Underground

Residents of my home town may have noticed the nasty smoke rising like an industrial accident from a horrible gap in the earth across from my usual hangout, The Wicked Hop, in the Third Ward area, right by the Public Market, last month. Sure they tried to cover it up with a tent, which only seemed to draw attention to it. Didn't they ever hear of the CIRCUS?

The worst thing about it, however, was the horrible chemical smell, obviously deadly toxic, like a burning pile of cell phones, and I don't need a health department analysis to tell me that. There was one thing to do, as far as I could tell, and that was to venture deep into the sources of the offending material. So I took my flashlight, a quart of Gatorade, and little else, and that's where I've been, I guess. It's hard to tell, because once you get a good lungful of that stuff, you start to remember things that never happened.