8.06.2025

Imagine living in Chicago in 1900 and not knowing they're turning the river around. You step out of your wooden shack onto your modest but well kept patch of swamp and the thick bubbles of suet and offal are flowing the other way. You think you must've lost your mind. You look at the empty bottle of Swedish liquor in a swamp bush and say a curse. That's what you get for hanging out with Jeppson. Vague recollection of his bootleg operation, lead and copper tubes all over the place, hot steam vents bursting from the walls, heavy Norsemen hauling vats of foul vaporous syrup through the miasma. Imagine it whether you want to or not. This happened to someone, a Slav I'm calling Brat and the trauma he suffered from this episode was carried forward in time on his genes. His great grandkids are all kinds of fucked up, swimming backwards, speaking in nonsequitors, working not for money but spending their money for the privilege of work. Some of them are in politics and the rest are to be approached with caution indeed.