More Trouble in Hell, gassings and skinnings, two bits:

Marilla Palmer declares, through Saint Nicholas amplification, at 196th And Northern Boulevard, Queens, still New York City, that the immediate area, in particular my apartment, are dibs for her. No one has my keys, not even my mother, so feel free to shoot. Hey, why not make a party of it?

So anyway, my mother thought it a good idea to pipe in boiling water through the outside watering hose, to skin gays with and gas me by altering ducts in my apartment so she and her insufferable family, which I need to capitalize in ESTRANGED BY CHOICE BY ME due to deaf ears and good intentions, can look palatable to Mussolini, Alessandra. At the rate they're going, and for more than 15 vociferous years, they have made it tempting to throw in the thyme.

My mother seized by who knows what, also believes she can be the next Queen of Italy. So do her sisters, because bothering and murdering me will make them famous.

The Salvation Army, is also coordinating all activity today, with their usual alacrity to coalesce with the fascist element present, for retro reasons, in the world today, there most notably in "black" as a Colonna, whom I don't know, but whenever I do shop at the Steinway Street thrift, always starts on Alex rants as if that were common practice to abduct children in the US, and believe that targeting a person by name actually means knowing them, a granted treaty benefit added  in exchange for  mules, acres, and chicken in pots.

For that matter, Jon Stewart may be able to escape his life as a wet nurse by way of ambulance, running (I would) from his latest nurse, Maria Leon, who shouts that infiltrating Intel just proves they have contacts, mostly family with Betullah Me Sud, are important and are getting places,  by his continued insistence that I do congress with children, family, and people who make my name, and that Leon is my best pen pal, having always been, and always will be as he offers my ovaries as a side for  a surf and turf special, because they are his to auction off, and Maria Leon will knock me out through audible, and for her, irresistible lickings, kickings, groanings, comings, and comings more, that I seized by the mad sexual rapture, will fall enamored by her imitation of an anti-Semitic femme fatale, and fall into a world of perversion so thorough, her molar yanking Tapiero friends will have me accept Ben Leon's hand in marriage, so that even Jackson Heights row houses can have their way in Hispanic, with me, as concealed, ha ha and ha fascist spies.

There's someone barking something outside, also having decided, through extensive podunk analysis, that stalking me on buses,  shouting I should wear skirts, get beat up by fascist thugs my mother organized to threaten me at Waldbaums, Crocheron Avenue and Francis Lewis, and otherwise cut my hair to be and think just like her, like no one else but her, like her, her and her. Puddin' proof when she broke in my minimalist apartment to add doilies here and there, stacking things here, piling them up there, adding a good awful turquoise crate because muted is a temperament I cannot withhold by race, and what have you. Lately she had my ice trays altered with a brittle plastic so they would break, and  threw a dirty turquoise one in the trash. After a day I found it in her sink, beckoning, use me, I'm thicker, use meeeee, use meeeee, so I can humiliate you further, and further...