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"Shut the fuck, shut the fuck uuuuuuuuuuuhhhp, or I'll keel youuuu."


"That's right, you fuck. Cut it out." Travis steps over to the wet bar, and pours himself what looks like some mighty fine rum. "He's stopped hyper-whatever-ilating. Pull another one. Maybe then he'll talk..."


Bill obliges Travis with his pliers again, and pulls a nail next to the last one. This time, I squint, and a series of crocodile tears slip down my bloated & red face. I hear: "The fuck, that didn't do shit. Ehh.. clip off the tip of his pinky, Bill-boy."


I see  a rainbow. It's amazing; all I feel is a ghostly burning hand. My hand won't move, not in the rainbow. It too must be gone, like me. Bill clipped off my whole hand, and I will never hold a spatula in that hand again. I will never make Jill pancakes again, not her, not this hand, ever again. Talk about fucking the job up. Way to go, Beeeeeeeeeeeelll. Say, you'd have to know: is this pain that phantom limb crap I hear so much about? Hey, buddy?


"Fuck Jimmy. Fuck Daisies. I never want to use this in a session, ever again. Now we'll never find the money, not from this asshole. He's too goddamn blitzed." Bill moves off to the Wall of Probably Painful Power Tools. "It's messing with my flow." Hey, I can see Bill again!


"I hear you, man. I think I'm going to have to complain. It was her idea. I think I'm going to have to shift debts back to Jimmy, just to get paid in all this."


"Mon-ayyy; it's all about the moooohh-nayyy." I'm wheezing, but singing is still doable, apparently. Hey, say now -- why am I wheezing? Wheezing is for new joggers and asthmatics. Are ya with me? Right.. wheezing. There has to be a reason... No, that shouldn't be -- wait. Finger. Yes. Clarity, Joe! Have a little clarity! Fight the rainbow! Right, right. Finger. Hold on to that. Does that mean I still have my hand, and it's just the pinky -- the tip? -- gone? For right now? Bill, you useless clod of dirt. You can't even ambulate.. am-pyuuuuuuuuuuu-tate a fucking hand right. What kind of torture specialist ARE you? I mean, seriously, c'mon: you're supposed to be good at this.


"Whuuuuuhhh.. the bugger is criticizing the finger thing!"


"No.. he, uh.. thinks I didn't chop off his hand, and he's fuckin' disappointed."

 It was lost on all of us. Me, Trav-ey, the rainbow, the Wall of Probably Painful Power Tools, and all of our other friends down here. The Wall being the most disappointed, let me assure you. I know these things. I'm fucking psychic right now.


Speaking of the rainbow: it's back. Excellent colors. Almost as amazing as the neon signs on the way here, even. Vibrant, hiding Bill, Travis, the wet bar, and the rest of the room. While the others try to find meanings in my verbal meanderings, I'm busy off floating in a warm cloud of rainbow silverfish. Fuck the finger; it wasn't 100% necessary, anyway. I have other fingers. Some people use their toes to paint Mozarts. Mo.. Mo-nets, rather. I could do that, with a little practice. I bet any one could, if they really had to. I'd probably have to take lessons. I bet they have people who can teach you to hold a paintbrush or a pen in your toes.


The silverfish are harvesting my waking dreams; I don't know about them, but the meaning of life is coming to me now, or, at least, the meaning of my life. It's the silverfish. Vibrations of three sneaky silverfish. They are the essence of my scummy life. They summarize my shitty existence. They're not just a symptom of indoor plumbing -- surely, they live in the wild, too? I have never seen a silverfish outdoors... What IS their natural habitat? Did they ever have one, or have they always lived in our scummy dwellings, following us like fruit flies?


I digress. Digress, tigress, my dress. Digress. I'm a pretentious fuck excusing myself when it's convenient to switch a topic -- let's get away from the meaning of Joe's life. I can pretend that I had more to say, or I can digress and move on.


It's okay. They're back now; I'm back, too. It's all a logical sidequest to the path of the Truth. No, not that preachy Jesus-truth stuff. I mean, the substance of existence truth crap. Like, life is about 42, or silverfish, or a bowl of Jell-o. The meaning of life: your life.


Silverfish. Eh, where was this going, Rainbow? Yeah, you won't answer. You're omnipotent, but not sentient. Sort of like God, or a braindead woman carrying a baby. You're safe, warm, and comfy. Not much for parental guidance, though. You could work on that.


Wake up.