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store, we discover that the sun is ready to go in for the night, heading back home to his wife and kiddies, who are all sit-waiting for him to come down to them with crab sticks and dinner rolls perched on their flowery kitchen counter.
    On his way over the horizon, the sun accidentally brushes against a mountain range and catches the landscape on fire.
    And as the sunset becomes a forest of flames and red-orange swirls with smoky demons crawling their way to the cloud people, and as the abstracted vegetation and forest creatures fall over in disgust, all that Mr. Sun says about his action is this:
    "Sorry about catching you on fire.  I’ll try to be more careful tomorrow."

Scene 4
    History Comes Alive

    The warehouse spits a wad of throat-snot onto a passerby and then goes about its daily routine of sulking in its foundation.  When the passerby insists the warehouse explain itself, the warehouse waves him away with a little wooden finger and calls him a log of boob poop.
    The warehouse doesn’t realize, however, that there is a group of Gorguals nearby.  Gorguals are an alien race that excrete food-waste from their breasts, which work like buttocks.  And there’s a hole – the breast hole – between both mounds, which lean forward over a toilet for defecation.  In other words, their boobs poop.  The Gorguals don’t take offense to the warehouse’s boob poop comment since they do not speak English or the language that warehouses speak; and even if they did speak English or Warehouse they would not have taken offense because crapping (an informal term) is accepted socially within their culture.  Translated from Gordual tongue, the term crapping is referred to as stool liberation .  

    The sun is gone, eating dinner with his family, and the warehouse is taken by old Earth-toys, all punks and skinheads mauling each other and skreaking, which makes the warehouse very bitter and inclined to spit at passing ones on its carpet walkway.
    Inside of the warehouse’s guts, a concert is in session.  A legion of color shuffles soundly, merrily around and round-a-go.  I am behind the stage, muzzy from the round-a-go crowd movements and all the shifty colors, ticking sick.
    My band is playing already, but I am not yet onstage, liquor-inhaling.
    Christian is running the performance, rape-screeching and scratching sheet metal with Mortician, who plays his distorted bass with a knife and a cellular phone.  We are an electronic noise band, which is a very popular Japanese food creation.  Actually, I didn’t mean to say electronic noise is a very popular Japanese food creation , though it is a genre of music invented by the Japanese music underground.
    This is what I meant to say: the name of our band is A Very Popular Japanese Food Creation.
    Very few people in the room enjoy our style of music, even though they mosh and punch each other as if dancing to it.  They’re all waiting for the headlining brutal oi!/punk skinhead band to play, and that will be the start of a large kicking/punching/fork-through-the-skull festival I assure you.
    Within the center of the room, there are two things: one is Vod, who is sitting on the toilet playing his bagpipes to the electronic noise, and the other thing is a history book that smells of rotten human.

    History books and rotten humans are two things that you’ll always find in a graveyard.  Long ago, you could only find rotten humans there and never any history books, and this made the cemetery a very boring place to visit.  My mother told me, long before I came to hate her, that the whole point of going to the cemetery was to visit gravestones and a plot of dirt, where you were to put flowers if you had the money for them.
    Now the whole point of going to the cemetery is to read history books.  Let me explain:
    It started when all the governments of the world decided that it would be a very neat idea for everyone and everyone to write journals of their lives, including every