Will I ever live up to the poetry of nuns and their dead lizards? Will Sears ever send me the back-ordered instruction manual for the lathe of my imagination? Did my fictional character really kill a woman in the real world in 1987? Will I always envy the mentally disfigured for their VIP status in the barroom of the doomed? The drunk I never became giving me the finger from behind iron bars. Charlie B. spits on my shoes and threatens to kill me but he is old and feeble and can not harm me. The fourth enemy wins again.