I am back in the Dusty Place. No wall for your back, no exits to check out. In the Dusty Place shapes form and blow away in the endless wind of a bone-dry arroyo; if you look at them too long you get to know that you are just a shape too. My shoes are already fraying at the edges as I sit down at the green baize with Pigskin. Wont do to stay too long in this place. Gotta thank the guys that gut-shot me though: it's mighty hard to get this far into the dust with too much life in you.
Manitou always look like what you don't want; their way of rattlin' your bones. So Pigskin sits there, the dust streaming away around the flayed snout, black eye-pits and heaving, bleeding fat belly and shuffles with the long, delicate fingers of a fine lady.
I ain't fooled. We go waaay back me an' Pigskin.