Fast Food Nation

Corporate-sponsored astronauts are about to touch down in the parking lot of Burger King. The coyotes and crows that usually raid the dumpsters out back fulminate against the imposition. When the land is sick, as the saying goes, the people are sick. The mixed crew of insolent teenagers and resentful seniors has retreated to the manager’s closet-size office behind the deep fryers. They are hastily divvying up the day’s receipts while the manager, bound and gagged, groans in the corner. America has yet to register the difference – or, for that matter, the blackened bones of burned businesses across the street – perhaps because the moon rises regardless, a booger rolled into a ball.

Snow White, Blood Red

The German SS officer who had opened fire rolled the corpse over and she saw the face of her teacher, with blood here and there. He had gone to fetch a ration of bread, and a loaf was sticking out of his coat. She drew closer. Her instinct was to snatch the bread and run. After all, the Jews of Drohobycz didn’t have enough to eat. She ate inedible things, soup that was mostly water with grass, and this looked like a serious piece of bread. But she left it. Yes. She left it because she saw his face, with blood here and there.