The most recent bastard I seen loitering near the Winnebago was this creep I think the ex-wife sent. It's pure spite on her part. She imagines I wasted her valuable ten years, and X-ing me is gonna make the whole loss for her into the same decade in Valhalla. We both lost our faith, and she's the one who is not adjusting to the void.
There was some Eastern shit between us, when we was still together. I think a lot of poor American bozos got roped into thinking they could iron out all kinks at once by meditating. There was this asshole used to come to the house and chant like a space guru getting juiced. Jamaica, my ex, had the place done up in huge pillows, everything had freak paisleys on 'em like an acid trip, and we was getting along half well, minding we both have a temper.
Jamaica was still in thrall because I was getting into acting. Okay, fuck, I told her I had a future in that industry so full of scorpians and prairie rats, and her end of that sorry career was all thumb tacks on the seat in her booth at McDonald's. By way of review, I got my first speaking role in an old sci-fick, "They Saved Hitler's Brain," and there was that 'things better left unsaid' matter that got me black balled out of film. "That boy might 'a been on to something," is what I said, and it sorta got around to the big cheeses at the studios. Seems they all know each other.
Well fuck it all, if it ain't a conspiracy to keep you from being a film extra, it's a plan on the part of a former significant other to bump your poor old ass off the planet. For spite.
Big Ten Four,
Orange Fitz, a.k.a. Vince Viccars, film extra
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