we'd beat the answers out of their high browed foreheads until they spilled out onto the floor, and like some mad pilgrims, dancing on grapes in a winepress, we would toss our bodies about, sending the liquid splashing onto their slacks.

We would hold such dangerous meetings, we would pull out all the stops. We would let the bus roll down the hill, Into a wall, into a pond, into the blasted city for all we care.