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To J. Watters's previous piecesupermarket madness in the grocery store several nights have passed, sleepless. the sign says, FRESH TORTILLAS, I know, but I read FLESH TORTILLAS. they are bags of white scalps, each follicle carefully plucked and scrubbed, the whole thing nicely ironed. dark-haired woman tall and overweight hands out free boxes of breakfast cereal, RAT KRISPIES. dried droppings, hanta virus delivered. I must have liver mine is tired and perforated so I will try an interspecies transplant per os. my new organ looks clean and pure on its cello-wrapped styro-sterile tray. can’t risk rejection the blood types must match. why do they keep the booze locked up? must find the warden, the man with the combination to the blood bank. -Type?- the warden asks don’t you prick fingers here? I think I’m a j.d. positive, tonight. my hand is shaking. I am late for my transfusion. I must get out of here. I walk down the aisle but it is the wrong way. the dead fish in the jar in the refrigerator should have never gone to school. I reel at the sight and my bourbon blood shatters on the floor. biohazard toxic waste. I leave my new organ to marinate and run from here.
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