Mr. Jack Explains it (For Coleton)
During sips of Saturday morning coffee, angst burned his tongue, tiny flames through his body, his deceived eyes read the fashion magazine he never ordered. Scammer or a fat finger deal on Amazon? Dismissing rumblings in the distance, he herded his thoughts through the mind's desiccated pasture, Pum-pa-pull, Pum-pa-pull, Pum-pa-pull, grew bigger, fuller, more sinister, with the tick-toking of time. Now he saw them sitting under Sycamores like a despot's newest poo-bahs, waiting to pounce on innocent or other-wise. Masked and anonymous, no kin of Deciduous or Conifer, looking number and dumber than piles of racoon turd in long abandoned barns. No friends of Discourse or Due Process, meaner than twenty-miles of concertina. Who dreamed them up? he questioned his gut, wanting some explanation for days of examination, darkly, in a new norm. Down at the bottom, sad and reconciled, the only thing he could call them was Enemy.