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Alert reader MJS nailed the following to the door of my tiny room under the stairs:

The Bad Magician rises in the eastern sky, flying on a missile, seeking to castrate the Old Testament Father. Uranium dripping along the sides of the bomb like an ice cream cone, The Bad Magician barrel rolls as sparks fill the sky, swooping as he drops dollops of remorse upon Congress, detailing the stench of honor betrayed. The Smell of Death is Eau de Pork Barrel. Yahweh rips a big one and stars collide.

The Bad Magician watches America die the way killers die. Each aspect of the crime causes the arms to clench further: Soon the limbs are turned to wax, which bend in the warming wind. The Bad Magician remembers to turn out the lights, and to never let the bed bugs bite. During the funeral some of the dead soldiers climb out of the one awful grave and return to their hometowns, where they scratch off all the bumper stickers with their skinless hands. Wealthy people, very wealthy people, stitch their eyes closed and make small talk about their hopes for summer.

God bless America. The Bad Magician finds a bicycle and rides north.

—Alert reader MJS