboy of a spherical whirl, that grew sucked any stray particles of proof from the room and, the door. The knob rattled its lock being unn’d from the far side itself, and she opened full of a janitor-man that broomed itself off to the side, and in came Venisienne, all herself as they usually are, and the Chester-named Lavender Boy, saying nearly unisinion right then, eh, we thought you were tired of waiting for the janitor but—how’d you get in here? You were out here now, in? That cannot be!

No! Wait! You were in here with me, you were jabbing and slicing this, eh—wait.

Turning around, Pig ‘xpected to see, but; by our Gods—what? What? What no, can’t be, b’ yes; the vast college lab room stretched ‘ver, an’ countless empty dissection tables stretched neatly lined up left to right and front and back all together, and; it was much too bright in there; it is much too bright in here, so; and it had taken the—autopsy room, but—something pushed down, pressing its corresponding other one up, and Pig blinked, spat, coughed and yes; great God! He became once more back, in his very today, all alone, in Helmut Greene’s worldwide discreet autopsy and private twenty-four-hour emergency lawn care contracting concern; where he’d been called to expect some supposed high-level remains requiring emergency autopsy to appear, but not—and five minutes out, not; and fifty out, no; and how many hours thereafter—no. So, he went to his divan, for what reason he’d even got off it didn’t ‘ually matta’, while burrowing into the fattest book available, to wait there, inside; where way back from any far future past your fully pulled stops, there came read back to you that hazy description of an unusual event some several dozen years further back yet from the furthest yet you dare ‘tempt to probe. Beware, though; too far back will cast off your strange body and force you to know what you really are, so, no. Not interested. Keep going. There is nothing to see. Everything said here, please, folks. Let it slide slick out back past this here’s far behind. There’s still nothing to see