word to your front

we break to bring you this update from the Front:

Dostoyevsky is in the shit. correction: Dostoyevsky WAS in the shit.

the year: 1890. the Front: Russian, but not the one you think.

Dorsal 4, recently snubbed, is pissed.

Fyodor shouldn't be here. correction: Fyodor shouldn'tve been here. there was no crime, rhyme, or reason. only punishment in the sunshine. utter confusion, while Fyodor dug out a trench. (this was just before he died.)

Dorsal 4 has found some rip in the space-time-et-cetera. they're exploiting various famous names by dragging them through time and vomiting them onto this now-fetid field, where hundreds of unarmed thinkers, tinkers, and amateur bowlers are forced to make a last stand against the masses of microscopic particles issuing forth from this Siberian warmhole.

attack of the aerosols! the glacial freeze turns to rivers of muck--impossible to walk in, let alone fight. stinking bodies underfoot, muddy ooze everywhere.

do we run up the white flag? or do we flop down into the death-bog and wait for it to pass before propping our elbows onto this or that dead body (Sigmund Freud...Benjamin Franklin...Walter Ray Williams) and light a victory cigarette? ('victory' because it is done and we Are still. )

jesus-god. aerosol grenades everywhere! wizz-hissing then BANG--bits of Andre Agassi rain over empty tennis shoes. (does Dorsal 4 think him a writer, or have they confused him for a bowler?)

when i last saw Fyodor, a can of suicide deodorant had just blitzed the trench. he pulled me out by my hair. i tasted air and the smell, Axe Revive and burning flesh. i blinked and felt/heard the dirt under my eyelids.

Fyodor's shovel lay at my feet. streaming, steaming carnage filled the trench. in lieu of water, he spat on my face.

Sun Tzu, missing a leg, stood cranelike. He screamed and screamed. His robes: piss-soaked.

Fyodor tore off his sleeve and wiped my face with the inside, clean side. a paint canister dusted us in silver spray and erupted somewhere, closeby. Sun Tzu: silent.

Fyodor asked me the year, my address. would i buy an iPad next week? (they'd been dragging him around a lot lately.)

another explosion.

'why?' i asked him?

'exactly,' he said. then he dropped my head and launched himself onto a stalled can that was spluttering in Agassi's chest cavity.

more fleshy rain.

Oscar Wilde grabbed my ankle, dragged me through 1890. he saw where the rip was. he says we're going back to where we belong. he's got a captive Lysol in his sling. wild card!

this is the plan: we'll fix this rift and close the warmhole. Siberia will refreeze. ice'll swallow this carnage. Agassi's shoes will become some tourist attraction. that's what Oscar says. but still, i hope he has a needle and thread.

(eli, i hope you saved me some laudanum. if i get home, i need.)

this news is broken.