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for lunch. Jesus H. Christ; newspaper stand in fucking Pittsburgh. Swabbing the halls at Boy's Town Nebraska, (the height of the structure for unfavored youth.) Dishwashing, auto parts; ya name it; and now this rich man's hell hole." The factory; not hell; your alive. (But the shit eat'en image of it.) He walked with his head bent like the thin wire shapes of metal. Iron, steel; not curved out of weakness; his body stayed rigged to the sound; like a jib tacking in a sharp tacking wind. In his car he looked into the mirror. Huge curved up mustache, hair getting long to his neck bone, "Buffalo Bill; can the Colonell do suffering without glory?" Will, will endure the time it takes.) He was twenty-six. Colonel had hatred for downtown L.A. He wanted out of it; out of the absurd task of driving the freeway's five days a week. The smog during summer of the year without rain or wind was thick. It reminded him of Pitts- burg; but it was worse. He could feel it in his eyes, and his position made him sick. He had arrived at his place on Hart Street. A large house on the ocean block, where he