Wade and I are locked in at The Slaughered Lamb, peering warily at a television screen to the top right of the upstairs bar. We have luxurious seats, and fine comapny. We are nearing the end of our second bottle of the house red wine. Kerry is trailing by 16 or something, but nothing has really happened yet. Kids in black hoodies still trail like flares. An incredible syrup beams forth like nuclear war from the BBC, and we were just told that Gay Marriage and Stem Cell Research will decide this election. > I said, yes, fuck 100 dead sand niggers when there are unwanted, unneeded, doomed-to-a-non-life-of-shit-white-flesh dumplings all about to be made into Future Heathen Fuck Shit.
Diane said, we need Superman. Listen to Superman.
I said, Superman is dead.