...with his machine gun delivery that became mesmerizing to Pneu's ear, the aural turpitude in which the words were vested, a dripping, black fetid mass. They were always straddling the fence, whatever the fence was. G. Scott Key's lying was in earnest. He was positively asserting his lies, his baldfaced lies. Balderdash. The crux of the matter was the underlying purple garbed, blood suffused, empurpled penis he had sheathed in his pants. To stick it in like a tic-tac-to game always won by playing the corners, the words imbibed by Pneu's ears that became empurpled, too.
G. Scott Key, the successor of F. Scott Key, was how he referred to himself.
Good
Boys
Don't
Fool
Around.
All
Cows
Eat
Grass. He even had a business card. It had a small rainbow on it. The ensign of his business, a kind of logo. The Low Ghost. He was an interpreter of Indians, Native Americans, to white folk, the Long Knives, after he stripped the veneer of the Yankee from them, and the bright colors of Hanta Yo were revealed for what they were, the bright colors of psychedelia, the Peter Max colors of the summer of love. This is Pneu's history, the time called the Sixties in the U.S., a time as fateful as the Sixties a hundred years previous, the time of the success of the failure of the Civil War. The time of the failure of the success of the Civil War, however you look at it.