I will be fated to sex the ugly lessors in return for a room and some
board. Dank tangled carpets, moldy old refrigerator, yellowed linoleum.
Bored I'll sit on the bed with my back to the wall contemplating my next
performance. No working actor ever put on the show I put on to keep
myself in rooves and walls.
   It was this gigolo gig that gave me the idea to become an actor. Ten
years later, I stood on the red carpet in an immaculate tux. Blinded by
the flashes, all I could see was that horrid apartment, the yellowed
linoleum. Standing on the red carpet, thinking on the yellowed linoleum.
   Actors are made of such things. A person is made of the things they
have been and the things they have seen. When you die, these are released
and you review them as they go. This is you boiling away like alka-
seltzer.
   Like an alka-seltzer of snakes. The roaches and the suicides. The
disappointed fans, the screaming women. Car accidents and mind control.
Suicide and mind control, all up and down the lust metropolis.