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She couldn't work it, the smell Staining the underbellies of her nails But never bringing tears to her eyes

No toilet paper. Jim scratched his chin as he pondered. How does one proceed? he wondered. Recalling Arab lore about never using your left hand when eating, he looked doubtfully at his fingers.

Hi Friend Aaron, Yeah, I never liked the Snowflake Festival very much; It baffles me why I went to so many. I'm sorry to hear about Valerie's father. I guess you can thank him for a little warmer scenery though.

"What is the function of this? asks Bariki

I wonder what I should think or ask myself as an artist Do I fear the answer Or do I fear love The pain and joy of it The compassion and feeling of it

He leaned his weight against the side of the open door of the boxcar. Looking out at the passing scenery, he wondered where he was. It had been two nights since he left Montgomery, Alabama, and all Jack Carter knew for sure was that he'd been headed west. On his way to Jackson, Mississippi, he hoped. At least there, he could get himself something to eat and, hopefully, find himself a job. At six-foot four, Jack was considered a large man by most, but he wasn't just tall, he was very strong. He knew he was capable of bending thick steel reinforcing bars in his bare hands or lifting great weight, and he looked every bit the part. By now, Jack's latest new friend lay slumped over in a far corner of the train car. He looked very tired, when in fact, he was just very dead. Jack had a tendency to wear out new relationships awfully quickly. Jack liked the practice of changing identity. It gave him a chance at a fresh start and a way to avoid conflict with the law. A person might think that killing someone would create that conflict, but to a man like Jack, it became a good way to cover his tracks as he went from town to town. That way, he rarely attracted attention to himself. There was always a different guy who worked on Jack's behalf, and always a different town to work in. He walked over to the man he'd just finished choking. Jack had seen death many times before. He'd learned to take the time to stand back and enjoy his handiwork. He carefully studied the expression on the corpse's face. The poor guy looked so surprised, thought Jack, as he put his fingers over the man's eyes and closed them. "Good, he said to himself. "Now he's only sleeping. Jack had a talent for rationalizing his actions. He was just a bum anyway, Jack thought, as he rifled through the man's pockets and pulled out his wallet. The first thing Jack noticed as he opened the wallet was a black and white photo of a young woman. She had her hair brushed up over her forehead and wore the sides long and curly, down to her shoulders. Her features were sharp, and her cheekbones and jaw line appeared to be more chiseled then most. She was a good-looking girl. Better looking than most of the girls he'd seen. He pulled the picture out completely, and tossed it out of the open door of the moving train. There were two other photos inserted in the wallet that caught Jack's attention. One was a picture of a little boy, about six or seven years old. The other, a girl with a doll held draped over her shoulder, probably ten or eleven years old. Jack looked as if he were studying the pictures very carefully as he pulled them from the leather billfold and methodically tore them into small fragments. He held the pieces of shredded photos in his hand and let them go, out the open door, in the passing breeze of the train. One by one, the shreds left his hand like confetti from a parade. Jack didn't have a very deep regard for human life. The next thing he noticed, as he pulled the rest of the wallet open, was thirty dollars in cash. He could always use the money. He removed the three ten-dollar bills from their compartment and stuffed them into his pants' pocket. He also removed the man's driver's license that he hadn't noticed until now. It was a Georgia state license issued to a Mr. Bill Bradley. The expiration date read July 15, 1936. It was still good for another year, and from the description on the license, Jack could see that the deceased Mr. Bradley was six-foot two inches tall and weighed two hundred pounds. The physical description wasn't far from his own, and Jack grinned, knowing that he'd soon be passing himself off as Mr. Bill Bradley. "Maybe I should tell people to call me William? he said, as he laughed aloud to himself. "I could do with a little respect. Hell, who knows, that might just do it. Just then, Jack turned his head to listen to the loud shrill whistle of the train. He knew it was either near an intersection with a road, or near a town, or both. He didn't have a watch on and couldn't tell what time it was, but he remembered he saw one on the corpse's wrist. Once again, he walked over to where the body lay, picked up the lifeless left arm of his victim and removed the time piece from its wrist. "Hey, it's still ticking, he said to himself. "Looks like two-forty. Hope it's right. I can still get dinner somewhere. God, I'm hungry. Some minutes later, Jack found himself right where he wanted to be. As the train pulled into its station, he saw a sign which read Welcome to Jackson, Mississippi. He could hardly wait, he hadn't eaten anything in two days and his stomach reminded him constantly. Before the train came to a stop, he jumped from the car, but before he did, he made sure he closed the boxcar door as much as he could. The further away he could get from the dead man he left behind, the better off he'd be. "No sense in them discoverin' old Bill before I can get dinner, he said to himself. As long as he could put a few miles between himself and the late Mr. Bradley, he knew he wouldn't have to worry about getting caught.

"I don’t know ‘bout you...," said Wild Bill - a nickname the other convicts had thought of which stuck and seemed to suit Bill Tyson’s rowdy nature.

The old man eased himself off his pony and looked around him. A dense wall of trees tightly ringed the wide clearing. The trees were so closely packed that it was impossible to see more than a few paces beyond them in any direction. He looked behind him surprised that he could no longer see the path that had followed to reach the clearing. Although he had been to this place many times before it never seemed the same, It always looked or felt as if it were somewhere completely different. Hooded figures, scarcely visible in the twilight emerged from the shadows under the trees. Dark robes stretched to the ground covering the figures' feet so that they seemed to float. The long hoods shrouding their faces giving them a sinister appearance. The old man passed the reins of his pony to one of the silent figures that huddled around him. 'Is everything ready? He pulled his own deeply hooded cowl back to allow a clearer view. 'How many have you here?' 'Twenty acolytes Master.'

Joe had paid someone for the security pass, that was a big security fuck up, that was a story in itself.