I put the silly “People” magazine down on the glass top table and walked into the inner sanctum with what I hoped looked the movement of an innocent man. The words for “I am not guilty” kept running through my mind in Russian because I always found them to be stimulating to my thought patterns.I was surprised that my FBI case worker was a young woman in her early twenties.The name-plate on her desk was in brass inscribed simply S.I. Julie Longbranch and I assumed the S.I. stood for special agent.“May I have your case number slip, sir?”I handed her the little piece of paper that said “432” with no other explanation and she stapled it to the file in front of her. I could see there was a picture of me at a lecture and another of me at a firearms show down at Madison Square Garden taken only the month before. I noticed the file was filled with newspaper clippings and various written documents that looked suspiciously like reports entered from interviews and other sources.Just as I. The monster whined, whirred, reached a crescendo. Floorboards vibrated. Tools juddered, bounced, leapt from their benches and clattered onto the naked boards. Dust fell from the vaulted ceiling. A loose tile slid across its still-clinging brothers. In my mind, I saw it leap the gutter, spin into space and shatter on the glistening cobbles below. Windows rattled. Like a gunshot, a pane broke. In disbelief, I carefully turned my head around in time to witness its sister's similar demise. Despite the chaos that surrounded me, I focussed all my waning energy on keeping myself exactly aligned, precisely positioned, the living part of a heinous mechanical hybrid, a diabolical creature built for a single obscene purpose. And then it began. Somewhere between where his bulbous head punched my sorry cervix and where my erect clitoris poked rudely from my glistening folds. Pleasure. Pain. Ecstasy. Agony. Wonder. Dread. Perfection. Corruption. Like the ceaselessly shifting parallelogram at the.
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